Flinthammer Hall

“All right,” the draenei priestess said, wiping the sweat from her lavender brow and glancing at her watch, “We’ll take a 10-minute break.”

Thorim’s arena inside Ulduar was now empty, save for the still-crackling chunks of metal that had been iron dwarves and vrykul just minutes before. The Keeper Thorim had departed, after the force now licking its wounds had literally beaten some sense into him. Thorim now had left the Clash of Thunder to clear his head of the charms Yogg-Saron had placed on him.

“And now,” Belsun Grimaxe said, reaching into his pack, “It’s battle fuel time.”

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“Khaz’goroth on a cracker,” breathed Ringo, surveying the crowd through the fog and mist. “Ah didn’t expect all this.”

On the southernmost ledge of Ulduar, the great construction of the Titans, an army had gathered. Two, in fact: The Alliance and the Horde each in their own tent cities, a forest of banners bounded by suspicious sentries eyeing the foes that – for the moment – they were no longer fighting.

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A half-dozen four-fingered hands thrust forward into the circle, resting one atop the other.

“All right, on three: One, two, three …”

“FOR GNOMEREGAN!” the gnomes roared.

The Argent Tournament was still in the process of being set up, but that was the kind of thing they had dwarves for. Dwarves liked construction and excavation and, well, anything that involved a lot of manual labor. Gnomes were meant for higher pursuits.

“OK, who’s on first?” said Voca Lodestone, pulling out her clipboard.

“That reminds me of a joke,” said Vamen.

“Is it that hat?” Milven grinned evilly.

“Quiet, you,” Vamen replied, sticking out his tongue.

“I’ll go first,” said Gnoir, climbing up into the saddle of his mechanostrider.

“OK, great,” said Voca, looking up from her clipboard and waving to a nearby Argent Crusader. “Squire David is going to send another valiant onto the field. This is just like we practiced with the dummies before: Charge him once he’s in range. Once you get into melee range, you can try and smash his shield or …”

“I know what to do,” the death knight said flatly.

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“All me life,” said Ringo Flinthammer, gently scratching the jawline of the cat of living stone that rumbled its approval beside him, “All me life, Ah’ve felt like a tool that didn’t know what he was for.”

Ringo’s feet dangled off the edge of the ledge, above a gulf with the clouds almost a mile below his boots.

“Ah mean,” he explained, pantomiming with one hand, “Am Ah a pick? A hammer? One of them Gnomish Army Knives with all the fiddly little bits? Ah always knew Ah had a purpose, but no one could tell me what it was.

“Me mam, and later me wife, they was nuts for the Holy Light. They dragged me to church, made me sit there, pretend that it made sense, instead of bein’ fuzzy-headed nonsense.”

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