“What are you going to name the bear?” Grelin Whitebeard had cleared a spot on the Anvilmar bar, and dipped his quill into the bronze inkwell by his hand, continuing to write.

Ringo looked at the cub, who was currently trying to chew on a chair leg.

“I dunno. Beli said something about naming it after the black and white colors, but … what’s black and white?”

Grelin looked up.

“Snow at the mouth of a mine shaft?”

“Aye,” Ringo nodded, wiping flecks of Thunderbrew from his lips with the back of his hand. “Not a good name for a bear, though.”

“Nay,” Grelin conceded, returning to the note.

“Where’s your pointy hat? I was telling Beli I wanted a hat like that for me birthday.”

“Ah,” Grelin colored a bit behind his beard. “My brother wouldn’t shut up about it. Said it made me look like a gnome warlock.”

“Your brother needs to get that stick removed from his hairy butt, Grelin.”

“Won’t be arguing with that.” Coming to a blank line, Grelin looked up. “So, what are you going to call this militia, then?”

Ringo tried to read the note upside down on the bar. It was the first time that he could recall that someone was writing a note to him that would be read before the High Seat, and this made him more nervous than anything else about this whole decision.

“Was thinking the ‘Dun Morogh Irregulars.'”

Grelin shook his head.

“Nay. They registered a few weeks ago, once the king made his proclamation about reinstating the militias. Their leader actually got beaten by some senators’ canes, they were so mad at the king going against their wishes.”

“Oh. Hmm.” Ringo considered. “I don’t know, then.”

“Don’t worry yourself over it.” Grelin folded the letter, then poured hot wax on the fold, sealing it, then marking it with his signet ring. “I’ll have them leave this in the king’s office in Ironforge. Pick it up when you get there. They’ll approve all the rest, and will just finalize it when you have a name and the members you need.”

“Well, good. That’ll give me some time to calm Beli down. I brought home a brace of rabbits this morning, and a boar, and she threw a keg at me. Called me a ‘sawed-off son of a bitch.'” He tugged at his mustache, eyes shadowed by furry eyebrows.

Grelin glanced up as he corked his inkwell, grinning.