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- Join Date
- Oct 2011
- Denmark // Ragnaros EU (Horde)
- Rep Power
Level 71-75: Quietus: Wildlife expert, furry-strangler and double-helix supremacist
Kno - Rhythm of the Rain
Kno - if you Cry
Grendel - Serotonin Rush
SAM - Halluzinogen
Things have a tendency to speed up when you're not paying attention, and within a short time after my arrival to the Borean Tundra, I Hit 71, from my close...cooperation with the DEHTA. I don't think they are entirely aware of who I am, or look closely at me when I gleefully hand them ears for XP. Supposedly, I am preserving wildlife, but if they had looked more carefully at my clothes, they'd notice those stains that never really seem to come out. They might notice the faraway braying of the now-depleted rhino flocks, or my muttered curses about why I'm not allowed to kill Mammoth calves that are stuck in lock-jaw bear traps. Sound has a tendency to carry across the plains, I've learned. It's alright, though, I leave my mark, and although the irony of being rewarded for merely managing to _secretly_ annihilate animals isn't lost on me, I still look forward to putting this behind. These druidic bastards give me the chills.
Instead, I turn in my wildlife badge and gun (Fuck you Smokey the Bear, I don't prevent forest fires. I cause them.), I decide to what's up with my li'l gnomies over at the Fizzcrank airstrip. Maybe laugh a bit at them, and accidentally grind my crotch in their faces (look, if God didn't mean for me to teabag gnomes on sight, he'd not have made them the height he did), good times for all involved.
Instead I find that they are indeed the perverts, as their quests take me on an epic journey of developing a, uh, microfilm. Developed in the stomach of the local wolves. Yes, I, Master of Shadows, Defiler of the Weak, and the Archduke of Alliterations, have been reduced to feeding meat to wolves, to scoop through their droppings. What the *fuck* is it with questgivers insisting I shovel dung?
I take that as my cue, and get the hell out, and run off for Dragonblight instead.
Where, in a twist that surprises absolutely no one, I run around, 'purifying' elks and polar bears. Yes...purifying them. That I then kill them immediately after, lest the good deed be remembered, is but a sidenote.
Army of the Pharaohs - Seven
Army of the Pharaohs - Into the arms of angels
Army of the Pharaohs - Dead shall rise
Immortal Technique - Obnoxious
Immortal Technique - Dance with the devil
Immortal Technique - Toast to the dead
Jedi Mind Tricks - Uncommon Valor
Mass Dispel, bitches! BITCHESSSSSSSS!
Yes! Now, mages and Paladins will have another reason to fear me. And Paladins...I'm coming for you, bursting your virginal bubbles like a frat boy, coked out on a spring break rampage.
Leaving with that mental image fresh in mind, I scoot off to catch some shuteye.
8th of december
Dragonblight, Wintergarde Keep
Dear Diary: Today, I arrived at Wintergarde Keep in Dragonblight. The locals here are predominantly dead. I find I like it here. I got to fly a gryphon, and try to save frightened local villagers from ghouls. At least the choice ones, anyway. I made a case of not touching any of the dwarves or gnomes. I may have knocked a few of them over, in fact, leaving them to get messily devoured.
I also got to kill some Scarlet Onslaught. Finally. I've missed messing with fanatics. No guilt, no surrender, absolutely no chance of *not* causing a massacre.
Rammstein - Sehnsucht album
Tactical Sekt - Bring Me Violence
Tactical Sekt - Chosen One
Dear Diary: I got to observe the chief Inquisitor Hallard discuss the matter of piety, faith and the price of letting yourself become an undead with the now *former*, ghouled mayor. Quite the spectacle. I especially liked the part about torturing the poor soul to get answers from him. That'll teach him not to end up becoming an undead. Or, I guess, the mayor won't be learning too much from it, being dead already and all. but that's his headache, not mine.
Now, time for some first-hand violence. I end up in an Eye of the Storm, which proves to be quite close. So close, in fact, that I feel confident in saying it was my timely intervention, as I nonchalantly mindcontrolled the enemy flag carrier off the side while they were up 3-1, that turned the tide of the battle. It ends up 1600-1470 in our favor, and since no one else does, I applaud myself audibly in /bg chat.
[Planescape: Torment OST]
I return to Grizzly Hills. The majestic firs and elms, the proud bears fishing for trout in the river, the noble Elks...and me, dissolving wildlife as is apparantly my trademark, leaving charred remains and shadowstuff and pelt-less animals. Suck on *that*, Mother Nature. Suck it long, and suck it hard.
Apparantly, Mother Nature takes offense to my obscene hipthrusting, as a pack of wild wolves spawn on top of me, just after I'd chain-pulled half the forest. Fuuuuuuu!
As I get more involved in the questline in the area, I come to understand that I am supposed to be cooperating with the local werewolves. I cannot say that I appreciate that, not one bit. No sir. They smell, they try to dryhump my leg if I stand still for too long, and I find that their females carry more than the socially accepted amount of teets. Unless you're into the freaky stuff...so let's not dwell too long on that.
Proving the age-old adage of "if you look like your mother had sexual relations with the farmyard dog, chances are, you're a wild bitch", I try to decline any sexual offers, and "I wanna yiff you like an animal" comments, I bite back before I say them. Apparantly, this causes some consternation, and instead I am tasked with, in the seeming never-ending spiral of fecal-matter quests, of retrieving a digested amberseed - from the outhouse. The less said, the better, but suffice it to say that Northrend so far holds the record of most feces-related quests, putting it ahead of Outlands. Way to go, Northrend.
Things pick up as an apparant civil war breaks out between the werewolves that stayed loyal to the forest, or whatever, and the other faction that tried out for extras roles in the Twilight films. Not that I particularly care, but when one faction wants to give me gold and XP, and the other side wants to drink my spinal fluids, the choice is fairly simple. I even find out that I am allowed to skin a quest mob named Bonesnap, just for the sake of it. I prefer to believe I'll hold on to his pelt for a while, maybe wear it around the area.
Eventually, I find myself fleeing an apparant never-ending wave of werewolves. Now, I have seen Dog Soldiers not too long ago, and the imagery is slightly haunting, as I traverse Grizzly Hills forestline, chased by waves of antropomorphic furries. Furries with concerningly large canines and a hankering for priestly flesh. I elude them, however, and manage, in the process, to reach...
Going through some 5+ year old music I've made
I celebrate my latest level by visiting the wonderful city of Dalaran. It is a bit of a ghost town these days, but it's nice to know that the only thing keeping everything from collapsing like an Extinction-Level-Event asteroid cataclysm, is some squinty redbeard guy named "Rhonin". Thanks, mister Master Magus, I feel a lot safer already. Only thing the guy's got right is that he's apparantly banging some High-Elf stuck-up bitch, whom I'm pretty sure should normally only be hostile towards Horde players. I'm pretty sure I catch the evil eye from her even so. It could have been the bloodied animal pelts I dragged across the room, or my legendarily unbecoming hip.thrust-greeting, I can't say for certain.
I scoot on over to the dungeon, to save myself from getting full-on rage-fucked by his consort. Ah, women.
Instead, I end up in a Violet hold dungeon run. A level 79 tank, and his lvl 77+78 friends, all from Chamber of Aspects. I have my fears, but fortunately, outlevelling and outgearing it helps significantly. I still, as a healer, manage to out-DPS one of their group, and take comfort in that.
It's time for a change, and as they say, a change is as good as a rest. I've never understood that notion, and frankly, I find it utter and complete bull, but hey - it sounds convincing.
I convince an old aquaintance - I won't say friend, because you cannot be friends with a Death Knight, it's a rule - but a good aquaintance, Kurayani, to not only Xfer to Outland, but to also team up with me on levelling. We storm the gates of Drak'Tharon Keep, and commence laying Shadowy (and FRAWSTY) waste to the place. I feel bad for the tank - and for the healer as well, really - as we plow through the pale trash like a meth-fuelled fratboy in a suburban Co-ed dorm. Or something.
A Gun'Drak run almost ends in tears, as I spend most of the run skinning like a madman, but the rest of the group covers for my noble mission, and I end up seeveral stacks of pelts richer, as well as some incredibly dirty looks from some tree-hugging resto druid who apparantly thinks I'm "inhumane". I point out that at least I'm the one who has a documented double helix DNA structure, as opposed to his polychromatic antler-hair and sea-green skintone.
We follow up by hitting up an EoTS, and I have the dubious pleasure of encountering a cata-gear-level rogue, rocking the wrong side of 31K HP, fully buffed. If it seems a tad over the top, it's probably because he has more hit points than three opponents combined. Even so, he still dies, because he apparantly can't remember where his Cloak of Shadows is, or his recuperate. Sure, he mows down the two other people I was standing next to, but I take my revenge and kill him. Later on in the match, I also teach him that no amount of ilvl 272 gear will save him from forgetting to have a PvP trinket, when he gets mindcontrolled off a cliff.
We end up taking the victory, 1600-467. Bam!