Flinthammer Hall

“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.”

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“For the last bloody time,” Mountaineer Roghan roared, bodily hurling a gnome out of the Stoutlager Inn, “Ye juggle yer flippin’ flamin’ torches OUTSIDE!”

“Which bloody idjit’s idea was it ta celebrate th’ longest day o’ tha year wit’ drunken arsonists?” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer growled, stepping menacingly toward the gnome, warning him off, when he inadvisedly tried to slip around behind Roghan and dart back inside with the torches.

“Dunno,” Roghan muttered, examining his scorched beard. “Someone said ’twas an old dwarven holiday.”

“Bah,” Ringo scoffed. “This whole bloody festival stinks like goblins. It’s all commercial-like. They ruined tha Feast o’ Winter’s Veil an’ Brewfest, didn’t they, th’ wee bastards?”

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“Get back here, Flinthammer!”

“Ah called ye ‘Mountaineer Pebblebitty,'” Ringo Flinthammer protested, “Not wha’ever ye think ye …”

“There are chunks of things more impressive than you in my morning bowel movement,” she growled, leaning forward, glaring at him with wild eyes. “I guess the big, bad dragon slayer doesn’t take what we do here in the mountaineers very seriously.”

“Ah do! O’erwise, Ah would nae be here …”

“Do you see this gate? Do you SEE this GATE?”

“The great huge gate behind ye? It’s hard ta miss it …”

“This GATE is all that stands between Ironforge Mountain and ANARCHY!”

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Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer was on his third lap between the North Gate and South Gate Passes — Mountaineer Pebblebitty’s orders for the day — when the first nearly naked gnome came panting by.

“Sir,” Ringo blinked, dismounting from Beer Run, “Are ye all right? Do ye need any help?”

“No can do!” the gnome barked. “No help allowed!”

Ringo watched, baffled, as the gnome ran on toward the Stonewrought Pass, somehow avoiding the notice of the huge spiders in that foliage on either side of the road — for now, at least.

“Flippin’ gnomes,” Ringo said, climbing back into the saddle.

“Stand aside!” squeaked a gnome, darting through Beer Run’s legs.

“Get out of the way, dwarf!” called another.

Ringo whirled around to see a sea of pale bare gnome flesh rushing down the hill from Dun Morogh.

“On your left!”

“On your right!”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker!” Ringo barked. “Where are all ye wee buggers headed?”

“Elwynn Forest!”

“Darkmoon Faire!”

“Take the bloody tram, then!”

“Can’t!” a gnome racing past yelled back.

“Tram’s down!”

“Well, of course it’s down,” Ringo said, “It’s …”

“He means broken!” Another gnome replied.

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“Mountaineer Flinthammer, where exactly do you think that you are?”

“Sir?”

“Your location, Flinthammer,” Captain Rugelfuss growled. “What is it?”

“Er, th’ southern Loch Modan guard tower in th’ Valley o’ Kings,” Ringo Flinthammer replied. After an awkward pause, he continued: “On th’ top floor, sir.”

“Are you sure? No chance you might not still be in Northrend?”

“Nay, sir.”

“I thought you might be confused, and think you’re back in the Dragon Night.”

“Dragonblight, sir.”

“When you were in the Dragonblight and you shot someone, Flinthammer, what happened next? You rolled your dice and saw who got to go through their pockets for loose change?”

“Aye, sir, an’ cut off their head and burned the body so it didn’t rise from th’ dead.”

“Around here, you know what happens when, say, we shoot two obnoxious death knights in the Stoutlager Inn?”

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