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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