Flinthammer Hall

Beli Flinthammer groaned and rolled over in bed.

“Mmmmm, what time is it? If ye wanted to play ‘ride the mole machine,’ ye should have said so hours ago, when the kid fell asleep … ”

“What?” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer snapped, louder than he had meant to. He had been sitting up in bed, alarmed, fumbling for his gun in the dark. “Ah didn’t … that weren’t me …”

He stopped and listened, holding his breath. The animals had heard, or felt, whatever it was, too: Frostmaw, Lucky and Daedalus were all awake, their eyes shining in the starlight, alert and just as puzzled as Ringo was.

So what was it, then? It had felt like the ground had shook, but Loch Modan and the surrounding area was geologically stable: It was unimaginable that an earthquake could occur here. Which meant the only logical conclusion was that …

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“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!”

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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.

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“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.”

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