“Dearest Beli,
“We are in ‘hurry up and wait’ mode again. The surface of Gnomeregan is free, although Thermaplugg‘s forces still hold the interior for now. With victory this close, the gnomes have grown proud, and some are insisting that the rest of the Alliance leave the final retaking of the city to them. I reckon I can understand that.
“Citizens and friends of Gnomeregan!” High Tinker Mekkatorque called out to the troops standing in the new-fallen Dun Morogh snow. “Today is the day we take back our glorious city from the vile traitor Thermaplugg!”
“I am not a coward,” snapped Sgt. Widge Gearloose. “I’m a patriot!”
“And you’re mostly back here because you’re tired of being sent to wipe out Malygos loyalists in Moonrest Gardens,” Sgt. Voca Lodestone scoffed. “The Kirin Tor were very clear about their requirements when we …”
“I didn’t know they wanted me to be writing books all the time! I can’t do that! So, instead, they send me off to fight terrorists non-stop!”
“What do you think ‘publish or perish’ means, Widge?”
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.
“Sorry Ah’m late,” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer said, a little flushed as he stumbled down the steps into the Stoutlager Inn. “Bloody elf was dancin’ on th’ mailbox again and had to write her up.”
He took in what felt like a sea of waiting faces and shoved his hand into a pocket, retrieving a dog-eared set of cards.
“‘When Ah were assigned to Loch Modan,'” he read off the first, “‘They told me there was a growin’ fox problem here. Ah didn’t realize they meant the ladies of the Women’s Riflery Club. Pause fer laughter.'”
Ringo looked up, stricken.
“Er, Ah don’t reckon Ah was supposed to read that last part. Mebbe Ah should just get to what ye’re all here for, which is to look at some of me favorite guns Ah’ve held onto over th’ years.”