It was a night of glory. A battle raged beneath Wyrmrest Temple as my comrades and I felled the mighty Sartharion as his lieutenants lay rotting on their perches above.
It was a night of glory. We battled throughout Utgarde and, from the Keep to the Pinnacle, distributed cruel justice to the Vrykul servants of the Lich King housed there.
It was a night of glory. After the ringing of swords and the shouts of battle faded from my ears, I, with my loving yet lethal wife by my side, slept a sleep made deeper by the drug of victory.
It was too deep, for the enemy struck unnoticed during our slumber.
For nearly two days, my shield was no longer a symbol to my brethren of my undying, vigilant protection.
For nearly two days, my wife's blades were prohibited from singing their silent song of swift mutilation.
For nearly two days, we were silenced by a vile beast spat from the far corners of the Twisting Nether. A foul demon from which the Legion itself would turn and tremble.
If ever I happen upon this hateful creature, it will know the unbridled, blind fury of the Warrior's berserkergang. I will extract brutal, bloody, yet righteous vengeance until, on a guttural whisper fueled by its final, rattled breath, it softly utters one word..."Misneach."
Of course, if the stupid squirrel electrocuted itself when it chewed on the cable at the top of the telephone pole, knocking out our internet and home phone until the Comcast guy could show up late Sunday afternoon, I suppose we can call it even.
Weekend minipost: Fresh start
12 hours ago