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This was supposed to be a happy occasion.
The Horde and the Alliance, together, dancing around the ribbon pole, took some getting used to, but there it was. The war against the Qiraji had brought back memories of the Battle of Mount Hyjal when the Alliance and Horde first worked together and the Midsummer Fire Festival might have been the first holiday in a long time that had passed without bloodshed.
And then the Scourge had crashed the party.
Randis crouched down in the reeds surrounding Loch Modan. Ringo had to give him credit: The orphan from Stormwind had never seen a swamp before, much less been in one up to his waist, but even after the stern warning about leeches and loch frenzies, the boy hadn’t hesitated to wade into the makeshift blind Ringo had chosen. He was determined to throw himself into experiencing life beyond the orphanage walls this Children’s Week.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about this back at the orphanage,” the boy said.
“Ach, don’t worry about it, lad,” Ringo said, beard spreading out in the loch water around him like a white lily pad. “A boy who’s been through what you went through in the last war can handle the grisly facts of life.”
They waited in silence for a while, the air growing quiet except for the sound of cicadas and bullfrogs and the occasional leap of a fish on the loch.
And then they heard it.
Three militias, the Brothers in Arms, were assembled in the sand just south of Cenarion Hold. Many still had wounds from the war, bandages caked with blowing grit and dust.
“Is this going to be a stand-up fight, sir, or another bug hunt?” Faenor said. The elf wore a scarf across his mouth and nose, blocking the worst of the windswept sand.
“All we know is that there is still is no contact with the king’s brother, and that the Qiraji may be involved,” Ulrich said, buckling on his platemail greaves.
“Excuse me, sir, the what?” For a warlock, Danira was unfailingly polite. Maybe that’s what it took to deal with the entities that she did.
“The Qiraji,” Ringo said, climbing onto his ram, turning its unwilling head towards the newly risen city to the south.
The last of the cargo had been strapped to the hippogryphs and was now winging its way southeast from the dark wood platform overlooking the gray waters of Auberdine.
Beli had just finished ministering to the small dwarven community in town and was packing away her vestments, climbing the steps of the flight platform automatically, when she looked up and saw what Ringo was up to.
She reached out, grabbing his mustache and pulling his head around to face her.
“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?”
Ringo led the rams down the plank, onto the creaking dock. It was full of people unloading the ships, carrying supplies or loading them directly onto wagons to be delivered to the front. It was alive with men and dwarves and gnomes and night elves. No Horde, though: Theramore was still a secure installation, and the undead and trolls couldn’t be trusted inside its walls, Qiraji or no Qiraji. And Thrall, according to intelligence reports, still hadn’t solved his issues with the Shadow Council agents in his midst.
Despite the heat and the sticky salt air, Ringo was glad to be off the ship. Beli had sulked the entire way, the murloc kept trying to leap overboard, both bears, the owl and both rams had gotten seasick. After that, even the rotting fish smell of a port town like Theramore smelled like fresh air.
“Thane!” Came a gruff voice, its owner lost among the chests and shoulders of much taller dock workers. “Honor above glory!”