The druid, Lesaris, drew a handful of herbs from his pocket and began sprinkling them on the ground. He then drew a branch of no tree native to Stranglethorn Vale and began sketching Darnassian runes in the dirt and muttering a prayer.
“So,” Widge Gearloose said after a moment, breaking the silence, “No offense, Ringo, but why you?”
“Nae offense taken,” Ringo Flinthammer shrugged. “Ah’ve got four brothers, after all.”
“And Durkon‘s the great hero of the Alliance.”
“An’ a fathead.”
“And Bragh‘s got a greater gift with animals, which you’d think druids would be impressed with.”
“And Mordun‘s half-wild himself.”
“A wee bit more than half, Ah’d reckon.”
“And Ely‘s got a better head on his shoulders.”
“If ye need accountin’ an’ other gnomework, anyway.”
Lesaris stepped back as the herbs spun up into the air in a wind that only they felt, whirling into a disc.
“It had to be this Flinthammer child,” the druid intoned, stepping through the portal formed by the dancing leaves.
Widge and Ringo stepped after him — there didn’t seem to be anything else to do. They winced as they stepped out onto the far side, the smell of sulfur and blazing heat stinging their eyes.
“Welcome to the Molten Front, Ringo Flinthammer. You’ll be killing a lot of elves.”