Flinthammer Hall

He had faced dragons, drakes and wyrmkin.

Once, after a particularly hellish battle, he had literally found himself with one of his boots jammed into the hindquarters of an orcish soldier.

But all of those paled to this.

Ringo was having dinner with his in-laws.

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“So, got it?”

Beli thought a moment and then began rolling up the scroll spread on the table at Bruuk’s Corner.

“Aye, I think so.” She signalled the waitress that they were done with their plates. “How is Kurdruum, Edris? Still stationed in Alterac Valley?”

“Oh aye, ma’am. Keeping warm, I hope. You two off to vote?”

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“Come here, you wee bastard …”

Ringo reeled in carefully. His fishing rod was iron and the line was a special one made of eternium, but if he pulled too roughly, the hook would simply tear its way out of the fish’s mouth.

“And … got ya!”

Grinning, he removed the hook from the mouth of the speckled tastyfish, laying it on the fourth pile on the oilskin cloth he’d laid on the sandy Stranglethorn beach.

“That’s 40 … wait a second …”

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“Hoist the mainsail! All hands on deck, by thunder!” Ringo Flinthammer roared, one hand on the rigging, a foot on a spar yard and the rest of him dangling 20 feet above the pitching deck. “We sail for Undermine and plunder!”

His crew of dwarves, men, gnomes and even an elf or two roared with delight.

“Arrrr! Arrr! Arrr!”

This was the life: Kul Tiras was behind them and the green mountains of the Great Sea were before them. Ringo was captain of the Sea Harpy, a privateer with a letter of marque from the King of Ironforge. Nominally, they were to take on the goblin Venture Company and “rogue” elements of the Horde, but in reality, anyone not flying a flag of the Alliance was fair game as far as Ringo and his shipmates were concerned.

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