“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.”
“The big spinny green rocks, the infernals, they were coming from the north. I saw them flying through the Thandol Span, flying past Dun Garok and Aerie Peak. They were flying across the ruins of Lordaeron.
“It was like I was in me flying machine, and I kept rising up, up, up, above the clouds, until all of Khaz Modan and Lordaeron were wee specks below me. And then I could see where the infernals were coming from: Quel’Thalas. They were erupting out of a fountain of green fel energy and destroying our kingdom.”
Beli savagely cinched and buckled one of Ringo’s bags.
“Aye, so now, what? Off gallivanting around after a dream? Ye’ve got a wee son, Ringo Flinthammer, and ye’re no good to either of us dead.”
“I’m not going to die, Beli. I’m just going to ride up to Quel’Thalas on Beer Run, have a look around, see that it’s just some bloody elves and some bloody trolls, maybe share a pint with Matthias, turn around and come right back here to Dun Garok.
“This isn’t the start of any big adventure, I swear.”