Ringo Flinthammer landed in Ironforge, clutching the letter the gnomish soldier had handed him back in Thelsamar.

It appeared to be a message from High Tinker Mekkatorque, exhorting Ringo to come to the aid of the gnomes. But on closer inspection, Ringo could see strange blotches of ink and the entire piece of paper appeared to have been repeatedly smashed between two corroded bronze plates: a gnomish Word-Stamp-A-Matic 5000, if Ringo knew his engineering.

More importantly, what, exactly, the king of the gnomes wanted Ringo to do wasn’t clear, beyond heading to Tinker Town. So, that’s what he did, following the trickle of war veterans, some still dressed in the cold weather gear, apparently fresh off the Northspear.

The capital of the gnomish court in exile was much as Ringo remembered it, full of clanking machinery, all whirring, spinning and spitting seemingly to no purpose other than to recreate the ambiance of the lost city of Gnomeregan.

The brown rabbits underfoot were new, however.

“At last!” a gnome cried out, his voice muffled by the bowl-like helmet he was wearing. “Knight-Captain Flinthammer! How wonderful to see you!”

The gnome gave a quick salute, but misjudged the size of his helmet and yelped in pain after slamming his wrist into the rim of his helmet’s porthole.

Ringo winced.

“Do Ah know ye, sergeant?” He asked, noting the chevrons stitched onto the gnome’s sleeve.

“What?” the gnome asked, fumbling with his helmet. His fumbled salute appeared to have knocked his helmet askew, and the porthole was now facing off over Ringo’s right shoulder. “It’s me, Sgt. Gearloose!”

“Widge!” Ringo grinned, pulling out his Gnomish Army Knife and pulling out the arclight spanner blade and, putting the sergeant in a headlock, began unbolting the helmet.

The mage gasped and mopped his sweaty face once Ringo had popped the helmet off, but quickly snapped to attention in an attempt to reclaim his dignity once he spotted a number of gnomish citizens observing the encounter.

“Well done, Knight-Captain! That’s exactly the sort of thing you ought to do in an actual emergency!”

“It’s good ta see ye, Wid- er, Sgt. Gearloose,” Ringo grinned. “Ah’ve missed ye.”

“Dalaran was nice, I suppose,” Widge said airily, remounting his mechanostrider and beckoning for Ringo to follow him to Bruuk’s Corner, just outside Tinker Town’s borders. “But now it’s time for all good gnomes to come to the defense of their nation!”

“‘Defense?’ Ain’t the ram already out o’ the pen on that one?”

“We must take up the Screwdriver of Destiny! We will use the Wrench of Determination on Thermaplugg, and once in our grasp, we will smite him with the Claw Hammer of Vengeance!”

“If this is the sort o’ rallyin’ cry ye have been using, Ah’m startin’ to see why ye ha’ not reclaimed yer city before now …”