Ringo Flinthammer rode up on his ram, its hooves kicking up well-packed snow as he galloped through the main square of Dun Baldar. Behind him, on a tether, was another ram, with matted fur and wild eyes.
The yellow-haired Stormpike stable mistress looked up as she approached, putting down her slate and chalk. She was checking off supplies for the effort; the sounds of the battle with the Horde to the south echoed across Alterac Valley.
“Want me to take that ram for ye?”
“Aye, please. This thing stinks,” Ringo said, handing over the rawhide tether. “Reeks like a bucket of ass juice.”
The stable mistress grinned and said nothing, but Ringo noticed she was wearing very heavy and clearly disposable gloves and boots.
“The stables will be full in no time at all! Keep up the good work!”
As she brought the ram into the stable, her male colleague, mounted on another ram and surveying a growing pile of Frostwolf hides destined to be turned into saddles, glanced up at Ringo and said something to her.
The stable mistress returned, looking at her slate.
“Flinthammer, aye? The brigadier-general was saying something … ah, ye’re to be put in for a commendation, as yer deeds have made ye exalted in the eyes of the dwarves of Ironforge.” She marked something on her slate with the chalk, and patted her garments, looking for something apparently given to her by the general.
“Oh, aye?” Ringo straightened up on his mount a moment, smiling beneath his whiskers, stroking his mustache proudly. Then a thought occured to him, and his face fell. “That don’t mean I need to go catch more filthy, stinkin’ wild rams, does it?”