Lesaris loped across the Ashen Fields and up into the Magma Springs. The Druids of the Talon had figured out how to fly in the hot, thick air of the Firelands, but somehow had not gotten around to teaching anyone else the trick, not even the Druids of the Claw.
It took little effort to evade the natives here — Ragnaros’ forces were chosen for their strength and ferocity, not their wits — and soon the great bear found himself before the cave. The dwarf was there, and the gnome, along with two of the Avengers of Hyjal, each of whom stood watch over the cave, making sure that its occupant didn’t make a break for it.
“Well met,” Lesaris said, his form twisting from bear to night elf once again, towering over Ringo Flinthammer and Widge Gearloose.
“She’s inside,” Ringo said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. His white bear companion lay beside him, panting in the heat. “We ran Leyara to ground, just like ye asked.”
“Tor ilisar’thera’nal!” Lesaris exulted. “Into the Igneous Depths with you, then! Finish her!”
“Nae, we’re done,” Ringo said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “If ye want her dead, ye can do it yerself.”
“And, if I might ask,” Widge said, raising one hand, “The ‘Igneous Depths?’ Isn’t that needlessly … needless? Do you know what ‘igneous’ means? It’s not really a descriptive name; it just sounds impressive to the uneducated. It’s that sort of enthusiasm for surface appearances that really just reinforces all of the stereotypes that some people harbor.”
Lesaris was about to retort, then shook his head dismissively and turned back to Ringo.
“You will do as you are commanded, dwarf. Your family’s honor …”
“Does nae demand me ta be an assassin fer some elves who are too good to sully their honor killin’ one o’ their own. If Leyara Staghelm has ta die, do it yerself, or get some other patsies ta do it. We’re done.”
“Let’s gae home, Widge.”