The grass on the sides of the ridge of the Dagger Hills was as gold as a dragon's wet dream, but much less valuable than a dragon's hold. The rocky ridge straddled the area between the deserted village of Moonbrook and the Stranglethorn Jungle. Before the Cataclysm, this area had been the home of several caps of the Defias bandits, but they were long since gone in the aftermath of the brutal invasion of the lands of Westfall by the Burning Legion. Only the living beings here were now the lonely camp of Grimbooze Thunderbrew, and the occasional miner seeking to find and exploit the area's prodigious copper veins.
There was no one to note the plaintive screams of a terrified infant human, sprawled in the dry amber grasses. His parents were being ripped apart to assuage the never-ending hunger of a pair of rotting ghouls which haunted the area, drifting over the Dead Acre from the accursed woodlands of Duskwood. The ghouls had surprised the pair, who had been hauling a load of hops, seeking Grimbooze Thunderbrew to convince him to make them a keg of Thunderbrew Lager. Both humans had died, and the child they had brought with them had been fortunate enough to find a relatively soft landing in the grass. His screams had not yet attracted the attention of the ghoulds during their depredations, but the child's escape would only be temporary, until the ghouls finished their grisly feast on the remains of his parents. The terrified wailing of the child would act as an unwelcome beacon for the ghouls.
A thunderous crack momentarily drowned out the child's cries. A bullet splattered the rotting cranium of one of the ghouls. The other raised his head from the gorey meal, looking for the source. A second loud crack, and the other ghoul collapsed, now headless.
A large white-furred wolf padded ver to the two ghoul carcasses, and spurned their rotten meat with a disdainful sniff before turning to where the infant lay in the grass, warily silent after the gunshots. The wolf nuzzled the child, and licked it.
The child began to giggle at the soft nose and tongue.
"What you got there, Freki?" asked the wolf's companion and hunting partner.
The wolf arched his back, and whined hopefully.
"No!" The woman said in a firm voice. "We are not bringing it along. We're not in the orphan-adoption business!"
Another whine from the lupine creature.
"Not happening!" the woman orc named I’zara said, turning and heading back along the ridgeline to the coast. She had came from the Grom'gol Base Camp via boat to the abandoned pier in southern Longshore, dodging murlocs, fruitlessly searching for treasures left behind. Guided by a treasure map purchased from a goblin in Ratchet, the cache of gold and gemstones failed to materialize.
"Serves me right, buying a treasure map from goblin..." she muttered. "C'mon furball... wait, put that down." Freki had picked up the child by its cloth diaper, and had followed I’zara along the path.
Freki gave her a look of studied innocence, but did not put down her bundle.
"Fine!," she said. "You want to adopt a human pup, then remember - it's your responsibility. You get to feed it, you get to keep it clean, you get to sleep with it..." She kept up an increasingly improbable litany of the wolf's responsibility, without any hint that she well knew who would find up with the necessary duties.
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