Flinthammer Hall

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!”

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“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?”

“Leyara Staghelm.”

Ringo Flinthammer turned his face, spitting out the sulfurous dust that made up the ground here in the Firelands.

“Elves are full o’ crap, ye see,” he muttered, reaching out and thumping the thick neck of his bear, Frostmaw. “After th’ Battle fer Mount Hyjal, the night elves were no longer immortal and they knew they had to make changes. They started trainin’ women druids an’ th’ Druids o’ the Claw and the Druids o’ the Talon both taught other druids their secrets. And where’ver th’ Druids o’ the Lookin’ Like a Bloody Tree were hidin’, they taught th’ others their tricks, too.

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