“Sorry Ah’m late,” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer said, a little flushed as he stumbled down the steps into the Stoutlager Inn. “Bloody elf was dancin’ on th’ mailbox again and had to write her up.”

He took in what felt like a sea of waiting faces and shoved his hand into a pocket, retrieving a dog-eared set of cards.

“‘When Ah were assigned to Loch Modan,’” he read off the first, “‘They told me there was a growin’ fox problem here. Ah didn’t realize they meant the ladies of the Women’s Riflery Club. Pause fer laughter.’”

Ringo looked up, stricken.

“Er, Ah don’t reckon Ah was supposed to read that last part. Mebbe Ah should just get to what ye’re all here for, which is to look at some of me favorite guns Ah’ve held onto over th’ years.”

A hand shot up.

“Er, aye?” Ringo said, his hand inside his satchel full of guns.

“So these are guns you’re not using any more?” the buxom strawberry blonde asked.

“Nay, not any more,” Ringo said. “Ah thought that was what ye all were interested in, when ye invited me to yer monthly luncheon.”

He thumped the bag up onto the table and extracted the first gun.

“This one has sentimental value – it were a gift. Ah donnae reckon Ah used it more than once or twice.”

Another hand shot up.

“But you kept it anyway?” This was a different dwarf woman: a redhead wearing a battered leather helmet.

“Er, aye. It were a gift.” Ringo quickly put the shotgun away and plucked out another gun, with a carved wooden barrel. “This one’s a real beauty, taken off the corpse of a demon in the ruins of Eldre’Thalas. Funny story ’bout this one: No sooner had Ah gotten this one than Ah replaced it with one Ah took off a Gurubashi warrior in … er, aye?”

“So,” a third dwarf asked, this one a brunette who looked like she’d stepped in something. “This is yet another gun you don’t use – never even used all that much – that you just keep around for no reason?”

Ringo, his hand half-out of his satchel with the admittedly hideous Gurubashi shotgun, stammered in confusion.

“Well, Ah used some of them … got this one fer fightin’ the Horde. This one came out o’ Karazhan, the tower of the Last Guardian, Medivh, hisself. Took this one off an Amani warrior. This one off one o’ Illidan Stormrage’s guardians. This ugly one came out o’ Naxxramas. Ooh, this beauty’s from Ulduar its own self! This one was part of the hoard of Lady Onyxia of the Black Dragonflight. And then this is me current one, taken from a Scourge commander in Icecrown Citadel …”

“In other words,” came a voice from the back of the room, “Ye really only need that one then, right?”

“There AIN’T nae Women’s Riflery Club, is there? This is all another one of yer bloody tricks, woman, ain’t it?”

“Of course, ye daft idjit!” Beli Flinthammer roared, leaping to her feet in the back of the room. “Nae woman would clutter her house with a bunch of old peashooters that’ll never get used again!”

“Them guns mean somethin’ to me! If ye can have all yer books about bloody Alistair and his dwarven floozy – as if any self-respectin’ dwarf would want anything to do with that ninny – Ah can have a few old guns!”

“‘A FEW?’ ‘A few’ is three or four, ye old bastard! Ye have more guns than ye do pairs of underwear – and ye keep them in better shape, besides!”

“Hello?” A uniformed gnome asked from the entry stairwell of the inn. “Knight-Captain Flinthammer? You’ve been summoned to Tinker Town. Operation: Gnomeregan has begun, sir!”

“Praise Aggramar,” Ringo said, hurrying up the steps and herding the gnome along with him. “An angry wife’s scarier than any bloody trogg!”

((Inspired by the Sept. 6-12 Shared Topic of the Week at Blog Azeroth: “What mementos have you kept and why?“))

Years ago, when visiting Khaz Modan, Lady Katrana Prestor is said to have remarked that “Tinker Town is a community of gnomish efficiency and dwarven charm.”

Ringo Flinthammer stared at the yellowing Operation: Gnomeregan poster and wished that she had been wrong.

“Ragnaros’ fiery crotch! Could you make these bonds any tighter?

“If ye’d like, Ah could leave ye untied, and jus’ shoot out both yer kneecaps.”

“Who in the Twisting Nether are you, anyway? Since when do mountaineers use freezing traps?”

“Jus’ a mountaineer, like all the rest. We’re havin’ a wee bit o’ a fox problem of late. They reckon if we don’t get a handle on it soon, they’ll overrun much of this here territory.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Now, then: It’s me turn to ask a few questions, startin’ with what ye lot were blowin’ up in the middle of the night. It shook me right out of me own bed, it did.”

“Nothing. We gave up on attacking the dam years ago.”

“Then what was that last night?”

“An earthquake …”

“Loch Modan donnae have bloody earthquakes!”

“Then, I don’t know, mountaineer. It had nothing to do with me and mine.”

“So what are ye doin’ here, then?”

“Reconnaissance mission, getting the lay of the land. Things are … unsettled in Shadowforge since the emperor was assassinated. The queen regent and the senate are in a power struggle …”

“‘Queen regent?’ Ya mean Princess Moira? She’s still alive?”

“Aye, no thanks to the emperor’s assassins. She’s alive, and as the mother to the heir of Shadowforge – and Ironforge, for that matter – she rules as regent in her child’s name.”

“That’s a bloody lie.”

“It’s not. She may not rule for much longer, though: Blackrock orcs keep meeting with members of the senate, talking about some prophecy of a time when the mountain will be united into a single army. The queen regent chases them out whenever she discovers them in the city, or has them thrown into the arena, but there are many of my people who would love to return to our past glory.”

“So that’s why ye’re here? Scout out our weaknesses before the attack?”

“There are others of us who think our best hope is to unite the dwarven people again under a new leader, even one still in diapers. Shadowforge and Ironforge, and even those sister-humpers in Aerie Peak, together again, with no dragons, no orcs, no elemental lords telling us what to do, ever again.”

“Ye do see why Ah’d have trouble believin’ this, Ah trust. Ye tried to blow up the bloody dam …”

“Bygones.”

“And ye helped o’erthrow Gnomeregan when the troggs invaded.”

“It’s high time to move past pointing fingers over who tried to blow up whose dam or who helped overthrow whose city or who’s responsible for the murder of whose emperor.”

“Ah cannae figure ye out: Ah donnae believe ye, but if ye were lyin’, Ah reckon ye’d come up with somethin’ better than this.”

“You’re letting me go?”

“Ye get a pass for tellin’ a good tall tale, if nothin’ else. Ye cannae get into too much mischief disarmed and behind enemy lines. Run on back ta Shadowforge, now.”

There was the faintest of whirring sounds and Ringo Flinthammer stumbled forward a half-step again, dazed and unable to move as the smooth river rock bounced off his skull. Once again, his unseen attacker had gotten him, leaving him helpless.

Frostmaw roared in frustration, the big bear whipping his head back and forth, snuffling frantically in an attempt to locate the Dark Iron insurgent.

“Stop!” Ringo’s right hand chopped down into his open palm the moment he could think clearly again. He flipped his right hand over and wriggled his fingers in the air, like a spider knocked onto its back. “Wait! Wait!”

The Stormpike Guard had invented Battle Sign to prevent Winterax troll spies from overhearing their battle orders, and it had proved equally useful against Horde scouts after the Winterax had moved on. It had been a long time since Ringo and Beli had served with the guard in Alterac Valley, but Ringo was glad now that he’d used Battle Sign to train all of his pets, in addition to verbal commands.

There was the whirring sound again, but this time, the thrown river stone only dropped Ringo to one knee. With a grunt, he rose again, throwing a flare at some bushes that Ringo thought he saw move suspiciously.

A chuckle behind him let him know he’d guessed wrong, and he jumped forward even as he saw the shadow of a descending blade on the ground below him. There was a satisfying blast of cold air on his bare arms as the Dark Iron agent stepped into the freezing trap Ringo had laid at his feet when he was “incapacitated.”

Ringo turned and eyed his prey, grinning wickedly and pulling out a set of heavy manacles.

“Now, by Norgannon, let’s see what ye know, me fine lad …”

“You were completely out of line, Flinthammer!” Mountaineer Kadrell roared, quickly checking his volume as he realized he was in danger of waking all of Thelsamar. “You had no right to roust all of us out of bed …”

“The explosion woke ye lot as …”

“No one heard any damned explosion,” Kadrell snapped. The bleary-eyed mountaineers standing on the back road leading into Thelsamar all nodded, grumbling. “It was an earthquake or something.”

“Khaz Modan donnae have earthq- …”

“More importantly,” Kadrell continued, “You ignored the chain of command. You should have woken Pebblebitty, who would have woken Rugelfuss. You don’t have the authority to wake mountaineers in the middle of the night and send them on a wild wolpertinger chase.”

“Ah’m tellin’ ye, it were the Dark Irons and …”

“And I have socks with more seniority than you, Flinthammer. I don’t care what sort of big damn hero you’re supposed to have been; you don’t buck the chain of command whenever you feel like impressing all us yokels with what a big man you are. Consider yourself on report.”

Ringo sighed, his shoulders slumping, watching Kadrell march off to the northern guard tower, no doubt to begin writing up Ringo now, while the incident was fresh in his mind.

“I bet he’s not some big hero at all,” Mountaineer Ozmok grumbled, loudly enough for Ringo to hear, and probably intentionally so. “I bet he didn’t get no closer to Icecrown than Valgarde.”

“Probably got that ring of his secondhand from the auction house,” Mountaineer Langarr agreed, yawning as he headed off to bed.

There was a rumble and Ringo felt his bear’s wet nose pressed into his palm.

“It’s all right, Frostmaw,” Ringo said, patting the bear’s thick neck. “They’re jus’ frustrated.”

The bear grunted and turned toward home.

“Nay, we’re not done yet, old boy,” Ringo said, jerking his head to the north. “We don’t need no mountaineers to track Dark Irons. It’ll be jus’ like th’ old days, just ye and me.”

Frostmaw growled noncommitally and followed Ringo out of town.

Beli Flinthammer groaned and rolled over in bed.

“Mmmmm, what time is it? If ye wanted to play ‘ride the mole machine,’ ye should have said so hours ago, when the kid fell asleep … ”

“What?” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer snapped, louder than he had meant to. He had been sitting up in bed, alarmed, fumbling for his gun in the dark. “Ah didn’t … that weren’t me …”

He stopped and listened, holding his breath. The animals had heard, or felt, whatever it was, too: Frostmaw, Lucky and Daedalus were all awake, their eyes shining in the starlight, alert and just as puzzled as Ringo was.

So what was it, then? It had felt like the ground had shook, but Loch Modan and the surrounding area was geologically stable: It was unimaginable that an earthquake could occur here. Which meant the only logical conclusion was that …

“The damned Dark Irons are attackin’ the dam again!” he snarled, bounding out of bed and grabbing his discarded uniform off the floor. “Lock the door behind me; if them bastards want war, Ah’ll give it to them!”

“Mmmmm, that’s nice,” Beli mumbled, and then she started to snore.

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.))

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-haw!” Ringo Flinthammer roared as his proto-drake soared through the struts of the Thandol Span. “Go, Rusty, go!”

The proto-drake beat his wings heavily, the metal plates bolted and fused to his flesh by Loken’s iron dwarves pinging as a summer shower sprinkled raindrops down on the pair.

“Ha!” Ringo barked, looking over his shoulder. “Foggy cannae believe what he just saw! If’n that donnae get him to kick th’ moonshine, nothin’ will!”

Rusty snorted noncommittally and followed the water east out of the Thandol Valley, wheeling north along the eastern coast of Lordaeron, the dark waters of the Forbidding Sea reflecting the sun back up at the pair.

Most of this coast was impassable, giving the sea its grim name: For centuries, both human and dwarven kings forbade most of their fleets from sailing this coast, as any trouble at sea would lead to valuable ships and crewmen being lost.

Despite this prohibition, there were a few signs of life: Rusty rolled sideways and half fell, half soared down toward a dwarven farm in a rare spot of cleared land.

The proto-drake landed heavily, dislodging some ancient mossy cobblestones, jogging to a halt on a worm-eaten dock that creaked heavily under the metal-clad dragon.

Ringo patted the great beast’s neck, reaching in through a gap under the creature’s armor plating to scratch Rusty’s scaly hide.

“Good boy,” Ringo said, slipping out of the saddle, then removing the creature’s tack, and carrying it to the empty stable. “Ah cannae spend as much time wit’ ye as Ah might like, what with both Alliance and Horde still twitchy ’bout frostwyrms and the Black Dragonflight, but Ah can tell me prince Ah truly did me best ta take care o’ ye despite that.”

He stepped outside the stable to find the proto-drake headfirst in the ocean, splashing like mad. A moment later, Rusty’s head resurfaced as he gobbled down a whole shark. The dragon blinked at Ringo and let out a monumental fishy burp.

“Aye,” Ringo nodded. “Ah donnae who th’ dwarves were who founded this here farm, or where they went, but Ah reckon they wouldn’t mind us usin’ it fer yer home away from home, at least fer now.”

He stepped into the farmhouse where he’d left several sacks of gear. Finding the one he wanted, he stepped outside and walked over to the dragon. Throwing open the sack, he pulled out a stiff brush and began scrubbing off the worst spots of rust on the beast’s armor plating.

“Ah donnae want ta think o’ what we’ll have ta do when these start ta rust straight through,” Ringo said, scrubbing hard as Rusty groaned with pleasure at the scrubbing. “One day soon, we’ll bring ye back ta th’ loch an’ away from all this salt water. They cannae keep the prohibition on flying o’er Khaz Modan fore’er, now can they?”

((Inspired by the Blog Azeroth shared topic, “RP a scene with your Favorite Mount.”))

It had been a very long day for Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer.

Ringo had left the house with toddler-inflicted mystery stains on his uniform, something he hadn’t discovered until he was being dressed down for them by Captain Rugelfuss. He’d then gone on patrol, only to be badgered by a series of gnomes handing him useless items – mostly old, stale bread – and demanding silver pieces in return as a “quest reward.” After he’d stuck them in the drunk tank, he’d taken a lap around the loch, to check on reports of more Horde Runners moving through Alliance territory, and stumbled instead on a naked ogre doing his washing down in the loch.

But now, he was returning home to Flinthammer Hall, ready for a home-cooked meal, some quality time with his wife and a deep and all-too-short slumber before pulling on his boots and hood to face another day.

Except, there was a box on his doorstep.

It was rather common looking, as boxes go: a simple wooden container, about two feet wide, a foot long and high. There were no markings telling its point of origin, but Ringo’s name was stamped in big, block letters right on top. It was closed with a simple brass clasp.

Ringo looked around. The streets of Thelsamar were empty, with no one around to tell him the container’s origin.

He reached out to open the clasp and stopped. There was just the faintest sound of movement from inside the box. Ringo held his breath, waiting for more sounds, more movement, but there was nothing.

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker,” he growled to himself.

Ringo snapped his fingers at the sleepy polar bear following him. Like his master, Frostmaw had been counting on a meal and then bed. At Ringo’s urging, the bear snuffled his wet black nose all around the box. Detecting nothing interesting, he looked back up at Ringo, confused, his expression the ursine equivalent of a shrug.

“Nothin’ alive inside, eh?” Ringo muttered, tugging on his mustache. “A mechanical doohickey, Ah reckon. Mebbe a bombling?”

Frostmaw, eager to get his dinner, raised a paw to knock the box away.

“Damn it, idjit!” Ringo said, blocking the bear’s paw with the butt of his rifle. “What if it’s set ta blow? Me enemies are powerful clever, they are.”

The bear snorted in dismay and sank back on his haunches.

“Ah killed me a powerful lot of blood elves, back durin’ the Siege of Quel’Danas. Ye did, too, bear. On tha’ other hand, High Warlord Otheuym said he’d kill me after Arthas were taken care of.”

Frostmaw grunted impatiently. If the bear understood the possible danger, his stomach was close to overruling his brain.

“There’s jus’ one way ta handle this,” Ringo sighed, unlocking the toolbox he kept on the porch.

The first Beli Flinthammer knew about the box was when she heard her husband roar “FIRE IN THE HOLE!” outside, moments before the explosion rocked the house and the stench of seaforium smoke filled the air.

“Ye daft idjit!” she snarled, sticking her head out the front door, a wailing toddler in her arms. “If ye think we’ll be playin’ ‘ride the mole machine’ later tonight, ye got another think comin’!”

“B-but, baby,” Ringo stammered, waving a hand at the smoldering shards of blackened wood, “Ah saved yer life …”

“Have a nice night sleepin’ under the stars!” And with that, Beli slammed the door.

Frostmaw moaned, mournful and hungry.

Beli opened the door and let the bear in, shot another dark look at Ringo, and then slammed the door again.

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker …”

((Inspired by WTT:RP’s “Monday Afternoon Fun: The Box.” And many of the bits inside this story began life on Ringo’s (mostly) daily Twitter feed. Subscribe now or check him out on Facebook!))

“Ach, did ye hurt yer finger, ye sweet baby?” his mother, Beli, said, dropping to her knees in the wet earth overlooking the loch. Taking the tiny digit in her hands, she placed a kiss on it, then looked up to see the patient’s reaction.

“Ouch,” Bael repeated.

“Ah reckon that’s a more serious injury, then,” Beli said, reaching back for the bag that all mothers of young children carry with them everywhere, regardless of species. “Ah what’d make ye feel better … a lollipop!”

Bael considered the proffered candy — his favorite — but then thrust his finger out again.

“Ouch.”

“OK,” Beli nodded. “There’s jus’ one thing ta do for ye, then.”

She rose to her feet and put both hands on her son’s, surrounding his tiny hand in hers. Throwing her feet back, she called out to the Titans that created her race and forged order in the world.

“Oh, Eonar! Great Mother! Restore this most fragile young sprout! Fill him with yer love and yer healin’ spirit!”

A green glow, looking for a moment like leaves sprouting in Beli’s grasp, emanated from between her fingers. When she removed her hands, Bael’s finger looked … about the same.

Still, the boy grinned ear to ear and presented his finger once more.

“Fank ‘oo, Mommy.” He hugged her around the waist, and turned to race off beside Lucky, the black lion Ringo had long ago brought home to be the boy’s companion and guardian.

He stopped and turned back, looking curiously at the candy sticking out of Beli’s bag.

“Pop-pop?”

“Aye, take th’ lollipop, too,” she said, handing the candy over, and watched boy and lion race down to the water’s edge, sending ducks flying with their splashing.

“Very nice,” Ringo growled from behind her, waving a bandaged finger. “Ye call upon Eonar herself fer an imaginary injury fer th’ boy, but yer own husband, with an infected finger from cutting hisself trying to get a cooling machine repaired, just has to ‘walk it off?’”

Beli shrugged as she closed up her bag.

“Ah have one rule: Ne’er heal th’ stupid.”

((Inspired by the “When should a healer let somebody die?” shared topic from Blog Azeroth.))