It was a risk, Mountaineer Flinthammer knew, flying Rusty again so soon. But he’d woken up with a vivid nightmare last night, like he’d used to do with his nightmares about the Burning Legion:
He was a boy again, half-carrying, half-dragging his little brother Ely as they fled through the trees, hearing the crunch of invaders’ boots in the snow behind them. But this time, it wasn’t the Dragonmaw orcs, but Dark Irons.
He knew it for a certainty: His homeland was in danger once again.
Beli had rolled her eyes and gone back to bed — he’d been wrong in his long-ago conviction that the Burning Legion would be landing in Khaz Modan, after all — but Ringo couldn’t sleep. He’d ridden Beer Run through the night, taking the hidden mountain pass to the all-but-inaccessible abandoned farm where he was keeping his proto-drake.
And then he’d flown south and east, squinting into the rising sun, until he reached his destination: Blackrock Mountain. The home of the enemy.
Others might scoff, but Ringo would be watching and waiting.
((Inspired by the Blog Azeroth shared topic: A Picture Tells a Thousand Words.))
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