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Coren Direbrew cowered in the storeroom of the Grim Guzzler.
“So,” Beli said, “We’ll take your keg back to Brewfest, but we don’t want any more Dark Iron attacks after that.”
“No, no, of course not,” Coren said, starting to rise, grinning.
“No,” Beli said, sweeping his feet out from under him with her hammer, dropping Coren back to the floor, “You don’t understand: If there are any more attacks, we’ll be back.”
“Whatsh da total, Kylene?”
I shoot an exasperated look at the gyrating barmaid who can’t seem to stand still for a moment.
The blood elf wiggles her behind to the music as she bends over to do the math on a parchment.
“OK, that was nine flagons of mead and three jugs of bourbon. Let’s see …”
“Would you get me another drink, Ringo?”
“Not unless you say it,” Ringo said, leaning back in his chair at the Honor Hold Inn. “You know the rules.”
“I’m not going to say it,” Beli said, her voice even, but shooting him a dirty look.
“Say what?” Widge asked, returning from the Little Gnome’s Room outside and climbing into his seat.
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Beli was watching a ship load up at a dock at Menethil Harbor — the rumor was the Explorers’ League was sailing for Northrend — and keeping an eye on Ringo’s cousin Bethaine as she rocked baby Bael in her arms when the murlocs invaded.
“Invaded” might be too strong a word. They came racing down the street, saw Beli and Bethaine and began to caper and dance, warbling unintelligibly, as murlocs do.
The fabric patches and eyes that kept dangling out of their sockets, attached only by yarn, however — those were new.
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And Ringo Flinthammer stepped out onto the sod roof, looking down on the dark waters of Loch Modan and raised his son high above his head, presenting him to the titans and anyone else who might be watching.
Nearby, his bear, his other bear, his owl, his adopted murloc child and that obnoxious little hawkstrider chick Beli had insisted on adopting all watched quietly. He could hear a swell of music coming from Thelsamar over the hill, as if the patrons of the Stoutlager Inn were celebrating this moment.
“In the ciiiircle,” Ringo sang under his breath, “The ciiiircle of liiiiiiife.”
“Would you get back in here, you idiot?” his wife called from within the lakeside hut. “He’s going to catch a cold with his first breath.”