“What is it, Bael?”
Beli Flinthammer sighed, putting down the putty and knife she’d been using to seal the cracks in the ceiling of Flinthammer Hall. Deathwing was long gone, but the damage he’d done to Thelsamar and especially Loch Modan remained. But at least her home was almost back to normal.
To her son, of course, every day was a new experience, and the post-Cataclysm world was full of exciting new experiences. Gilnean refugees had begun to avoid Thelsamar, as word had gotten around that a small dwarven boy would tackle anyone with a Gilnean accent, throw them into a headlock and force them to “be a doggy.”
“C’mere, c’mere,” Bael said. He had gotten into one of her satchels and had gone through some of the decorations she was planning on hanging up, once the home in the hills above Thelsamar was repaired.
“Mommy,” her son said, pointing to a statue she’d purchased in Ironforge.
“Aye, that’s me, all right.”
The matching one of Ringo was around here somewhere, but she wasn’t feeling particularly motivated to find it just now.
“Uncle Widge says they’re fightin’ trolls in Zul’Gurub,” she said, knowing she wasn’t answering the question Bael was really asking. “They should be done soon: Ah donnae reckon a bunch of trolls will be givin’ them much trouble.”
Miles away, Widge Gearloose spat out a mouthful of broth and forced his head back above the surface of the soup. He and Ringo were tied together, back to back, and it was all the gnome could do to keep from drowning before they were boiled to death.
“Well, this is another fine mess ye’ve gotten me into.”