And Ringo Flinthammer stepped out onto the sod roof, looking down on the dark waters of Loch Modan and raised his son high above his head, presenting him to the titans and anyone else who might be watching.
Nearby, his bear, his other bear, his owl, his adopted murloc child and that obnoxious little hawkstrider chick Beli had insisted on adopting all watched quietly. He could hear a swell of music coming from Thelsamar over the hill, as if the patrons of the Stoutlager Inn were celebrating this moment.
“In the ciiiircle,” Ringo sang under his breath, “The ciiiircle of liiiiiiife.”
“Would you get back in here, you idiot?” his wife called from within the lakeside hut. “He’s going to catch a cold with his first breath.”
“Sorry, not sure why I felt the need to do that,” he said, coming down of the hill and heading back into the hut, which was warm and bright with the light of the hearthfire.
Beli lay, exhausted by smiling, on the bed. She stretched out her arms toward her baby.
“You sure about the name?” she asked, taking her son into her arms. He was already strong enough to give the midwife, Kali Healtouch, a black eye.
“Sure, it’s a good name. A strong name.”
“Bael,” Beli cooed. “Bael Flinthammer. Welcome to Azeroth, little one.”