I had yet to be tempted to purchase an in-game mount (I had been perfectly happy with the X51-Nether-Rocket) until now! C’mon, a flying pig!
I love everything about it — the overall polish, the bags, the stream of coins falling out of the piggy bank, the pep in its step, and the magical wings that only appear in flight. Definitely one of the more fun mounts to ride in the game. Perfectly sized for a dwarf, too!
To don the colors of Ironforge in cloth armor, look no further than the Stormpike Emissary for inspiration!
The emissaries used to appear in the Alliance capital cities to recruit soldiers for their ongoing battle against the Frostwolf Clan in the Alterac Valley battleground, but they were removed from the game in 2014 when the random battleground feature was implemented.
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.
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.”