It was a particularly cold night in Dun Morogh. A powerful blizzard had swept across the landscape, sending drifts of snow across the empty roads. Only a few scant patrols of mountaineers seemed to be out, their green cloaks barely visible from the landscape made pure white. That’s why Innkeeper Belm was pleasantly surprised when he heard the door of Thunderbrew Distillery swing open, an unexpected piece of business in the sleepy town of Kharanos.

In walked a gnome, a few furs wrapped around his heavy armour, carrying a mace over his shoulder. He came right up to the table, hopped up - he had to hop, as he was on the shorter side, even by the standards of a gnome - and placed his weapon gently against the table. He made sure not to leave a scratch. Next, he removed his helmet, placing it reverently at his side. His attitude was far from the average gnome, so typically upbeat and jovial that they made the dwarves that shared their homeland look positively sour. Which they were quite often, to be fair.

Of course, being an innkeeper, Belm had seen his share of strange newcomers to Kharanos. He walked over to the new customer, cleaning a mug of ale the only other visitor in the inn had just finished. “What could I get for yeh?” he asked gruffly, the coziness of the Kharanos inn not quite extending to its owner.

“Might you have any of your famous beer basted boar ribs?” the gnome asked, referring to an old family recipe of Belm’s that had grown quite popular. “A warrior of the light needs to maintain his strength with a hearty meal!”

“Warrior of the light?” the dwarf parroted. He looked past the gnome towards the door, seeing it remained shut. “Do yeh have a friend joining you?”

The gnome held up a hand in acknowledgement, closing his eyes. “I understand. You likely don’t see many paladins of my stature. I do not take it as a slight, my good innkeeper.”

Belm thought right away that perhaps it would have been better if he had closed up shop early this evening. A gnome paladin… Over the years, he’d served any number of would-be heroes, adventurers, even the occasional warlock, but at least most still seemed to have their wits about them. “Well, I’ve been running this inn for many a year, and never once have I heard of a gnomish paladin,” he said.

“Ah, and rightly so. I am Minimillian of Gnomeregan!” the gnome said with a flair of triumph. “The first of my kind!”

“First of yer kind,” Belm repeated again. “Well, I’m sure you wield the light just as well as any human or dwarf,” he said, humouring him.

“You don’t believe me,” Minimillian stated.

Belm breathed a heavy sigh. Should have closed up early, he thought. “The boar ribs you said, right lad?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

“I’m telling the truth,” the gnome said emphatically.

“Wait a moment.” Belm finished cleaning the mug and poured himself some Thunderbrew of which the distillery was named. The old dwarf felt he needed it. He then pulled up a chair at the table across the way from the gnome and took a seat. “Look here. The gnomes, they’re a versatile people. Seen ‘em make some strange and wonderful gadgets, master spells, summon demons…” Belm leaned in close. “Look at that one in the corner,” he said pointing to the only other soul in the inn. Sitting in a heavily stuffed clear near the fire, a mechagnome sat twirling his robotic hands, completely transfixed on the gadgets that had become his limbs. “He’s half machine! And you know what? He told me he’s trained in Pandaria to be a monk. Showed me a thing or two. Says he’s ‘mastering the science of the punch,’ or some such nonsense. Yeh gnomes can do a lot o’ things, I know - but master the light? Pah!”

Minimillian was undeterred. He’d been brushing off these disbelieving comments for ages now. This was just another in the pile. “May I tell you a tale? Surely once you hear it, you’ll have no other explanation but for the powers of the light within me!” He held up one fist as if expecting a pillar of light to come down through the inn and paint him in glory. No such thing happened, and the dwarf just wondered further if there had ever been a stranger couple of occupants than there were today.

“Might as well tell me,” the dwarf said, taking a massive swig and doing nothing about the foam that became trapped in his beard.

Immediately, Minimillian pushed his chair back and leapt from the table, picking up his hammer and striking a pose. His hand ran from one side to the other above his head, as if painting the picture of his story. “The snowy hills of Dun Morogh! Beauty, quiet… and danger!”

“Shoulda locked the blasted door…” the dwarf grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“I led a party of three - a brave dwarven hunter,” he said, miming holding a gun, “a dastardly warlock,” he said transitioning to pretending to cast a spell, “and I, a stalwart paladin.”

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“Right. Paladin.”

“Right, paladin!” Minimillian repeated, removing the tone that was dripping with sarcasm. “We were tasked with defeating the ice troll menace near Brewnall Village. We were ambushed! A great troll, tall as a dwarven bunker and built just as strong, threw a weighty axe at my warlock companion. While I struck down the troll with the blessings of the light, the warlock was laid low. It hit him square in the shoulder. Blood! Pain! I rushed to his side, calling for the light to help him. I held my hands over his wounds, calling, calling! And finally, the light came to my side, and sealed his wounds!” He placed his hands on the table, looking the innkeeper square in the eyes. “What else could it be but a blessing? I called, and it answered. A paladin’s healing.”

Belm leaned back in his chair, taking another swig of ale, and put the mug back on the table. “Now, I’ve had plenty of adventurers come through this way. Thinkin’ I might remember one or two warlocks have come in as well. After getting to chatting with a couple, they’d tell me about these funny little rocks they carry. ‘Healthstones,’ they call ‘em. Something about empowering something with souls, and life-forces, and… bah, goes over my head. But I know they heal themselves with the things. Did yeh see his hands, lad? Might just be one of those funny rocks.”

Minimilliam didn’t respond at first. He just stared, wide-eyed, intent. Then, very abruptly, he started again. “A second tale, surely something to convince even the most skeptical of dwarven innkeepers!”

“Bah, here we go, then,” Belm said, sitting back. His mug was running empty. He felt he’d need more. A lot more.

“We continued our travels through the snow, hoping to find their leader - when suddenly a trap was sprung! In my thirst for righteous vengeance, I walked unwittingly into a vast emptiness of snow the trolls had left to seal us in a frozen tomb! Shivering, covered in the frozen pit, I called upon the light to free me from the trap they had set! Give me freedom from these bonds, I yelled out! And just like that, in but a moment after, I was walking forward again, unbound, determined… the marching crusade of a paladin.” He nodded solemnly, like he had told a story of a powerful hero of old, surely one that would strike the dwarf as inspirational.

The old dwarf was unimpressed. “Lad, I hate to tell yeh, but I think yeh just walked into a snowbank and got yer tiny little self stuck. And only for a moment at that.”

“Not at all!” the gnome said, his voice rising again. “It was the power of the light that had freed its champion from the wretched traps of the mischievous trolls! But if you need more proof, I have a final tale that will surely convince you.”

Belm held up a hand. “Hold on, I’ll be needin’ to refill-”

“We had found the troll leader!” Minimillian said, jumping from his chair again. “Our dwarf saw him first. He held his gun up, saying ‘agh, I could fire a bullet through the lot of ‘em and-”

“Don’t do the accent,” Belm warned.

Minimillian paused. “He said he saw the troll, that is. He fired upon him, wounding the troll warlord, but not enough to lay him low! I rushed at him, swinging my mace with the power of righteousness on my side! Still, the troll was strong, and thrusting forward with a spear he would have surely killed the brave, gnomish paladin! It went right towards my neck and shoulder, ready to send me to the next life - but I was saved by a brilliant light that surrounded me, rendering me immune to any of his savage blows! Afterwards, we made short work of him. Saved, again, by the powers of the light.” Minimillian sat, crossed his arms, and looked confidently at the dwarf, urging him to even dare try to dispute such a clear, obvious statement of fact.

“Your left shoulder, I reckon?” the dwarf asked.

“Why, indeed it was.”

“And where’d you get your armour?” he said, inspecting the plate shoulder pads the gnome wore. Think I might recognize who made it. Get it from Bengus? Runs a blacksmith shop in Ironforge. Bengus Deepforge. Do yeh know him?” the dwarf asked. The gnome didn’t yet follow the purpose of the question.

“Well, you must be very astute. I did indeed have him make a few pieces for me.”

“Agh, now that’s quality. He makes the best! That’s why when the troll thrust that spear, it only left that big scratch down your left side, there,” he said, his hand pointing to a mark clear as day across his shoulder, something that looked like it very much could have been made by a spear.

The gnome inspected it closely. “Must have been from an old battle… a warrior of the light travels far, and-”

“That’s it!” the dwarf said, having enough. He sat up from his chair and refilled his mug of Thunderbrew from one of the many casks in the inn. Downing it in one mighty swig, he slammed his hand down on the table - and then slammed the empty mug right on top of it. He yelled out in pain and shook his fingers as the gnome watched on in shock and surprise. “Now - my fingers are hurtin’ all to hell. You’re a paladin, you say? Heal ‘em.” He slammed his hand down again, even that hurting more than he let on.

“Well, I’ve just fought a great number of battles recently, and I’m-”

“Yeh say yer a paladin, well, my fingers are aching.” Belm looked at him sternly, square in the eyes.

Minimillian nodded. He placed both of his palms atop Belm’s hand, whispering gently for the light. His hands were still freezing from the outside, hardly able to bend his fingers, and it chilled Belm’s throbbing fingers. He urged the light to help, waited, waited, certain it would help the dwarf to heal.

A few minutes passed with Minimillian quietly beseeching the light and Belm looking on in frustration. Finally, the gnome released the fingers. “Well, let’s see if yer- hmm.” They still hurt, surely, but certainly not as much as they had just a moment before. “Huh. Well, lad, I’ve got to say, they don’t hurt like they did a moment ago.” He tentatively flexed the hand he struck with the mug. “Still doesn’t feel great, but at my age, few things do.”

Minimillian sat back in his chair, looking as confident as ever before. “Take my blessing. Now I can tell your tale, one of the disbelieving innkeeper, and the gnome healer who saved his broken hand so he could still work in the establishment through which he made a living, the-”

“Alright, alright,” the dwarf grumbled again. “Tell whatever ya want. I’ll get the ribs.”