Flinthammer Hall

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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“Sorry Ah’m late,” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer said, a little flushed as he stumbled down the steps into the Stoutlager Inn. “Bloody elf was dancin’ on th’ mailbox again and had to write her up.”

He took in what felt like a sea of waiting faces and shoved his hand into a pocket, retrieving a dog-eared set of cards.

“‘When Ah were assigned to Loch Modan,'” he read off the first, “‘They told me there was a growin’ fox problem here. Ah didn’t realize they meant the ladies of the Women’s Riflery Club. Pause fer laughter.'”

Ringo looked up, stricken.

“Er, Ah don’t reckon Ah was supposed to read that last part. Mebbe Ah should just get to what ye’re all here for, which is to look at some of me favorite guns Ah’ve held onto over th’ years.”

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Years ago, when visiting Khaz Modan, Lady Katrana Prestor is said to have remarked that “Tinker Town is a community of gnomish efficiency and dwarven charm.”

Ringo Flinthammer stared at the yellowing Operation: Gnomeregan poster and wished that she had been wrong.

“Ragnaros’ fiery crotch! Could you make these bonds any tighter?

“If ye’d like, Ah could leave ye untied, and jus’ shoot out both yer kneecaps.”

“Who in the Twisting Nether are you, anyway? Since when do mountaineers use freezing traps?”

“Jus’ a mountaineer, like all the rest. We’re havin’ a wee bit o’ a fox problem of late. They reckon if we don’t get a handle on it soon, they’ll overrun much of this here territory.”

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There was the faintest of whirring sounds and Ringo Flinthammer stumbled forward a half-step again, dazed and unable to move as the smooth river rock bounced off his skull. Once again, his unseen attacker had gotten him, leaving him helpless.

Frostmaw roared in frustration, the big bear whipping his head back and forth, snuffling frantically in an attempt to locate the Dark Iron insurgent.

“Stop!” Ringo’s right hand chopped down into his open palm the moment he could think clearly again. He flipped his right hand over and wriggled his fingers in the air, like a spider knocked onto its back. “Wait! Wait!”

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