Ringo Flinthammer was back in Silithus, site of the Scarab Gate, where Ringo and his wife had once been part of the Might of Kalimdor; the army that had fought to drive the Qiraji back into their ancient city and keep them from spilling out across Azeroth.
But he didn’t see the qiraji – although the sound of their clicking communication echoed around him constantly – but about the maddened humanoids in the Twilight’s Hammer, the cult devoted to bringing about the end of the world.
“HE RISES!” the cultists, dressed in purple hoods and robes, screamed. “HE RISES AND THE WORLD BURNS!”
Wherever Ringo turned, however fast he rode, there was nothing but endless blowing sand and grit and more of the howling, capering cultists.
With a shout, Ringo wrenched himself out of his dream, falling with a thump on the floor of his room in the Stonefire Tavern. He sat in the darkness a moment, waiting to hear if he’d woken Innkeeper Firebrew or his daughter. After a moment, it became clear that the only one woken by Ringo was Frostmaw. The bear showed his concern by passing gas and going back to sleep.
The dream had felt incredibly real, but Ringo didn’t want to get too worked up: Years ago, before he’d ever gone to Kalimdor, Ringo had dreamt of the Burning Legion invading Khaz Modan. There was a time when the dreams were almost constant, and he was sure they were glimpses of the future. But they’d never happened, and Beli used to mock him that they were more of a sign that he’d eaten too much chili before bed than any sort of prophecy.
Digging in his bag, Ringo pulled out an unbreakable glass orb and thumped it against his stone bedpost.
“Oy, wake up.”
“You again?” the imp in the ball sneered, his face smashed up against the glass. “I thought you’d forgotten about me. I should be so lucky …”
“Me dream jus’ now, about the Twilight’s Hammer and someone risin’ to destroy tha world – was that real?”
“I would bet your soul on it,” the imp sneered.
Ringo smashed the orb against the bedpost again.
“Donnae be an idjit. Answer tha bloody question.”
“The outlook is very bad — for YOU that is! Ha ha, take it!”
Ringo glared at the imp and shoved the orb into his laundry hamper, next to some sweaty wool socks.
“Ah’m goin’ back ta bed.”