Children’s Week, an unexpected source of Chilled Meat, and planning for the future …
Spinks is teaching her orphan to be a mighty warrior in a very clever post that — on second glance — actually seems to be evolving. (I just visited it again to link it, and what started as ten steps has become into fifteen as Spinks’ commenters chime in with their own words of wisdom.)
I briefly considered doing something similar for the Orcish brat I seem to have been saddled with, but … who am I kidding? The world needs more warlocks like we need more Sons of Hodir dailies — that is, not at all.
Once upon a time (or, rather, tier), warlocks were an endangered species. Of course, now that Affliction has been toned down so anyone and their pet shoveltusk can manage the rotation, we seem to be making a comeback. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t mind (I hated seeing spellpower cloth go to waste, or — worse! — to mages), but it’s actually gotten into the point that I can’t even take aim at a training dummy without some Blood Elf bimbo in a mis-matched Darth Vader suit coming along to ninja my soul shards.
Have you ever tried to conjure a creature from hell with the kind of dilluted, stale-cookie of a shard you’ll proc when multiple locks are siphoning the same soul? I tried to summon my succubus last week and ended up with a gnome instead.
Unfortunately, I’d already done the cooking daily.
Fortunately, chilled meat still sells well … so I guess the gnome wasn’t a complete loss.
Still, I’d have preferred Hesva.
So. Since I don’t want the infernal, snot-nosed little ragamuffin to become even more infernal by following in my Xintor’s booted footsteps … what do I do with it?
Naturally, my first impulse was to dispose of it — discreetly, of course, so as not to upset the Orgrimmar Matrons. (I don’t care, myself, but I have it on excellent authority that their wailing annoys Thrall, and the War Chief isn’t someone I’m willing to cross. Yet.)
… Also, the Troll matron in the Valley of Wisdom totally creeps me out. I don’t know why she insists on looking at me like a toothpick; I still have a bit of flesh left on my bones, thank you very much.
Alas — and I should have remembered this from last year, when I dragged that bug-eyed Blood Elf, Salandria, around Outland — the pests are immune to everything. Rain of Fire. Fall damage. Even Demonic Sacrifice! You name it, I tried it. And failed miserably.
Then it occurred to me:
This “frail” little orcling is — what? Six seasons old? Seven?
And utterly indestructible!
Given a few years to ripen, and some careful manipulation nurturing from yours truly, well, let’s just say a super-orcish thrall could be useful to a woman with my ambitions …
In the meantime, he can always carry my soul bag. I suppose.
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