“Yogg-Saron is dead,” Beli Flinthammer sighed, collapsing back onto an outcropping of rock here in the lowest depths of Ulduar. She stared at the giant head, covered in mouths big enough to swallow a dwarf, now still and slack in a pool of slime. “The Curse o’ Flesh, the war between Stone and Iron, all that evil he did in them visions: It’s all o’er.”
She sniffed a stray lock of hair.
“Ugh. I’m gonna be washin’ the smell of that beastie out o’ me hair fer weeks.”
A draenei priestess slumped down beside her, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands.
“Hey, where’s, er, Dazhabelle?” Daenyx said, looking up. “He, well, she was right there …”
There was a stirring in Yogg-Saron’s pool. The Argent Crusader’s form broke the surface, standing up unsteadily.
“He slimed me,” Dazhabelle muttered, wiping sheets of green goo away from her face. “I feel so funky.”
“Dazh?” Daenyx said, jumping to her feet at the same time as Beli. “Do you feel all right?”
“Ow! What’s going on?” the paladin said, clutching at herself even as her voice cracked. “My armor is shrinking …”
“Daz,” Dae said, jaw dropping in wonder, “I think you’re turning back into a man.”
“Are ye gettin’ yer … er, sausage and biscuits back, then?” Beli asked, wincing as she watched him.
“YES!” squawked Dazhbog. “Pants … so … tight!”
“What do ye reckon it’d do fer them as already have a warhammer in their pants then?” Belsun Grimaxe grinned, grabbing at his crotch as he did so. “Make it a two-hander?”
“Oh, aye, mebbe so,” Ringo Flinthammer, said, raising his eyebrows. He stepped toward Yogg-Saron’s pool, Belsun beside him.
“Or,” Beli said, her voice raised ever so slightly, “It might give ye two warhammers. A main hand and an off-hand one, as it were.”
“Er, after ye,” Ringo said, stopping and gesturing for Belsun to go ahead.
“Nay, nay, age before beauty,” Belsun said, waggling his beard, and gesturing for Ringo to go ahead.
“Can someone get me a pair of men’s pants?” Dazhbog gasped, collapsing to the ground.