Mounting up
“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-haw!” Ringo Flinthammer roared as his proto-drake soared through the struts of the Thandol Span. “Go, Rusty, go!”
The proto-drake beat his wings heavily, the metal plates bolted and fused to his flesh by Loken’s iron dwarves pinging as a summer shower sprinkled raindrops down on the pair.
“Ha!” Ringo barked, looking over his shoulder. “Foggy cannae believe what he just saw! If’n that donnae get him to kick th’ moonshine, nothin’ will!”
The black box
It had been a very long day for Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer.
Ringo had left the house with toddler-inflicted mystery stains on his uniform, something he hadn’t discovered until he was being dressed down for them by Captain Rugelfuss. He’d then gone on patrol, only to be badgered by a series of gnomes handing him useless items – mostly old, stale bread – and demanding silver pieces in return as a “quest reward.” After he’d stuck them in the drunk tank, he’d taken a lap around the loch, to check on reports of more Horde Runners moving through Alliance territory, and stumbled instead on a naked ogre doing his washing down in the loch.
But now, he was returning home to Flinthammer Hall, ready for a home-cooked meal, some quality time with his wife and a deep and all-too-short slumber before pulling on his boots and hood to face another day.
Except, there was a box on his doorstep.
It was rather common looking, as boxes go: a simple wooden container, about two feet wide, a foot long and high. There were no markings telling its point of origin, but Ringo’s name was stamped in big, block letters right on top. It was closed with a simple brass clasp.
Ringo looked around. The streets of Thelsamar were empty, with no one around to tell him the container’s origin.
He reached out to open the clasp and stopped. There was just the faintest sound of movement from inside the box. Ringo held his breath, waiting for more sounds, more movement, but there was nothing.
“Khaz’goroth on a cracker,” he growled to himself.
Ultimate triage
“Ouch,” Bael Flinthammer announced gravely, holding out a finger without any visible injury. “Ouch.”
“Ach, did ye hurt yer finger, ye sweet baby?” his mother, Beli, said, dropping to her knees in the wet earth overlooking the loch. Taking the tiny digit in her hands, she placed a kiss on it, then looked up to see the patient’s reaction.
“Ouch,” Bael repeated.
“Ah reckon that’s a more serious injury, then,” Beli said, reaching back for the bag that all mothers of young children carry with them everywhere, regardless of species. “Ah what’d make ye feel better … a lollipop!”
Bael considered the proffered candy — his favorite — but then thrust his finger out again.
“Ouch.”
“OK,” Beli nodded. “There’s jus’ one thing ta do for ye, then.”
Coolant heads prevail
“Ye got that thing working yet?” Beli Flinthammer said, with more than a little exasperation.
“No’ quite,” Ringo Flinthammer muttered, sitting on a dock protruding out into Loch Modan, and working on the refrigeration unit with his arclight spanner. It was the hottest day of the year, and the sun was merciless, even through his favorite old fishing hat. “There’s this thingy Ah cannae quite get goin’ right.”
“‘Thingy?’ Really? Is that what gnomish engineers call it? A ‘thingy?'” Beli tapped a finger to one damp temple, as she floated on the surface of the lake. “‘Goblin’ plus ‘engineering’ equals KNOW HOW, baby! Anyone who tells ye otherwise simply doesn’t know how to add.”
“That’s nice,” Ringo growled, wiping away the sweat dangling from his brow. “Ye wanna take a crack at this, then, if ye’re so bloody smart?”
“Nope, watching the kid,” Beli said, her eyes closed, a leash tied to her wrist connected to Bael squatting in the shallows, throwing hard, stale bread at wary ducks. “How are ye going to sleep tonight, if ye cannae get that working to cool the house? Ye sweat like a Goldshire whore in church most nights as it is.”