A lovely day for a waltz through the minefield

The night elf is obviously not in good shape. Her hair is blackened on the ends and smoking, and she is covered in soot. She limps up to the goblin and throws a dented and soot smudged toolbox at his feet. "Here's your damn toolbox, Jeer! And if you happen to leave it in a minefield again, don't look at me to go get it!"

The goblin shrugs and mutters his thanks. 

"By the way," she frowns at him, "You really should have warned me not to fly in. It's going to be a while before I'm able to transform into my storm crow form again, thanks to you!" She rubs her sore arms, which are scraped and bruised, but no where near as bad as if they were her wings.

"Hey, doll, I didn't tell you to fly in. I said you should try to follow the path I took to get out!"

"Who sets up turrets to protect a minefield? What the heck is that minefield protecting anyway? There doesn't seem to be anything over there."

The goblin shrugs again, rummaging through his recovered tools to ensure they are all there, "You know, important stuff."

She sighs and half stomps, half limps away, disgusted.