Pride and Prejudice (AKA the greatest Warcraft battle report ever!)
Hello there my serendipitous sea snails! I am Axemaster The Fierce, and this is my battle report!
Mountain King and footman dance
Primeval rhythm and missing pants
A Blood Mage joins this happy splendor
That a Night Elf soon will hinder
A lone Priestess of the Moon espies this gay dance. Quickly, she evokes the power of the lunar gods and shoots flaming arrows into the eyes of seven footmen dancers. The Mountain King (who was birthed from a male octopus in ages past), screams in anguish as his lovers all die.
Sometimes in the early evening, the birds of the Forest of Friendliness gather bits of straw and grass in their beaks and fly across the ocean to Constantinople where they ritualistically burn each other on pyres made from the grasses. It is said that if you listen hard on a winter's night, you can still hear their painful death chirps.
It is not a matter of how we fix our government, but how fast we do it and how many igloos we erect in its place.
The Blood Mage, after calming the Mountain King down by siphoning his mana juice, turned to the perilous priestess and shouted, “For your deadly sins, you shall die a death worse that death, a death so deathfully deathful that all of your dying atoms will cry tears of death and will die!”
The Blood Mage began to siphon the priestess’s mana juice just before the Mountain King raised his mighty hammer and smote the heavens and the earth in his wrath.
A wiseman once said something wise, and a sage once said something sagely. These are not matters of coincidence, but rather point the astute observer towards the path of divine enlightenment. It is better to rip out one’s spleen than to suffer the fires of forests. This is not prophecy; this is only another example of the lives of quiet desperation we all lead. If you drop a stone, will it not fall? If you stand up to the fates and demand a sandwich, will you not be struck down?
These are the questions that pervade every single part of our lives.
As the Mountain King floats placidly through the void of nothingness, he says very plainly, “Merry men masticate mushrooms meticulously, many mere memoirs of myriad mastodons. Most mermen melt magnanimous meatloaves, musty mongooses, militant ministers. Might mighty mice make marmalade meals? Moldy muskrats march malevolently and mistake missiles for marshmallows. Midwives (midlife) meander magnificently. Mark my message, milkmen manufacture melancholy madmen."
Mystical magical marvelous moonbeams!