Flinthammer Hall

Seven years ago, in the Dragonblight of Northrend.

“Prince Arthas and his men are heroes!” Robaz the Frail said, tromping uphill through the snow. The two dwarves were walking away from the camp, and out into the pre-dawn gloom. “Without them, we would have been trapped until the undead finally overwhelmed us.”

“Yer nuts,” snapped Baelan Grimaxe, an axe slung over his shoulder. “Muradin could have rescued us on his own; he was just gatherin’ his strength. And anyway, Ah told ye; Ah didn’t like that look in Arthas’ eyes when he was grillin’ the prince about what brought us here.”

“Who goes there?” barked a voice from the darkness.

“I knew we shouldn’t have left camp for this discussion,” Robaz muttered, gripping his worn mace tightly. “This land is haunted.”

“Is that ye, Flinthammer?” Baelan growled back. “Didn’t think ye’d be skulking in the trees like a marmot.”

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It was seven years ago, in the Alterac Mountains south of Strahnbrad.

“Ye can’t, I dunno, magic up somethin’ to take care of them?” Ringo Flinthammer asked, taking another gulp of beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What are you, simple, rookie?” one of the other dwarves snapped.

“Sigrun,” the older dwarf sighed, holding up a hand to calm his apprentice. “Ringo, that’s not how enchanters work. We’re no more mages than you are.”

The group chuckled a little at the notion of dwarven mages.

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The Alliance’s “very best gnomes” were working at the base of the final wing of Icecrown Citadel. A blue wall of howling damned souls writhed silently before them, shielding Arthas’ remaining lieutenants behind it.

A small camp had been set up before the wall, with small groups huddled around campfires that illuminated less than they ought to and put out a miserly amount of heat.

“So,” Dazhbog began. The draenei knight clapped his hands together in an effort to keep the blood flowing to his fingers. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do after the war?”

“The first thing?” Ringo Flinthammer said, shaking his mug ruefully, frost already forming on the surface of his not-at-all-scalding morningbrew. “Ah am going to go home and have sex with me wife.”

Beside him, Baelan Grimaxe threw his frozen hunk of meat back into the fire and nodded.

“Aye. First thing Ah do is have sex with his wife, too.”

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