Editor’s Note: The enormous changes wrought by Deathwing’s Appearance have placed considerable strain on the author’s mental and emotional stability, as will be explained below. However, we can assure you that, on pain of horse-whipping, he is going to get back to writing an actual travel-oriented journal RIGHT SOON and no more of this meandering nonsense. Please look forward to purchasing your copy of THE GOBFATHER: A Traveller’s Guide to Azshara and the Steamwheedle Cartel, very shortly.
So, when I heard that the leader of the Bloodhoof clan, Grandfather Cairne, had been assassinated by the same fuckers that used to push me into mud-puddles at camp, I made a face like this:
When I discovered that some gigantic-ass dragon had deformed the continent of Kalimdor, thus rendering all of my carefully-researched, personally-vetted, extremely reasonably priced travel advice obsolete, a mere curiosity, I made a face like this:
It’s been a hard week. It’s also been a long, very busy week, and a week of thinking about where to go from here. I had a choice: should I, in a sense, start over from the beginning, updating my advice and guidance for travel through the new lands of Kalimdor and beyond? Or stick with the original project of heading for Undercity and rubbing shoulders with the dead. (and then picking their shoulders up off the ground and apologizing, offering to sew them back on with some fishing line I have).
So I’ve mostly just been sulking around Durotar. Mulling things over. And slowly as I’m doing so, it dawned on me - holy shit, who are all these kids? Where the fuck did they come from?
I’m talking mostly about trolls. And then, mostly about troll druids. It seems like every Tom’jin, Di’k and Hah’ri has decided that what she or he really wanted out of life all this time was to pretend to be a cat, and all it took was the near-annihilation of all civilization at the hands of the Old Ones to make them realize that now is the time.
“Trollmom, Trolldad - I ‘n I’ve decided to become a druid.”
“What? We been hunters and shamans for generations, mon - no son o’ mine gunna stuff leaves down ‘is shirt and call ‘imself an ‘ealer!” Trolldad waves an arrow at his errant child’s nose.
“Healin’ over time may be fine for de lazy moofolk,” adds Trollmom. “but we bring de chain heals, son. How can you turn your back on our family tradition?”
“It’s… it’s not like that anymore. We don’t turn into trees. Look, all my friends are doing it, and I want to fit in!”
I fell in with a crowd of these young types on the outskirts of Sen’jin and shot the breeze for a while. They were out there keeping looking for a Draenei lady that had been raiding the village, apparently all on her own. “She keeps ducking behind the rocks,” one of them told me. “I think she’s waiting for a friend.”
“Huh,” I said, and then: “so, how did you know you wanted to be a druid?”
“Well, one day, I and I started growin’ hair all over I’s body, and channelin’ the great generative juju of mama nature. Got it all over the carpet.”
“That’s not being a druid, that’s just puberty.”
“What? No, mon, I have a sacred callin’!”
Then the Draenei came back and blew apart the rock next to us with lightning. I called up Drools and Fleatail the spirit-wolves and sent in Stirfry the Fire-Elemental to keep an eye on them while I got out my mace. Then some very painful things happened and I woke up under a tree being fanned by the tail of one of the tr-uids.
“Did I win?” I croaked.
“No, mon, but I think one of your spirit wolves gave the Burning Regret to the Draenei’s Earth Elemental totem.”
“Yeh, when you got rendez-vous with a lady-friend and one of you has been not very careful, mon, got hygeine problems, you get –”
“Yes, that’s alright, I get it now. What about Drools?”
“He attacked a cactus, mon.”
“And the fire elemental?”
“That blue lady, she picked him up by the skinny bit at the bottom ‘dere? And then she hit you with him until you stopped movin’.”
“did youtry to help?”
The group of them looked at eachother.
“Mon, we only nuggets. Give it a few months.” Then they went back to collecting flowers and murdering practice humans and dreaming of the day when they can move out of their parents’ place.
At least they aren’t orcish mages. Try explaining to your orcish mom that you started spurting fireballs in your sleep, and that’s where the dog went.
As for my part, the severe beating has cleared my head somewhat. I know where I’m going, and what I’m going to look at when I get there. For in this suddenly topsy-turvy world, there is one thing upon which we can still rely, a rock-solid foundation for the astute wanderer.
The profit margins of Goblins.
But rest assured, that dragon is going to
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