Flinthammer Hall

Ringo Flinthammer stomped his feet, trying to return some feeling to his toes. He was born and raised in Dun Morogh, but the winds high in the Storm Peaks were something else entirely.

“Ah’m not sayin’ it weren’t amazin’ ta see him, Keeper Mimiron, but would it have killed him ta have said ‘Ah remember ye — in the mountains?'”

“Herald of the Titans,” Mimiron said, turning his head slightly, “Even here, atop the Temple of Storms, Keeper Thorim has met many, many people over the course of his immortal life. You should not take it as a slight …”

“Nay, nay, jus’ makin’ a joke,” Ringo said. He looked down at the rifle in his hands, which seemed to vibrate with internal energy. The gun’s twitches seemed to coincide with the bolts of electricity crackling around the blue-furred wolf whom Frostmaw was sniffing at dubiously.

“Anyway, ye reckon Ah’m the right one to carry this unique weapon o’ the Titans?”

“Well, you’re the bearer of this weapon of the Titans,” Mimiron said.

“There’s more than one?”

“There are 24.”

“Twenty-four guns?”

“Models of guns,” Mimiron said, turning his head toward Ringo.

Behind him, what Ringo took to be more vrykul participating in the Drakkensryd turned out to be elves, humans, tauren, orcs and others dismounting from proto-drake mounts and approaching the keeper.

“I’m not stupid, herald. I’m not going to entrust the fate of the entire world to just one Earthen.”

“Mah son, a terrible darkness ha’ returned to our world. As before, it seeks to anni –”

“Are you seriously composing a letter to your kid while we’re ass-deep in demons?” Widge Gearloose snapped, turning back around. Even his mechanostrider seemed annoyed, its headlamps cutting through the greenish gloom of the Broken Shore.

“He already left Bael a note,” Beli Flinthammer said, pulling out a spyglass and peering down the path. “Ringo’s just rewriting it in his head.”

“Hasn’t the boy got enough letters from ye?” Baelan Grimaxe muttered. “Ye sent him a letter before ye went into Icecrown Citadel. And then one during Operation: Gnomeregan.”

“And from the Jade Forest, Lion’s Landing, the Isle of Thunder, the Siege of Orgrimmar, Lunarfall Garrison …”

“Ah donnae want the boy to wonder what happened tae me or how Ah felt about him if somethin’ ever does happen!” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer roared, waving an arm, causing Beer Run to rear up and Frostmaw to snarl in sympathy.

Everyone settled down and Beli patted Ringo’s thigh with one hand.

“Well, I can respect that,” Widge said quietly, pointing his mechanostrider down the hill and starting off with a whir of machinery. “I left a letter for my cats.”

“You have cats?” Beli asked.

“I have a life outside of continually trying to save the world with you two!”

“I left a letter for my axes,” Baelan muttered to Ringo. “They like being read to — the vibrations keep the edges sharp.”

Ringo thought about this, nodding.

“Come on, idjits,” Beli interrupted, spurring Sam the Ram forward with her toes, “we’ve got demons to kill.”

…

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Ringo Flinthammer reloaded, then sighted along the barrel of his gun, forged in the fires of Ulduar. The presence of the Titans, no matter how minor, was a comfort in this place.

He raised his gun and prepared to dispatch another Legion commander …

The shot went wide.

“Ah’m not shirkin’ nothin’, ye bastard! Just shut yer pie hole and let me do what Ah do, before Ah remember Ah ken put a bullet through yer head instead!”

Ringo was uncomfortable here in Tarren Mill. Before the Cataclysm, Ringo and Beli had been only known it as the source of Forsaken assaults on Southshore. The time they’d spent in Tarren Mill had not been peaceful. The burning stench of fel only partially concealed the sweet smell of rot that followed the Forsaken everywhere.

Frostmaw pulled a flying demon to the ground, and Ringo fired two rounds into its head.

“Seriously, does no one remember who Helcular was? The butcher of Southshore? He was a monster even when the bastard was human! We should be killin’ him, and his bloody abominations, along with the Legion!”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker! Someone make that idjit shut him up, or Ah’ll do it fer him!”

“Beli! Back me up here! What are ye doin’, woman? And what are ye wearin‘?”

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“There you are! Is that what you’ve been doing all this time?”

Ringo Flinthammer looked up from the axe he was sharpening with a whetstone, stretching an aching back as he did. The late summer humidity in Loch Modan made his hair and beard drip with sweat, even in the shade of tree with a trunk too thick for Ringo to encircle with both arms.

“Aye, if the boy wants to spend all his time learning to fight with a bloody great weapon, Ah reckon some of it ought tae be spent with his father, swingin’ an axe that cut down plenty of Kael’thas’ soldiers, back in the day.”

“He’s going to have other teachers,” Beli said. “It doesn’t mean he doesn’t look up to you.”

Ringo just continued sharpening the black blade of his axe.

“Well,” Beli sighed after a moment. “Since you’re free — and I’m fine with you not going back to being a mountaineer …”

“Nae point,” Ringo muttered, “Not with Gul’dan still out there, ready tae start mischief any second now ..”

“Right, so you’ve got time to run a package over to Steelgrill’s Depot. You could take Frostmaw. He’s lookin’ shaggy and like he’s put on weight.”

Collapsed in the shade of a nearby bush, the bear let out an irritated grunt.

“And it’d be good for you to get Beer Run out as well. Rams his age need …”

“Aye, aye, we’re all old and fat and smelly and can use a spot o’ exercise. Ah’ll put away the axe and give the boy a kiss and be on me way.”

…

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