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The imp was helpful in Ringo Flinthammer’s journey upstream along the bank of the Thondroril River.
“Are Horde patrols going to be on this bank?”
shake-shake-shake
“Is this a safe spot to sleep tonight?”
shake-shake-shake
“Are those troll ruins over there dangerous?”
shake-shake-shake
And so, with the imp’s ball tucked into a saddlebag, Ringo guided his ram north into the Alterac Mountains.
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“Come on, already. I know it’s not really the woods, but it’ll have to do.”
While Ringo Flinthammer waited on Frostmaw, he turned away, toward the Thondroril River to give his companion some privacy and to try and figure out how he was going to crack open the bag of walnuts Beli had picked up for him in Southshore.
That’s when he heard it: the rustling paper sound of undead speech.
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“Ye’ve had these dreams before,” Beli Flinthammer said, not looking up as she packed, with rather more savagery than Ringo would have preferred. “Ye’ve had them for years! Ye’re always seeing the bloody Burning Legion landing in Khaz Modan.”
“Aye,” Ringo said, from the bed. He had learned long ago not to get between her and whatever domestic chore she was taking it out on when she was like this. “This time it was more specific.”
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It was an unusually warm day on the hill overlooking the Eastern Strand, which was only fitting. It was a special day.
A wind off the bay fluttered the edges of the picnic umbrella, and Ringo rubbed Beli’s back with one hand, stroking his beard with the other.
“So, it’s just you and me …”
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“Bael!” Ringo barked, around a mouth full of steak. “Don’t poke the wee cat in the eye.”
Still sitting on the barstool, Ringo hooked a foot around his son’s waist and dragged him back away from the nervous black lion cub.
“Ringo Flinthammer!” came a voice from behind him. “What are you doing in Dun Garok?”