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Cult of the Malformed Fork Posts

Cut a Deal

I should warn my readers that while the wilderness is dangerous, the city can be equally hazardous. I speak of the Auction House.

The goblin masters have made it increasingly easy to connect buyers with sellers, to grease the economic wheels and rob you of your hard-earned gold faster than ever before.

I strongly suggest you cut a deal whenever possible. Find yourself a willing buyer, someone who’ll happily take your merchandise via mail. It saves both of you the agony of walking past vendors hawking wares you know you could use, in fact need.

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To Quest or not to Quest

I must commend that little goblin on his bravery. Under better circumstances I would have smote him where he stood. But as I’m in need of some coin and a hot meal I’m forced to run all manner of errands and deliveries.

And here’s where someone’s bound to ask “But you can conjure food right?”. Consider my position. I can conjure all the tasty, clean, fresh water I could care to ever drink. But hot meals are not in my repertoire. How many mages have you seen manifesting Roast Pork? None. Exactly zero. I’ve got the fanciest prison rations you’ll ever find. Sweetbread, pumpernickel, the occasional croiscant. But no meat. No pork, side of lamb, wolf haunch or kodo steak.

So I need some coin. And to that end, I’ll be putting my hands in places I’d rather keep them out of..

Mark my words. I’ll go back some day and give that goblin a piece of my mind.

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On the topic of the Scourge

I wasn’t five minutes inside Warsong Hold when some lowly orc shoved an axe into my hands and ordered me to the front lines to support the war effort.

Mind you, it’d been barely a day since I awoke in Silvermoon. I wasn’t aware there was still a war to fight, let alone that I was actually this close to the front line.

Seems my understanding of ‘war’ and ‘front line’ needed some adjustment. The cool crisp tundra air was joined by a rancid stench and the occasional clash of steel on carapace. Looking down the ramparts I spotted nothing less than a legion of Scourge locked in battle with Orcish defenders.

The front line was also the front door.

I won’t bore you with the sorded details of spellcraft, or the ways in which i obliterated my foes. It should only be said that the carnage was great, the bodies were many and that I still had ‘it’.

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Northrend – Frozen Hell

It should be known that I dislike the snow. It gets in your shoes, makes your feet cold and stiffens the fingers. To a swordsman, a stiff hand is death. To a mage, a stiff hand is a badly fumbled spell. If we’re lucky, it’s a quick death.

And I suddenly remember Zindel. Failed to grasp the subtle context in basic conjuration. We never found the rest of him.

That being said. I liked Tanaris. Dry, windy and desolate. I found myself at home with my thoughts while travelling through Tanaris. Not something you often get when you channel raw, unbridled energy.

When I stepped off the zepplin at Vengeance Landing I was certain of two things. One, that I rather disliked the Forsaken. I promise you they smell and it’s not just the plague vats they’re constantly brewing. Two, that I hate the snow and as a secondary consideration, the cold.

I hadn’t dressed warm enough for a journey to Northrend, let alone a lengthy stay.

It wasn’t long before I’d managed to convey my situation to the Innkeep and he..sh..it provided me with a woolen underlayer to help insulate me against the cold.

But it didn’t take long for me to find the zepplin again and book a flight west, to Honor Hold. I appreciate the company of a curageous and cunning people as the Orcs. At the very least, their food is better.

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Thoughts: Of Beginnings and Journeys

I came to, awakening slowly, in an inn in Silvermoon. My mouth tasted of drinking and revelry.

And more bile than I care to ever experience.

It should be known that I am a mage of no small power, that any force capable of rendering me unconscious or, as it seems, forgetful of a nights’ events is a great force indeed. And so it was, that I found myself groggy, disoriented and strangely a lot taller than I had previously remembered.

Second on my list of problems, was the city itself. Silvermoon is a beautiful city full of majestic spires and elegantly carved doorways, well manicured lawns with the occasional wild bird flitting about.

My last memories were not of this city. But of another, vast and underground. A city carved of the very rock with harsh edges and an air thick with roar of commerce and the din of a large smithy.

You could ask me if such a place actually existed and I could tell you of at least a half dozen locales i’d personally visited. The problem lay where I’d last found myself before succumbing to the seductive warmth of a strong drink.

It was at this point I gave up. Memory is often released by experiences, sights or smells. So my better strategy was to take a walk and see if someone remembered me.

I found a familiar face outside. My hawkstrider Azkari chirped a friendly acknowledgement as I approached, kneeling slightly as I mounted. This was the first familiar thing I’d found since waking up. Already my day was starting to look up.

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