Flinthammer Hall

“Mommy? C’mere.”

“What is it, Bael?”

“C’mere, c’mere.”

Beli Flinthammer sighed, putting down the putty and knife she’d been using to seal the cracks in the ceiling of Flinthammer Hall. Deathwing was long gone, but the damage he’d done to Thelsamar and especially Loch Modan remained. But at least her home was almost back to normal.

To her son, of course, every day was a new experience, and the post-Cataclysm world was full of exciting new experiences. Gilnean refugees had begun to avoid Thelsamar, as word had gotten around that a small dwarven boy would tackle anyone with a Gilnean accent, throw them into a headlock and force them to “be a doggy.”

“C’mere, c’mere,” Bael said. He had gotten into one of her satchels and had gone through some of the decorations she was planning on hanging up, once the home in the hills above Thelsamar was repaired.

“Mommy,” her son said, pointing to a statue she’d purchased in Ironforge.

“Aye, that’s me, all right.”

“Where Daddy?”

The matching one of Ringo was around here somewhere, but she wasn’t feeling particularly motivated to find it just now.

“Uncle Widge says they’re fightin’ trolls in Zul’Gurub,” she said, knowing she wasn’t answering the question Bael was really asking. “They should be done soon: Ah donnae reckon a bunch of trolls will be givin’ them much trouble.”

…

Read More Read More

Rusty’s metal-clad wings sang with the fine mist falling over the northern jungles of Stranglethorn Vale. The dragon’s rider, Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer, squinted at the canopy of dark green leaves, trying to pick out a safe place to land near his quarry.

Jungle animals beat a hasty retreat as the dragon heavily set down, and Rusty frantically beat his wings to keep from toppling forward onto his face. Proto-drakes were powerful beasts, but no one would ever accuse them of being elegant.

“Ringo Flinthammer!” a voice called out, and a figure shuffled out of the brush, jotting notes down in a journal.

“Widge Gearloose,” Ringo replied, sliding down off Rusty. “Just th’ gnome Ah was lookin’ fer.”

“Come about the Zandalari uprising, I presume.” Widge closed his book and marched forward, hand out-thrust to shake Ringo’s hand.

“Every blessed few months,” Ringo sighed, “Jus’ when it’s gettin’ nice and borin’, something new crops up.”

“Well, some would say that’s a good thing,” Widge offered.

“Like, no sooner were we kickin’ Yogg-Saron in th’ arse when th’ Argent Crusade started up their bloody tournament. Anyway, Ah come ta ask fer help from a portal expert. Ah cannae get through th’ Twilight Portal to the Bastion of Twilight in …”

“Time for that later,” Widge said, cutting him off. “I need your help to …”

…

Read More Read More

It was not, Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer would have been the first to admit, the most thought-out plan in military history.

“All right, then, Rusty,” Ringo said, patting the massive proto-drake‘s neck. A fine rain pinged off the plates bolted into the beast’s flesh, and he probably couldn’t feel Ringo’s hand through the saronite plating, but patting the plates seemed like the thing to do. “We’ll go down through their portal, nice and quick, nip inside the bastion, grab us up a wee cultist, then turn and fly back out. Ah’ll ask him ’bout recreatin’ the Curse o’ Flesh on Magni. If he refuses, or claims not ta know what we’re about, we drop him down onto th’ rocks and repeat th’ process until one o’ them gives us th’ answer we need. Right? Right!”

Rusty dutifully tucked in his wings and the pair dove toward the floating Twilight Portal that led, Ringo had been told, to the Bastion of Twilight.

…

Read More Read More