“Khaz’goroth on a cracker,” Ringo Flinthammer snarled through his hand as he surveyed the Molten Front, “It smells like Hodir’s farts here.”
“That’s sulfur that you’re …” Lesaris began.
“Don’t bother,” Widge Gearloose said, waving a hand at the druid. “He just needs something to complain about.”
“So, why do ye need me ta kill these elves of yers?” Ringo asked, ignoring the gnome’s characterization of him. “Ye’re elves yerselves. Or at least half of ye Avengers are.”
“We know little of hunting elves,” Lesaris sighed and something in his tone made Ringo and Widge feel every year of the 10,000 he had lived. “Before Malfurion awoke us, we had been fighting the Burning Legion. When we awoke, it was to fight demons once more. Before that … before that, I tended the region of Ashenvale now known as Felwood. I know how to battle harpies, owlbears and quillboar. Elves … I never thought our own people would turn against us.”
Ringo snorted, ready to lecture Lesaris on the history of elves and elf-descendants in the history of wars and disasters, but Widge kicked him in the shin, hard.
“This is what you do, Ringo Flinthammer,” Lesaris continued, unaware of or ignoring Ringo’s attempted outburst. “Your deeds on the Isle of Quel’Danas are well-known. Killing elves is your destiny.”
“Ah’m more than a damned killer!” Ringo flushed red. “Ah’m a father — a good father! Ah know all th’ animals o’ Khaz Modan. Ah’m handy with an arclight spanner, too.”
“The Druids of the Flame assault our front line, Ringo,” Lesaris said, his voice rising, growing strident. “These vile creatures have turned their backs on Elune’s teachings and worship instead the Fire Lord, Ragnaros. Twisted by his insane power, they desire nothing more than to bury us in ash.
“We must counter their attack immediately! Killing elves is your destiny, Ringo Flinthammer, and it defines who you are.”
“Ah kin think o’ one elf Ah’d like ta kill right now …”