Flinthammer Hall

It takes a special kind of cold to chill a dwarf to the bone. The snows of Dun Morogh last year-round, with only the hottest days of summer thinning the ice that cover Iceflow and Helm’s Bed Lakes the rest of the year, save for the fishing holes the dwarves hack out with axes.

Dwarves and even gnomes scoff at outlanders who find Dun Morogh inhospitable: “It’ll put hair on yer chest,” “toughen up, Sally” or “here, have another mornbrew” are their standard replies.

But the cold of Icecrown was different somehow; it seemed almost malicious, creeping inside Ringo Flinthammer’s boots and gloves, plastering his ice-coated whiskers to his face and neck and giving him the first windburn he’d gotten in a cold climate since he was a child. And there were times where the wind sounded like something whispering terrible thoughts into his ears …

Ringo shuddered, putting such thoughts from his head, and headed back inside the tent he shared with Beli. From outside, there was a crash of thunder from the Storm Peaks that loomed above the plain where the Argent Crusade was building their jousting grounds.

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“The dwarves?”

“Aye, by Khaz, the dwarves! No one has a greater right to split that bloody traitor’s skull in two than us!”

“Sir,” said the man polishing wine glasses behind the counter, his voice raising ever-so-slightly in disapproval, “Here at the Legerdemain Lounge, we keep our voices down as a courtesy to our other customers.”

“Shut yer strudel hole!” barked Ringo Flinthammer, pointing a thick finger at the shocked bartender. “Bloody wine bar.”

“Go back to what you were saying before,” Widge Gearloose said, putting down his own wine glass hurriedly. “Why would the dwarves have more right to deliver the killing blow to Arthas than, say, the humans?”

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“The Ice Stone has melted!”

“Aye, we know.”

“The Ice Stone has melted!”

“That’s nice.”

“The Ice Stone has melted!”

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“Let’s get to fightin’.”

Ringo and Beli Flinthammer stood before Corp’rethar, the Horror Gate, the final barrier between Alliance and Horde troops and Icecrown Citadel. Strange blue flames, which hurt the eyes when looked upon, formed an additional barrier before the black steel wall. And before the flames were the armies of the Scourge. The Flinthammers were there as part of an effort by Alliance forces based on the Skybreaker to help weaken the Scourge’s defenses.

“Not yet,” came the response, sounding like metal scraping across metal, laced with the accent of a former nobleman of Lordaeron. “Formal introductions first — protocol.”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker,” Ringo growled, lowering his rifle slightly. Frostmaw behind him relaxed, the bear taking his cue from his master’s body language. “Get on with it.”

“I am Lord Corin Lightstalker, Lord Protector of Corin’s Crossing …”

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Beli Flinthammer returned downstairs to the bar at the Legerdemain Lounge. As a treat — and a break from the war against the Lich King — the Flinthammers had rented a room there for the holidays.

Ringo and Widge Gearloose were busy discussing their theory that Hodir was the inspiration for Greatfather Winter. Beli surreptitiously moved their glasses of hot apple cider out of reach as she sat down.

“The wee sprout down at last?”

“Aye,” she said, picking up her now-cold cup of brew.  “If I have to read him that Yo Gobbo Gobbo story many more times, I may scream.”

“What’s that you put on the floor?” Widge asked, yelping a moment later when Beli kicked him in the shin.

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