Above and Beyond the Call of Duty
Ringo Flinthammer rode up on his ram, its hooves kicking up well-packed snow as he galloped through the main square of Dun Baldar. Behind him, on a tether, was another ram, with matted fur and wild eyes.
The yellow-haired Stormpike stable mistress looked up as she approached, putting down her slate and chalk. She was checking off supplies for the effort; the sounds of the battle with the Horde to the south echoed across Alterac Valley.
“Want me to take that ram for ye?”
“Aye, please. This thing stinks,” Ringo said, handing over the rawhide tether. “Reeks like a bucket of ass juice.”
Chaka chaka chaka. Chaka chaka chaka.
I scoffed as I sorted through the mail, tossing the junk letters into the burning fire. Frostmaw, who had been snoozing on the rug near the fireplace, gave me an irritated growl as a misaimed envelope tripped over his head. I crouched down, patting him as I inspected the last envelope in my hand. It was a red envelope with no return address at it, addressed to me in fancy gold lettering.
Randis crouched down in the reeds surrounding Loch Modan. Ringo had to give him credit: The orphan from Stormwind had never seen a swamp before, much less been in one up to his waist, but even after the stern warning about leeches and loch frenzies, the boy hadn’t hesitated to wade into the makeshift blind Ringo had chosen. He was determined to throw himself into experiencing life beyond the orphanage walls this Children’s Week.