Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer had his hands full ever since arriving in Stormwind. He yawned as he spurred an equally exhausted Beer Run forward across the canal bridge, bringing the latest crop of cultists he’d arrested to the stockade.
“Unhand me, loyalist scum,” snarled one, his wrists bound behind his back.
“Save yer breath,” Ringo muttered. “Ye’ll want to be savin’ it ta pray to Cho’Gall or whoever ye worship, once yer in the clink with the rest of yer friends.”
“Don’t think you’ve won,” another cultist chimed in. “This city will fall!”
“Ah reckon the reason ye were able to infiltrate the city so well is that half of the regular residents of Stormwind are already touched in the head anyway,” Ringo said. He dismounted from his ram at the Stockade and pulled each cultist off their horse, keeping them from cracking their heads open on the cobblestones, but taking little care with them otherwise.
“It is not too late to save yourself from the coming catastrophe!” cried a third cultist, as Ringo shoved them inside the building, herding them for the warden, who was standing watch near the staircase down to the damp dungeons below the city’s canals.
“More cultist traitors?” Warden Thelwater asked. “Good job getting’ ‘em off the streets.”
“Someone told them it were a good idea to light incense and their ridiculous purple candles while trying to hide their presence in town. Frostmaw’s allergic to their incense, so Ah jus’ followed th’ sneezin’ bear.”
“We came to bring the master’s prophecy into being,” one cultist spat as a guard led him down into the dungeons. “The rituals have already begun and we are too numerous for you to stop us all!”
“Think there’s anything to their threats?” Thelwater asked, as the cultist’s threats faded away.
“Nah,” Ringo scoffed. “These types couldn’t even manage a ritual to summon a table full of strudel, much less anything fer Stormwind to worry about.”