Flinthammer Hall

Of course, in the end, she did come. Ringo had grabbed the murloc child by its head spines (it didn’t hurt the critter — it always thought this was a hilarious game) and put it atop his ram as he’d packed up their goods, including Beli’s. She wasn’t about to let the murloc out of her sight, Ringo knew it, and Beli knew that he knew.

So now she was sulking below deck.

The ship creaked loudly as the wind caught the sails with a snap and the ship lurched away from the dock in Menethil Harbor. Ringo leaned against the railing, looking back at shore, murloc and bear cub at his feet. It was likely a view like this, he realized, that had been his parents’ last view of Khaz Modan, when they had sailed off as part of Jaina Proudmoore’s fleet during the Third War. Both died in the snows of Mount Hyjal, never to see home again.

Ringo felt a sudden chill and rolled down the sleeves of his canvas shirt, and clutched the bear cub to his chest as he watched the mountains of home slide away, replaced by the green rolling hills of ocean waves.

Ringo Flinthammer’s regular “morning constitutional” consisted of walking, somewhat stiff-leggedly, through Tinker Town to the Military Quarter and dropping into a chair upstairs at Bruuk’s Corner and drinking his breakfast.

He was well on his way, the pandaren bear cub at his heels or rubbing against his ankles, threatening to trip him, when he stepped out of the Tinker Town tunnel and pulled up short.

The Military Quarter was alive with activity, even at this hour.

“By Khaz’s stony beard, what’s going on in here?”

…

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