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Category: Ringo’s Tale

Hidden in plain sight

Hidden in plain sight

The new apartment

The great black lion rolled over onto his back and, without opening his eyes, released a blast of flatulence that made Beli Flinthammer’s eyes water.

“Eonar protect us, even without that bear around, it still smells like farts in here all the time!”

Bael Flinthammer snickered, and rubbed the great cat’s belly.

“It reminds me of Dad.”

Beli put down a bag, thought about this, and nodded.

“Aye. Now, somehow, even though we were barely able to bring anything when we left Stormwind, it’s turned into way too much stuff now that we’ve finally got our own place, just you and me.”

The dwarf and gnome refugees had spent the last few weeks busy, carving out more homes in the base of the Arathi cliffs, all the while being careful to attract no notice from the ships they occasionally saw sailing past on the Forbidding Sea — purple-sailed ships flying the flag of the Banshee Queen, black-sailed pirates or other, more mysterious ships. The refugees were craftspeople, merchants and farmers. There weren’t any who had ever seen much combat besides Beli.

“Careful with that, Bael!”

She reached out, grabbing the pale wooden shaft.

“That’s my Alterac Valley staff; it’s not a toy.”

“Sorry, Mommy — Mom,” Bael said, handing the staff back to her.

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A father’s words

A father’s words

Bael looks at Argus

It was dark on the farm. The dwarf and gnome refugees were mostly down for the night, nestled in their snug homes under the ground. A few watchmen rode their rams on patrol, but it was mostly an excuse for them to smoke their pipes and think. The only sound was of the waves of the Forbidding Sea lapping the lonely shore. The refugees’ settlement was an almost unnoticed strip of land at the base of the cliffs east of the Arathi Highlands. There was no route up the cliffs, and no sign that the residents of the highlands had any idea anyone was hiding down here. The hope was the Burning Legion would be equally likely to overlook them here.

Bael Flinthammer waited until his family was asleep before waking up. Once Grandfather Rockbottom and Uncle Omar began snoring, no one would — no one could — hear the creak of his bed or his feet hitting the floor.

He slipped outside, watching for the glow of the watchmen’s pipes to see where they had stopped to have a think.

Bael ducked behind some of the crates of junk outside the entrance to the below-ground shelter. The crates were full of things that had seemed like treasures during the hasty evacuation from Stormwind. But once they had settled in this refuge, the refugees had discovered that, say, three dozen finely beaded ballgowns weren’t much use in their new life, hiding from the Legion. So until someone could figure out what to do with them — Bael was very worried someone would decide they should be turned into tunics and trousers for growing dwarf boys — they were piled up outside, where they provided a good place for him to sit and get some privacy.

Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a letter, sealed with the Flinthammer crest, a pair of beer mugs canted toward one another, as though his parents were toasting something happy, rather than a world apart and not speaking to one another. Under the ominous green light of the world hanging in the sky, Bael opened it, and read.

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The escape

The escape

Beli in Stormwind Harbor

“Flinthammer! Lt. Commander Flinthammer!”

Beli Flinthammer’s shoulders tensed, and she refused to look to see who in the crowd was yelling at her.

“Mom, that dwarf is calling you,” Bael said, tugging her sleeve.

“I know, it’s just … complicated.”

And then the dwarf shoved his way through the people thronging the docks of Stormwind Harbor.

“Ye’re Lt. Commander Flinthammer, aren’t ye?” the dwarf panted, carrying what looked like all his worldly possessions in an overstuffed backpack. “Ah fought under yer command in Alterac Valley. Ah was an adventurer like you, then Ah took an arrow in the knee.”

“I just have one of those faces,” Beli said, giving Bael a warning squeeze on the shoulder to keep her son quiet. “My name is Azora Rockbottom.”

“Oh, my mistake. Ah should have realized. Lt. Commander Flinthammer is in the Broken Isles, Ah reckon.”

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Rusty in the skies over Wrynnfall

“There, you see?” the gnome warlock cackled, doing a triumphant dance on the outcropping overlooking Wrynnfall. “Ringo Flinthammer is dead!”

“You still don’t get it,” the human mage said, shaking his head. “Ringo’s not as brave as his brother Durkon, he’s not half the hunter that Bragh is, and he’s nowhere near the fighter that Mordun is, but he … oh, and you also forgot about that.”

The mage pointed.

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Make them bleed

Make them bleed

The skies above the Tomb of Sargeras

“At long last, our plan comes to fruition,” the gnome warlock said, watching the battle from a nearby hill, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.

“Your masters wanted him dead before the Armies of Legionfall ever got inside the tomb, didn’t they?” the human mage replied.

The gnome turned and glared at him.

“No matter! Ringo Flinthammer will perish, his brothers’ resolve will break and they may even die themselves in their attempt to save him.”

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