The path to the citadel

The path to the citadel

“Ringo! Beli! Come quickly!” Widge Gearloose burst into the Silver Covenant Pavilion. “Jaina! She’s given me a mission!”

Beli Flinthammer closed her sketchbook and kicked her husband in the shins, waking him mid-snore.

“What’s that, Widge?” she asked, bundling herself up as she emerged into the frigid air of Icecrown Glacier.

“She’s sending me behind enemy lines!” the gnome gushed as he piled supplies onto a hovering magical carpet. “The very thing to win her favor!”

“Or a suicide mission,” Ringo muttered.

“No, no, not at all!” Widge gushed. “Well, at least, probably not. Anyway, you know how the Argent Crusade has captured those twin val’kyr?”

“Heh,” Ringo chuckled. “Twiiiiiiins!”

His wife slapped him loudly on the back of the head.

“Ow. Baelan or Cohhen would have laughed at that.”

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Dangerous love

Dangerous love

“His Majesty, King Varian Wrynn, and Lady Jaina Proudmoore have touched down upon the tournament grounds!” roared a herald. “Make way!”

“Ooh!” Widge Gearloose squealed and darted out of the Silver Covenant Pavilion. Ringo and Beli Flinthammer ambled after him, snacking on leftovers.

Standing on the front steps of the pavilion, Ringo scratched the ears of the family’s rams, Sam and Beer Run.

“Hail, Thane,” a black-bearded dwarf said, snapping to attention and saluting, hit boots kicking up a spray of slush as his boot heels snapped together. “Missus Thane.”

Widge squeaked in outrage and came bounding past on four outraged hooves.

“Er, hail,” Beli said, shooting a husband a “who in the Hellfire Peninsula is this guy” look.

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Sharing a bountiful feast

Sharing a bountiful feast

May love and laughter light your days
And warm your heart and home.
May good and faithful friends be yours,
Wherever you may roam.
May peace and plenty bless your world
With joy that long endures.
May all life’s passing seasons
Bring the best to you and yours!

Prepare for glory

Prepare for glory


“So, Yogg-Saron’s dead? We’re finally done with all of that?”

“Aye, fer the tenth time, Widge, ” Beli Flinthammer said, marching up the ramp and out of Ulduar. “And stop bouncin’ around.”

“Aye, we’ll be pourin’ us some tall cold ones soon enough,” Ringo Flinthammer said, licking his chops in anticipation as he packed up Rusty. “Ah’m thinkin’ a nice Loch Modan Lager to start with …”

“Yes, but the Argent Tournament …” Widge Gearloose trailed off.

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He’s not getting any older

He’s not getting any older

“Yogg-Saron is dead,” Beli Flinthammer sighed, collapsing back onto an outcropping of rock here in the lowest depths of Ulduar. She stared at the giant head, covered in mouths big enough to swallow a dwarf, now still and slack in a pool of slime. “The Curse o’ Flesh, the war between Stone and Iron, all that evil he did in them visions: It’s all o’er.”

She sniffed a stray lock of hair.

“Ugh. I’m gonna be washin’ the smell of that beastie out o’ me hair fer weeks.”

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