Another letter from the front

Another letter from the front

Ringo and Beli help the Ebon Blade penetrate the veil to the Shadowlands.

“Dearest Bael,

“Years ago, when you were still a baby, I wrote you another letter from the shadow of Icecrown Citadel. I don’t know if your mother ever shared it with you, since I and at least some of Ashen Verdict made it back alive.

“Your mother and I are there now. We came seeking a priest your mother knows, Scott the Psycho, who we thought might be able to tell us what’s wrong with your mother’s magic. But before we could, the Banshee Queen ripped open the sky. The veil between the world of the living and the land of the dead got torn to pieces.

“The crew of Skybreaker said the Alliance was sending an expedition across to find out whatever the Banshee was up to and to put a stop to it. They asked Lt. Commander Flinthammer — your ma — to be part of that mission. I’m going along to be her aide-de-camp (her assistant).

“When I wrote you that letter from Northrend, I knew I was walking into certain death, or something close to it.

Beli and Ringo ride anima wyrms through the Shadowlands, with the city of Oribos in the background behind them.

“No living person knows what’s waiting for us on the far side of the veil, not even Scott the Psycho.

“But whatever’s happening up here is as bad as anything Azeroth’s faced during your life or mine.

“And somewhere on the other side is Kildris. We’re going to find out why your mother’s magic isn’t working, and we’re going to do everything we can to bring Marisi’s mom back home with us.

“Be kind to Marisi. Be a friend to her, a brother if you can.

“I don’t need to tell you to listen to your Uncle Ely while we’re gone. You’re a good boy — a good man — and already a better one than I’ve ever been. You more than make me proud: You give me an ideal to live up to, even though I know I never will fully measure up. Your light will guide us home.

“We’ll be back. Not even death can keep us from you.

“Love, your father,
Ringo Flinthammer”

Ice and shadow

Ice and shadow

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker!”

“Beli, such language!” Ringo Flinthammer was shocked. “You ne’er talk like that.”

“I can’t see a thing in this blizzard. Are you sure Rusty knows where he’s going?”

“Aye, he was raised in the Storm Peaks. He knows these mountains and Icecrown Glacier even when he cannae see them hisself. He’ll get us to this Scott person. (Honestly, what sort o’ name is ‘Scott,’ anyway?)”

Scott the Merciful is a psychopomp. He may be able to tell us why I can’t bring back Kildris from the dead.”

“Only a psycho would have a name like ‘Scott.'”

“Again, a psychopomp is one who helps in the transition between life and death.”

“In that case, mah rifle is a psychopomp, too!”

“Scott stayed here at the Argent Dawn base to study the undead and death and dying. I couldn’t sit around like the the useless wet farts at the Netherlight Temple, whose plan to deal with whatever’s blocking resurrection magic is to ‘pray harder.’ So, Northrend and Scott the Merciful.”

“Even though he’s a psycho.”

Beli sighed.

“At least the blizzard’s letting up. Ringo! Look at the sky!”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker!”

A blue dragon (Rusty) flying against a sky torn open, exposing the Shadowlands beyond.
The shadow of death

The shadow of death

Darkness.

“Drink it all down, Marisi, that’s my good girl. Lie back; don’t be scared.”

Darkness.

“No, no, don’t cry. You’re doing a great thing. You will open the way for the true master of this world to enter Shadowforge and bring Azeroth to glory.”

Darkness.

“Get away from Marisi, Duerthic, you son of a bitch! Get away from my daughter!”

“Our daughter, Kildris! She’s not going to be the weak and worthless little girl that you –“

“Drop th’ knife an’ get away from her, ye mad bastard, or Ah’ll blow yer — Kildris, stop!”

“Marisi!”

“Kildris!”

Darkness.

“Eonar! Grant me your blessing! Eonar! Damn you, Eonar! Help her!”

Darkness.

Marisi Blackfire opened her eyes, unable to sleep any longer.

Her mother was dead, killed by her father. Her father was dead, killed by her mothers’ two friends, Beli and Ringo Flinthammer and by their great white bear, Frostmaw.

She sighed, and got out of bed, her feet just barely reaching the floor.

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Dwarven Wardrobe: Cloth Protective Gear

Dwarven Wardrobe: Cloth Protective Gear

Special guest appearance by Toxic Wasteling.

Saw a request on the WoW forum to make Vile Fumigator’s Mask transmoggable, which inspired me to look through my appearance tab and see if I could create something in a similar fashion. Was tickled to build a transmog around the Goblin Rocket Helm, which I had admittedly forgotten about. (I’m a goblin engineer.)

There were several belt choices for this ensemble, but I really liked the glow that radiated from the Firestrike Cord belt (along with the staff) when it got dark. (The helm is just super neon green, that’s all.)

Transmogrifications:
Head: Goblin Rocket Helm (Requires Engineering)
Chest: Warpthread Vest
Shoulders: Astralaan Shoulderpads
Waist: Firestrike Cord
Hands: Pious Handwraps (Priest only)
Legs: Silver-Thread Pants
Feet: Buccaneer’s Boots
Back: Crimsonwood Drape
2H Staff: Lever of the Megantholithic Apparatus (LFR version)

Out of the Shadows

Out of the Shadows

Growing up in Shadowforge City’s dwarfanage was not unusual.

The Dark Iron dwarves had been at war against the arrogant Bronzebeard and brutish Wildhammer clans for more than 200 years.

Despite what some idiots were desperate to believe — that the Bronzebeard who called herself the “queen regent” had brought peace to the Dark Iron — most who lived in Shadowforge still conducted themselves like a people under siege.

And that meant, every time an adult Dark Iron left the relative safety of Blackrock Mountain, they dropped their child off at the dwarfanage and told them goodbye. If they survived the hostile world outside, they would reclaim them.

But if not, their child was already prepared for the worst and looked over by matrons who would raise them and train them so that they could avenge their parents.

His own parents had never returned from Grim Batol. During the Second War, they had been sent there to recover some artifacts believed lost during the War of the Three Hammers. But while they were there, the orcs of the Dragonmaw clan had descended on the city, claiming it for their own. Both his parents had been killed.

He had shed no tears. If he was the sort of child to show that kind of weakness, he would have cried when they dropped him off at the dwarfanage. But he had not. He had known that they were doing Ragnaros’ will and that the world outside of Blackrock Mountain’s fiery embrace would likely be the death of all of them.

Although she tried to be strong, his daughter always cried when he dropped her off at the dwarfanage.

When he had gone to fight alongside the Twilight Hammer outside the gates of Ahn’Qiraj, she had cried.

When the Twilight Hammer had called upon him once more, to help set fire to the so-called “world tree” Nordrassil atop Mount Hyjal, she had cried.

And when his wife claimed she believed the disgusting and obvious lies that the Firelord had been destroyed, his daughter had cried when they had divorced.

But now, she had a chance to be strong, to prove herself worthy, to do something in service to the true lord of this world.

“Hello,” he told the matron at the dwarfanage, who was younger than the matrons in his memory. “My name is Duerthic Blackfire. I’m here to pick up my daughter, Marisi.”