“Well, it took some doing — and a lot of shuttling in kimchi pie from Darnassus,” said Widge Gearloose, lowering his voice as he and Ringo Flinthammer tucked into their dinner beneath the spreading arms of the Sentinel Tree, “But I think I’ve figured out why the Avengers of Hyjal wanted an expert in elf-killing.”
“Ah’m completely shocked that night elves once ag’in cannae deal honestly with so-called ‘lesser races,'” Ringo growled, bits of food shooting from his mouth, each particle eagerly tracked by Frostmaw, who slurped them up off the ground.
“It seems like some important Tauren druid was almost killed by an important night elf druid. She’s gone over to the other side, but it would be politically awkward if a famous widow of some battle or other were killed by the elves themselves.”
“So, they bring in a dwarf who e’erybody knows ha’ nae trouble killin’ elves ta do it fer them?”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
Ringo sighed, staring at the hazy apparition of Sulfuron Keep in the distance.
“Hard ta imagine this is what me mother wanted me ta do fer Lesaris. So, what’s this political elf’s name?”