Flinthammer Hall

Ringo Flinthammer was back in Silithus, site of the Scarab Gate, where Ringo and his wife had once been part of the Might of Kalimdor; the army that had fought to drive the Qiraji back into their ancient city and keep them from spilling out across Azeroth.

But he didn’t see the qiraji – although the sound of their clicking communication echoed around him constantly – but about the maddened humanoids in the Twilight’s Hammer, the cult devoted to bringing about the end of the world.

“HE RISES!” the cultists, dressed in purple hoods and robes, screamed. “HE RISES AND THE WORLD BURNS!”

Wherever Ringo turned, however fast he rode, there was nothing but endless blowing sand and grit and more of the howling, capering cultists.

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“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.

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“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!”

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“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?”

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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.

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