Back when I played World of Warcraft I used to keep a blog for my adorable gnome warlock. Every Saturday I share another of her adventures here. The following was originally posted August 16, 2006
Gandalf was a lovable mage. So was Vivi…
…but Crystalis? She’s a lovable warlock.
Seriously, what is wrong with you people?
I can see how you people might get a hunter and a druid confused. After all, slightly over 100% of all hunters and druids in the Alliance are night elves, and they both kind of smell like dirty animals. This is because druids spend half their time doing what bears do in the woods, as bears, and hunters never bathe. Also, they each suffer their own adorable kind of identity crisis anyway.
I guess I should be careful or this will just turn into a rant displaying my undying contempt for druids, hunters and night elves. Suffice it to say that I can see why people have trouble telling them apart. The point is, I’m not a mage, you jackass.
Mages are decent enough folks, I guess. They throw fireballs and frostbolts and that’s pretty cool, and they can do that nifty thing where they make magic bread. Also I think they can pull rabbits out of hats and turn water into wine or somesuch. There are three basic kinds of mages: fire, frost and purple. The purple ones are my favorite because as I’m sucking all their mana away and Cattnys is whipping the tar out of them, they run around like headless chickens trying to explode me with cute violet-hued fireworks. No mages consort with demons. No mages specialize in shadow magic. (There are shadow priests but now you’re just confusing the issue. Shut up.) No mage will ever hand you a healthstone. (No self-respecting warlock would either, but that’s neither here nor there.)
Look, I know you guys who come to Darnassus for the one time in your life are eager to get back to the sweltering hell of Ironforge. Hyjal only knows why you’re so eager, but there you go. But coming up to me while I’m rearranging all my auctions or dangling some guy off of a Teldrassil branch and asking me for a portal home is insulting. Get it through your skulls: mages port, warlocks summon. Which isn’t to say I’d summon your waste of flesh even if I were in Ironforge. I’d just appreciate it if you would at least identify my talents correctly.
I’m out fishing in Azshara the other day, and some unfortunate human lowlife steps up behind me and asks for bread.
“Get lost,” I tell him. “You’re standing in my oxygen.”
“I need bread,” he repeats, without so much as a “please” or an offer of payment.
It’s at the point where I’m trying to think of a clever way to through this schlub to the nearby nagas without violating my Alliance contract that I realize he thinks I can summon bread for him.
“I’m not a mage, you dingus. Beat it.”
“What do you mean you’re not a mage? You’re a gnome. You’re wearing robes. You have a wand. Cut out this nonsense and give me some bread.”
“Then how do you explain the imp, genius?” I command Jubjub to come out of his phase shifted state and stand before this unworthy mortal in all his beautiful impish glory. He mutters something in Demonic about the size and condition of the guy’s genitalia that makes me snicker.
“That thing looks like a murloc,” he says. “They give those out in Ironforge to anyone who a secret password.”
Jubjub mutters something that translates roughly into “Oh yeah? Your mom’s a murloc!” Let it be known that Jubjub is not well-regarded for his wit, although in this case I believe he is right. No amount of good old fashioned human inbreeding causes the mental deformities this troglodyte must have.
I look him over. He’s wearing leather armor and has a sword hanging at his side, but no shield. He’s got a little pouch which looks like it’s filled with dust of some kind. There’s a bow strung up on his back and yet he’s not carrying a single arrow. I can see a dagger tucked into his belt.
“Sorry,” I tell him, “I don’t feed warriors.”
“I’m not a warrior, idiot. I’m a rogue.”
“You look like a warrior to me.”
“Warriors wear mail and plate, you stupid little gnome. I’ve only got on leather.”
“You’re not a very good warrior, then. That isn’t my problem.”
“But I dual weild!” he shrieks.
“Lots of warriors like to switch weapons. Dagger’s kind of a weird choice, though. You should invest in something heavier.”
“Look,” he growls, grabbing the pouch from his belt loop, “these are my poisons. Rogues use poisons. Therefore I am a rogue.”
I jangle my own little pouch of magical powders and dusts. “Yeah, I’m an enchanter too. I’ve got all sorts of glowing sand. What’s your point?”
“You mages are all the same!” he shouts, exasperated. “If you cowards had enough guts to get anywhere near a monster, maybe you’d be able to tell the difference between a warrior and a rogue!”
“My, you’re certainly getting very angry,” I say coolly as I finish packing away my tackle box and mount up on my clockwork rooster. “Rage, to me, suggests warrior.”
He shakes his fist at me as I ride off. He shouts after me, “I’m going to tell everyone in my guild how retarded you mages are!”
So, if you’re a mage and you’re reading this, I apologize. The world-renowned <LeGeOn of DiStRuCtOn> all now believe you are retarded.
This story, of course, is dedicated to every warlock who has had some webbed-toed yokel ask for a buff, and been clever enough to cast Unending Breath. Oh, and while I’ve got you, stop turning down the magic fairy water mages try to give you by saying “No thanks, I can Life Tap.” Just accept it and dump it out when they aren’t looking. It makes them feel more useful, and less like they should have been a warlock.