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Category: Ringo’s Tale

Wolves of the Legion

Wolves of the Legion

Introducing Coldbrew and Avalanche.

“Lt. Commander Flinthammer, you’re here! And you’ve brought … your husband.”

“Always glad to get back to Dun Baldar. It’s been too long since we’ve been here.”

“Always a pleasure to have you back, Lt. Commander. We reached out because our forces in Alterac Valley have recently captured some adolescent frost wolves and were able to train them to take Alliance riders. Given your achievements here, we thought it only fitting you have the first pick.”

“Of these two?”

“Ah’ll take the frisky one!”

“Er, Knight-Commander Flinthammer, the frost wolves are a reward for the Lt. Commander. One of them, at any rate.”

“Look, he likes me beef jerky!”

“You have a beef jerky pocket?”

“The question Ah have, stable master, is why ye donnae have one.”

“Thank you, stable master, these wolves will be put to good use in the battles in Kul Tiras and Zandalar.”

“But …”

“Ah’m gonna name mine Coldbrew! That’s yer name now, boy, isn’t it? Aye, it is!”

Supporting the troops

Supporting the troops

“Flinthammer! Flinthammer! Field medic Flinthammer! Over here!”

Beli Flinthammer hauled the Alliance soldier to his feet, satisfied herself that his bandages would survive boarding the waiting ship and propelled him on his way with a hand between shoulder blades.

“Stormwind’s that way,” she said, before turning to the sound of the voice. “What can I do ye fer?”

“Three more coming in,” Master Sergeant Zaren roared over the sound of flying machines ferrying in casualties from higher up the burning city of Dazar’alor.

Beli looked around the Mobile Alliance Surgical Hospital and nodded, pointing.

“We’ve got four cots open.”

The man’s eyes fluttered open after a nearby explosion left everyone’s ears ringing.

“Lieutenant Commander Flinthammer?”

Private,” she said, wrapping a bandage around a now-clean wound. “You’ve done enough for now. We’re sending you home.”

He started to object, but Beli was already turning away, eyes on the pyramid rising up above the jungle canopy.

“Your husband up there?” Kildris Blackfire said, appearing at her side. The Dark Iron was on guard duty, keeping both Zandalari and Horde away from the hospital.

“I reckon,” Beli sighed, blowing her hair out of her eyes. “Or somewhere. All they told us of the plan was ‘stay here and have everyone ready to leave in a hurry.'”

Both dwarves winced as there was another explosion and what sounded like the cry of a great jungle beast.

“Yer husband fighting for the Alliance, too?” Beli asked.

Kildris barked with bitter laughter.

“That would be something to see,” she said sourly. “Not everyone gave up the old religion once Ragnaros was defeated back in Molten Core. My useless husband’s in the Twilight Hammer.”

Beli blinked, unsure of what to say.

“Aye,” Kildris said. “At least when you don’t know what your husband is up to, you know he’s not trying to destroy the world.”

“I reckon not. He’s an idiot, but at least he’s not an idiot.”

The portable buzzboxes all burst to life, with half-screamed Gnomish coming out. All of the gnomes around the mobile hospital leapt to their feet, with a few even climbing off the stretchers in their panic.

“What’s going on?” Kildris said, hoisting her mace.

A gnome soldier pointed at the sky, where a badly damaged mech suit flew into view.

The High Tinker! Error! Malfunction! He’s … dying!”

A mother’s worries

A mother’s worries

Beli meets Kildris

Beli Flinthammer slapped at her neck.

The enormous Zuldazar mosquito burst with a sickening plop and she shuddered. The mosquitos of the Wetlands had nothing on these beasts.

She wiped the blood and insect guts off her neck and yelped in alarm.

“Not the letter, you little bastard!” Beli frantically tried to clean the spattered blood and goo off the letter, then scraped at it with her fingernail.

“Letter from home, eh?” came a woman’s voice nearby.

Beli looked over. A Dark Iron woman nodded ruefully at her, lifting a letter of her own.

“Letter from my daughter,” she said. “Meant to be here for the Feast of Winter Veil, but I guess it got delayed.”

“Same here,” Beli replied. ” Letter from my son.”

The Alliance outpost in Xibala was dominated by the Dark Irons, which meant Dwarvish food almost as good as home, even if they favored a smokier, spicier flavor than Beli was used to back home.

“At least they’re not censored like during Operation Legionfall. My brother-in-law was a postmaster and thought it was cute to censor every other blessed word.”

The Dark Iron woman snorted.

“Thanks; first good laugh I’ve had for weeks.”

“Miss the wee one?” Beli said.

“Aye,” the other woman said. “Her father and I … well, it’s my first campaign without having a parent there to watch over Marisi.”

Beli nodded.

“I understand. My husband, he’s called up or volunteered for every campaign since Ahn’Qiraj. I always reckoned he had it easier, bein’ busy at the front, with no time to miss Bael and me. But …”

“They’re both hard.”

“Aye,” Beli said.

The Dark Iron woman carefully refolded her letter and tucked it away inside her mail armor, then extended a hand.

“Kildris Blackfire.”

“Beli Flinthammer,” Beli said, shaking Kildris’ hand.

“Happy Feast of Winter Veil.”

“Happy Feast of Winter Veil. May we be back home for the next one.”

Beli and Kildris shake hands
Where the wild things roam

Where the wild things roam

When Mordrun Flinthammer was a boy, his brothers would hunt him.

Mordrun had long ago discovered that he loved wriggling under the surface of the Anvilmar snow. His brothers were baffled by the behavior. Bragh would lead their little brothers, Ringo and Ely, on hunting expeditions for Mordrun, accompanied by Bragh’s pet of the moment to help sniff him out.

Bragh learned to move almost flat on his back through the snow, creating natural tunnels that wouldn’t disturb the snow’s surface or give any hint that a giggling dwarf boy was sliding along underneath.

When Mordrun would finally get caught, sometimes hours later, he’d be brought in by Bragh and his triumphant younger brothers, who would view the affair as a mighty quest completed by the Flinthammer Boys.

His oldest brother, Durkon, would usually be at the forge, hammering a blade’s edge, or listening to war stories from veterans, absorbing everything he could from them. Durkon would fix Mordrun, shivering and having a mornbrew pressed into his hands by their mother to warm him up, with a disappointed gaze and shake his head.

“What good is sneaking around under the snow?”

Mordrun was pretty sure Durkon was born an old grump.

And, in any case, Durkon was wrong. Slithering around under the snow had been useful after all.

Mordrun raised his head slowly. The wet leaves made no sound and the black mud beneath him released him without a squelch. He could see over the rise and watched the Horde caravan move through Darkshore.

They were nervous.

Good.

He and the survivors of Darnassus had harassed the Horde for weeks, but Malfurion Stormrage had ordered them to not lay into the Horde like they wanted to, not until Tyrande Whisperwind had accomplished some task she had been working on.

Mordrun didn’t know what it was. The elves trusted him, but only to a point. He was a feral beast, as far as they were concerned, which he figured was fair enough.

Still, Mordrun was bored. The elves wouldn’t mind if this particular supply caravan didn’t make it to the front intact. He tensed, preparing to leap on the orcs serving as the rear guard when something heavy bounded over him, tearing through the Horde soldiers in a matter of moments.

When the lone survivor was sent fleeing as a warning to the rest of the Horde, Malfurion turned toward Mordrun in his hiding place and smirked.

“The time for waiting is over. We attack at sunrise.”


War stories

War stories

Magnus Flinthammer looks out to sea

“Flinthammer? Flinthammer?”

Brunhild glanced at her husband, but Magnus was a statue, staring out at the Great Sea, refusing to look back at the shore.

“Aye, that’s us,” she sighed. “Where do we sign in yer book?”

The Kul Tiran helped her sign without a second glance for Magnus; during the evacuation of the survivors of Lordaeron, he had seen all sorts of reactions, whether it was uncontrollable weeping, endless rage or, common among the dwarves, a grim refusal to acknowledge the pain at all.

Brunhild ran a hand along her husband’s shoulders.

“Ye’re stiff,” she said. “Well, stiffer than usual.”

“How is it?” Magnus rumbled, so quietly that only a wife of many years could have understood the words.

Brunhild leaned against the railing, looking back across the ship and toward the shore.

Blighted. Burning. There’s a few things flying overhead. Reckon there’s few left alive.”

“The last ships out o’ Lordaeron,” Magnus murmured. “Not sailing to Kul Tiras, but tae somewhere beyond that no one’s e’er heard of. Are ye sure we should nae go south, back to Khaz Modan and our boys?”

“We would be dead afore we reached the Thandol Span. And we have nae idea where to find the boys. They may still be gallivanting around with Feranor Steeltoe out by Strahnbrad. We have tae trust they went south in time.”

“Ah donnae think … Ah donnae reckon …”

“That’ll we’ll e’er see them again?” Brunhild turned toward the Great Sea, sliding an arm around Magnus’ shoulders, resting her head on his arm. “Maybe. But no matter what folks call them, the Flinthammer Boys are nae boys any more. They’ll be fine.”

Magnus grunted, unconvinced.

“Ely, maybe. He’ll find himself in a job counting every bullet in the arsenal and chasin’ down every receipt fer the chuck wagons.”

“An army travels on its stomach,” Brunhild smiled.

“And Bragh,” Magnus said, warming to his subject. “The whole world could go tae blazes, and he’d be fine, off somewhere with his beasties.”

“Our wee boarmaster.”

“Ah pity the undead bastard who crosses paths with Mordrun. That crazy bastard’s half-beast hisself. He’ll rip them to pieces with his teeth and bare hands and all.”

“Ah hope he washes up after,” Brunhild sighed. “Fer once.”

“And Durkon,” Magnus smiled at last, straightening up a bit. “Ah expect, after he’s done chaperonin’ his brothers around on a silly dragon hunt, he’ll end up leadin’ the whole bloody army.”

“Ah reckon yer right.”

“But Ringo,” Magnus scowled. “That boy practically got killed tagging along with his brothers on Steeltoe’s expedition. Who’s going tae keep an eye on him when if we’re nae around?”

Brunhild pinched her lips.

“The boy knows his limitations, just like Ely does. He’ll stay out o’ trouble after this, trust me.”

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