Coren Direbrew cowered in the storeroom of the Grim Guzzler.

“So,” Beli said, “We’ll take your keg back to Brewfest, but we don’t want any more Dark Iron attacks after that.”

“No, no, of course not,” Coren said, starting to rise, grinning.

“No,” Beli said, sweeping his feet out from under him with her hammer, dropping Coren back to the floor, “You don’t understand: If there are any more attacks, we’ll be back.”

“Right,” Ringo slurred. He had a little trouble focusing during the festival each year. “We were able to just walk right in here …”

“Er,” Beli began, not remembering things being quite so easy as her husband seemed to recollect.

“WALK RIGHT IN HERE,” Ringo reiterated, “Me and Beli and the murloc and this wee wolpertinger …”

He gestured toward a spot of empty floor, making Beli roll her eyes.

“And, of course, Frostmaw.”

The white bear poked his head past Ringo, shoving his nose, as pets are wont to do, into Coren’s crotch. The bear, seeming to recognize something was off in the scent of the Dark Iron dwarf, growled, his nose and fangs still firmly lodged in Direbrew’s crotch.

“No more attacks at this year’s Brewfest, then, right?” Beli asked. “Otherwise …”

Frostmaw’s growling deepened in tone even as it grew in intensity.

“Otherwise, we bring back the bear. And we won’t feed him first.”

“No more Dark Iron attacks at this year’s Brewfest,” Coren said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “I promise.”

“Right,” Ringo said, squinting around the room. “Where do you lot keep the toilet in this place, then?”