Flinthammer Hall

Beli Flinthammer returned downstairs to the bar at the Legerdemain Lounge. As a treat — and a break from the war against the Lich King — the Flinthammers had rented a room there for the holidays.

Ringo and Widge Gearloose were busy discussing their theory that Hodir was the inspiration for Greatfather Winter. Beli surreptitiously moved their glasses of hot apple cider out of reach as she sat down.

“The wee sprout down at last?”

“Aye,” she said, picking up her now-cold cup of brew.  “If I have to read him that Yo Gobbo Gobbo story many more times, I may scream.”

“What’s that you put on the floor?” Widge asked, yelping a moment later when Beli kicked him in the shin.

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“See?” Voca Lodestone said, gesturing, “This is what you get if you don’t build the tavern first.”

It was as though Stormwind City produced a seed, which the Alliance had planted in the dark damp soil of Northrend. White stone walls, topped with snapping blue and gold banners, surrounded the still-growing city. The sounds of construction came from within, and two ships were in port. For the moment, the cannons that faced inland, toward the lands of the Lich King, were silent.

“Whatever,” Belsun Grimaxe scoffed, with mumbled agreement from the other dwarves.

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Ringo Flinthammer slipped the goggles up off his head. He no longer needed them to see the approaching ships.

“Stormwind, Ironforge, Darnassus,” he said, pointing to the flags of the ships cutting through the Frozen Sea below.

“I see Theramore!” squealed Widge Gearloose.

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