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.
“But it wasn’t never ’bout protectin’ nature, as much as they say it was. Ye don’t see druids with animal companions, do ye? Elves want to rule o’er the shorter-lived races. E’eryone pretends they don’t remember Tyrande leadin’ her forces to slaughter humans and orcs alike when they set foot inside Ashenvale.
“They donnae respect animals or nature. They reckon they’re the masters o’ it. And animals know it and won’t lift a claw to help them. They can get plants to help them, but they use magic to compel it.
“And th’ elves here, the Druids o’ the Flame, they ain’t no different. The spiders here, and th’ fire hawks, they donnae give a damn ’bout the Druids of the Flame.”
Ringo unslung his rifle and took aim.
“An’ that makes ’em easy damned pickin’s. Go get ’em, boy.”