Flinthammer Hall

Three militias, the Brothers in Arms, were assembled in the sand just south of Cenarion Hold. Many still had wounds from the war, bandages caked with blowing grit and dust.

“Is this going to be a stand-up fight, sir, or another bug hunt?” Faenor said. The elf wore a scarf across his mouth and nose, blocking the worst of the windswept sand.

“All we know is that there is still is no contact with the king’s brother, and that the Qiraji may be involved,” Ulrich said, buckling on his platemail greaves.

“Excuse me, sir, the what?” For a warlock, Danira was unfailingly polite. Maybe that’s what it took to deal with the entities that she did.

“The Qiraji,” Ringo said, climbing onto his ram, turning its unwilling head towards the newly risen city to the south.

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The last of the cargo had been strapped to the hippogryphs and was now winging its way southeast from the dark wood platform overlooking the gray waters of Auberdine.

Beli had just finished ministering to the small dwarven community in town and was packing away her vestments, climbing the steps of the flight platform automatically, when she looked up and saw what Ringo was up to.

She reached out, grabbing his mustache and pulling his head around to face her.

“What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?”

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Ringo led the rams down the plank, onto the creaking dock. It was full of people unloading the ships, carrying supplies or loading them directly onto wagons to be delivered to the front. It was alive with men and dwarves and gnomes and night elves. No Horde, though: Theramore was still a secure installation, and the undead and trolls couldn’t be trusted inside its walls, Qiraji or no Qiraji. And Thrall, according to intelligence reports, still hadn’t solved his issues with the Shadow Council agents in his midst.

Despite the heat and the sticky salt air, Ringo was glad to be off the ship. Beli had sulked the entire way, the murloc kept trying to leap overboard, both bears, the owl and both rams had gotten seasick. After that, even the rotting fish smell of a port town like Theramore smelled like fresh air.

“Thane!” Came a gruff voice, its owner lost among the chests and shoulders of much taller dock workers. “Honor above glory!”

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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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