Flinthammer Hall

Summoning people across the land is one thing, but to summon unholy creatures from another world? Woo! I cancelled me evening plans and told Ringo we’d get some dwarven mild and cornbread from the local inn on the way out of Dun Morogh.

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A toast to Kyroson for surviving his long exorcism ordeal, which climaxed with the death knight in Scholomance. Once the foe was slain, he purified the lost soul and redeemed the death knight’s charger. He then placed his barding upon the charger and claimed the steed as his own!

(I’ll be sending him me repair bill shortly for me involvement in his affairs, of course.)

At last, the fire was crackling merrily. The dead tree had caught in the branches of another as it fell, which had kept the dead wood off the snow, and allowed the limbs to dry out nicely.

And with that, Ringo Flinthammer tromped through the snow to the corpse, while the great white owl watched patiently. Ringo took an axe from his belt and, gripping a dead limb distastefully, brought it down. The desiccated flesh gave off little smell as it parted, which in a way made it worse.

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Me total tally to date: 17,226 horde defeated.

There are four more ranks I could pursue, but to be honest, while the upper-tiered gears are remarkable for the magical qualities they hold, I’m not terribly enthralled with the time commitment required. I’m going to take a well-deserved break from the battlegrounds.

For now!

“Another mouth to feed, as though we didn’t have a bear, another bear and an owl hanging around the hall, pooping and eating, eating and pooping.

“At least the murloc knows how to dance.”