Flinthammer Hall

“His Majesty, King Varian Wrynn, and Lady Jaina Proudmoore have touched down upon the tournament grounds!” roared a herald. “Make way!”

“Ooh!” Widge Gearloose squealed and darted out of the Silver Covenant Pavilion. Ringo and Beli Flinthammer ambled after him, snacking on leftovers.

Standing on the front steps of the pavilion, Ringo scratched the ears of the family’s rams, Sam and Beer Run.

“Hail, Thane,” a black-bearded dwarf said, snapping to attention and saluting, hit boots kicking up a spray of slush as his boot heels snapped together. “Missus Thane.”

Widge squeaked in outrage and came bounding past on four outraged hooves.

“Er, hail,” Beli said, shooting a husband a “who in the Hellfire Peninsula is this guy” look.

…

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May love and laughter light your days
And warm your heart and home.
May good and faithful friends be yours,
Wherever you may roam.
May peace and plenty bless your world
With joy that long endures.
May all life’s passing seasons
Bring the best to you and yours!

“So, Yogg-Saron’s dead? We’re finally done with all of that?”

“Aye, fer the tenth time, Widge, ” Beli Flinthammer said, marching up the ramp and out of Ulduar. “And stop bouncin’ around.”

“Aye, we’ll be pourin’ us some tall cold ones soon enough,” Ringo Flinthammer said, licking his chops in anticipation as he packed up Rusty. “Ah’m thinkin’ a nice Loch Modan Lager to start with …”

“Yes, but the Argent Tournament …” Widge Gearloose trailed off.

…

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“Yogg-Saron is dead,” Beli Flinthammer sighed, collapsing back onto an outcropping of rock here in the lowest depths of Ulduar. She stared at the giant head, covered in mouths big enough to swallow a dwarf, now still and slack in a pool of slime. “The Curse o’ Flesh, the war between Stone and Iron, all that evil he did in them visions: It’s all o’er.”

She sniffed a stray lock of hair.

“Ugh. I’m gonna be washin’ the smell of that beastie out o’ me hair fer weeks.”

…

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Ringo Flinthammer blinked in surprise and looked down at the note again.

Dear Ringo,

I hope ye’re doing well and that ye’ve had time to recover from our shenanigans in Ulduar.

Me lads from the prospecting team happened upon this poor ‘alf dead riding-drake hatchling. Must’ve been an Iron Dwarf experiment of some sort.

We’ve patched him back to health and ye’ll find he’s not so wee anymore! None of us know much about riding anything but rams and pack mules and since we owed ye one for what ye did back there … We thought perhaps ye’d accept him as a gift.

Yours,
Brann Bronzebeard

Ringo looked back up at the proto-dragon, covered in rusty metal plates fused to its flesh, and sighed.

“Beli is going to kick me arse fer bringin’ home another stray …”