Flinthammer Hall

Ringo Flinthammer and Widge Gearloose stepped out into the warm summer air, looking around with a bit of shock.

“This … is Mount Hyjal?” Ringo said, breathing in the smell of grass warmed by the sun, listening to the song of hundreds of grasshoppers.

“Yes,” Widge said, adjusting his goggles. “Hyjal Summit was warmed by the presence of the World Tree. The snows of Winterspring are far below us.”

Ringo glanced around at the newly built buildings around him. The Alliance worked fast when building forward bases during the war. Past the lumber mill he and Widge stood beside, he saw knights of Lordaeron checking their mounts’ armor and could hear the familiar sounds of dwarven riflemen preparing their weapons for battle.

“Not much time then, aye?”

“No,” Widge said, frowning. “Lady Jaina Proudmoore will call everyone to form up in a moment and then the word will come down that Rage Winterchill’s undead troops are on their way.”

“No time like the … well, whatever. Got to get to it, Ah reckon,” Ringo said, leading Widge around the corner.

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Ironforge, the Forlorn Cavern.

Leave from the front, and rest and relaxation.

Sort of.

“I had to move from the pool I was fishing in because you came over and threw up in it,” Robaz the Frail said, casting his fishing line into the cave pool. “Killed all the fish.”

“Fishing in an ornamental fountain was a typical elf trick anyway,” Ringo Flinthammer said mildly, reeling in his own line and preparing to cast it out again. “Remind me to go throw up in Teldrassil’s moon wells.”

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Bael Flinthammer wouldn’t stop crying. Ringo looked at the child’s mother imploringly.

“Fine!” Beli said, throwing up her hands, “Let’s go back to the inn and put him down for a nap. It’s quieter in there.”

A female draenei stepped between the dwarves and their destination.

“We’ve taken Sun’s Reach from the enemy and our final victory is at hand,” she began, turning to jog after the couple and the crying baby, who had not broken step when she started speaking. “The cost was high and many brave combatants gave their lives so we could achieve this.

“It is my goal to ensure that those who perished in combat are not forgotten. I ask that you take a moment to consider making a donation …”

“Gave already,” Ringo said, wincing as a child sorely in need of a nap howled in his ear. “To yer assistant, or something.”

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“Are ye OK back there?” Beli Flinthammer called out over her shoulder.

Bael Flinthammer was fine. He was bundled up tight and strapped to her back as they soared through the skies over Quel’Thalas on the back of a gryphon. Beli’s baby laughed and giggled as the gryphon spiraled down toward the harbor. Even from here, she could see Burning Legion forces on the island, engaged in a firefight with dwarven riflemen. If her husband wasn’t among them, she knew he would be champing at the bit to join the fight.

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Ringo Flinthammer walked in the footsteps of Arthas Menethil. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

He straightened up and tipped over the pot of goblin gumbo, spilling it onto the blighted soil. The Ghostlands smelled so bad, no one would notice the added stench of the gumbo. In any case, it was time to break camp and keep moving.

The Outer Elfgate had been shattered six years before by Arthas as he rode at the head of the Scourge invasion of High Elf lands. Ringo had felt anger and shame when he had ridden through the Thalassian Pass, Scourge banners drifting in an unseen breeze where once elven rangers had guarded Quel’Thalas from intruders like Ringo.

It had taken a great number of shakes of the imp to get a useful answer out of him. It seemed that the Dead Scar — the road of Blight leading straight through the Ghostlands and Eversong Woods, right up and through Silvermoon itself — would be Ringo’s safest means of travel for now. The Scourge wasn’t watching for anyone using it to travel north, and the Horde and Amani trolls both patrolled the areas less afflicted with Blight.

But “safest” didn’t mean “safe.” According to Hawkspear, mindless Scourge undead drifted along the Dead Scar, just waiting for undead lips to blow the horns that would summon them to battle and to march on Silvermoon once more. And intelligent undead sometimes rode along the Dead Scar, visiting the Necropoli that flanked it.

So, “safest,” but not “safe.”

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