Some dwarves cheated with drink. Truthfully, a lot of dwarves cheated with drink.

Others cheated with gold. It was an unkind stereotype because it was true: Ironforge was filled with dwarves who spent their days buying and trading commodities, interested in nothing so much as cramming their portion of the Vault of Ironforge with every coin that could be fit inside it.

Still others cheated with the anvil, crafting axes or helmets or complex machinery with hammer, tongs and arclight spanners. Ringo Flinthammer dabbled there, but that wasn’t it, either.

Ringo cheated on Beli in another way.

“Ice-fishing at Iceflow Lake again?” Beli called, without looking away from her canvas. Her painting was almost done.

“Oh, aye,” Ringo said, hefting his rucksack, one hand on it to keep it from clanking loud enough for her to hear. “Ah’m takin’ the bear, too.”

Beli made a non-committal noise. Ever since they’d been reunited, Frostmaw had refused to let Ringo out of his sight.

“I’ll let the boy know where you’ve gone.”

“Thank ye kindly,” Ringo said, slipping out of the house, the bear following.

His great proto-drake, Rusty, was waiting for him. Like Frostmaw, Rusty hadn’t entirely forgiven Ringo for vanishing to Pandaria as long as he had and, whenever he left the house now, the great dragon was lurking somewhere nearby or circling in the skies above. Now, he and Frostmaw climbed onto Rusty’s great wide back and a moment later, they were climbing into the sky with great, inelegant beats of his wings.

“West, Rusty,” Ringo yelled, leaning down toward the dragon’s small ears. “Take me to Ironforge and the Deeprun Tram.”