Ringo was on the last chorus of “Good King Bronzebeard” when the draenei joined in.
“In his master’s steps he trod,
Towards the goodly numbers;
Poison on his daggers went
So they dripped and glittered.
Therefore, Dwarven folk, be sure,
Wealth or rank possessing,
Ye who now will save the wee,
Shall yourselves find blessing.”
With that, Ringo drained his mug, blew the foam from his whiskers with appreciation and sat down at the long table in the forest.
“There’s no snow here on Azuremyst, but this is a proper Feast of Winter’s Veil, right enough,” he grinned, slapping a draenei next to him on the shoulder. “Still, it’s hard to wrap my head around you lot celebrating the coming of Greatfather Winter a world away with the Wildhammers.”
“Well, surely you don’t actually believe in Greatfather Winter, do you?” asked an oddly lovely draenei woman across the table.
Beli dropped her cutlery onto her plate with a clatter. The guests all fell silent.
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