Flinthammer Hall

“For the last bloody time,” Mountaineer Roghan roared, bodily hurling a gnome out of the Stoutlager Inn, “Ye juggle yer flippin’ flamin’ torches OUTSIDE!”

“Which bloody idjit’s idea was it ta celebrate th’ longest day o’ tha year wit’ drunken arsonists?” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer growled, stepping menacingly toward the gnome, warning him off, when he inadvisedly tried to slip around behind Roghan and dart back inside with the torches.

“Dunno,” Roghan muttered, examining his scorched beard. “Someone said ’twas an old dwarven holiday.”

“Bah,” Ringo scoffed. “This whole bloody festival stinks like goblins. It’s all commercial-like. They ruined tha Feast o’ Winter’s Veil an’ Brewfest, didn’t they, th’ wee bastards?”

…

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“Get back here, Flinthammer!”

“Ah called ye ‘Mountaineer Pebblebitty,'” Ringo Flinthammer protested, “Not wha’ever ye think ye …”

“There are chunks of things more impressive than you in my morning bowel movement,” she growled, leaning forward, glaring at him with wild eyes. “I guess the big, bad dragon slayer doesn’t take what we do here in the mountaineers very seriously.”

“Ah do! O’erwise, Ah would nae be here …”

“Do you see this gate? Do you SEE this GATE?”

“The great huge gate behind ye? It’s hard ta miss it …”

“This GATE is all that stands between Ironforge Mountain and ANARCHY!”

…

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Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer was on his third lap between the North Gate and South Gate Passes — Mountaineer Pebblebitty’s orders for the day — when the first nearly naked gnome came panting by.

“Sir,” Ringo blinked, dismounting from Beer Run, “Are ye all right? Do ye need any help?”

“No can do!” the gnome barked. “No help allowed!”

Ringo watched, baffled, as the gnome ran on toward the Stonewrought Pass, somehow avoiding the notice of the huge spiders in that foliage on either side of the road — for now, at least.

“Flippin’ gnomes,” Ringo said, climbing back into the saddle.

“Stand aside!” squeaked a gnome, darting through Beer Run’s legs.

“Get out of the way, dwarf!” called another.

Ringo whirled around to see a sea of pale bare gnome flesh rushing down the hill from Dun Morogh.

“On your left!”

“On your right!”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker!” Ringo barked. “Where are all ye wee buggers headed?”

“Elwynn Forest!”

“Darkmoon Faire!”

“Take the bloody tram, then!”

“Can’t!” a gnome racing past yelled back.

“Tram’s down!”

“Well, of course it’s down,” Ringo said, “It’s …”

“He means broken!” Another gnome replied.

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“Mountaineer Flinthammer, where exactly do you think that you are?”

“Sir?”

“Your location, Flinthammer,” Captain Rugelfuss growled. “What is it?”

“Er, th’ southern Loch Modan guard tower in th’ Valley o’ Kings,” Ringo Flinthammer replied. After an awkward pause, he continued: “On th’ top floor, sir.”

“Are you sure? No chance you might not still be in Northrend?”

“Nay, sir.”

“I thought you might be confused, and think you’re back in the Dragon Night.”

“Dragonblight, sir.”

“When you were in the Dragonblight and you shot someone, Flinthammer, what happened next? You rolled your dice and saw who got to go through their pockets for loose change?”

“Aye, sir, an’ cut off their head and burned the body so it didn’t rise from th’ dead.”

“Around here, you know what happens when, say, we shoot two obnoxious death knights in the Stoutlager Inn?”

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Ringo Flinthammer paused on the hill outside the family’s new home in Thelsamar. He closed his eyes and breathed in the warm air and listened to the sounds echoing across the loch: the chirp of songbirds, the grunting of boars, the calls of the waterfowl and the crocolisks.

He opened his eyes to a suffusion of yellow, a blast of golden sunlight filling the small valley that made up the town. It wasn’t the pale light of Northrend, slipping quickly through heavy snow-laden clouds. Ringo was warmer, straight through to the bone, than he’d been since first setting out for Northrend more than a year ago.

His new mountaineer boots weren’t yet broken in, and his uniform was still a bit too new and crisp for his tastes, so Ringo headed down the hill and into town.

“A round of drinks for everyone!” came a voice from one of the tables outside the Stoutlager Inn. “Brombar Higgleby has slain Ol’ Sooty!”

Ringo furrowed his brow and followed the gray-haired dwarf into the tavern.

“I just turned around,” Higgleby was telling a gathering crowd, “And there he was, as big as life, and twice as ugly: The great beast himself!”

“Weren’t you scared?” asked a local woman.

“Don’t panic — that’s my motto! Well,” he paused for a long moment, and the crowd laughed with him, “Not so scared as I couldn’t shoot straight anyway. I stood my ground and plugged the beast right between the eyes. He dropped like a stone. So, drinks for everyone! This will be a great tale to tell my friends back in Ironforge!”

“Er,” Ringo said, raising a finger. “Ye say ye killed Ol’ Sooty? That’s a mite peculiar …”

A heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Mountaineer,” Magistrate Bluntnose growled into Ringo’s ear, “Might I have a word with you — outside?”

…

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