Flinthammer Hall

“Hunter!” called the young mage on the steps of the bank in Dalaran. “Come close quickly; I must have a word!”

“‘Hunter?’” Ringo Flinthammer said, looking around. “Ye mean me? Is it the bear? He gets gassy when he eats them jellyfish. Just light a candle and it’ll clear right up.”

The mage sighed and continued, ignoring Ringo’s explanation.

“My patron, the Lady Jaina Proudmoore, has uncovered a hole in the defenses of Icecrown Citadel into a place she referred to as ‘The Forge of Souls.’”

“Well, ‘uncovered,’” Ringo said, making air quotes with his fingers. “She sent me wee pal Widge at the citadel with a flying carpet full of seaforium. Not so much ‘uncovered’ as ‘blew a bloody great hole in a solid stone door,’ really.”

“She sent word before she left for me to find any help that I could,” the apprentice soldiered on, looking dubiously down at the dwarf. “And, well, I was hoping that might be you.”

“Out of lovesick gnomes, is she?”

“Please, find her there as soon as she can.”

“Fine, fine. Keep yer tabard on.”

You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.