The world was saved.
- Druids free to save the Barrens – check
- Hydras converted to single headed lizards – check.
- Forsaken dominance of the Razormane stopped – check.
- Trolls slaughtered by the dozen – check hehehehe
- The Baron unseated from his mount and Arthas’ shame cleansed – check
The world was saved… Or was it?
Gnomeaggedon rested at the Argent Dawn campsite.
The gryphon ride from Lights Hope Chapel hadn’t filled him with the usual joy at taking wing. So he dismounted before reaching Ironforge, he needed some time to gather his thoughts.
He probably should have ported to Ironforge, but whether it was his unexpected nap in Dalaran or whether he was still high on the arcane energies that he set loose at his foes, he was tired, even a little dizzy.
Luckily a Gnome doesn’t have far to fall, so his collapse was as gentle as tucking a child into bed.
He dozed. He never fully reached a deep sleep. It wasn’t so much his battle wariness, more the taint that filled his nostrils from the nearby plaguelands.
The place he rested was pleasant enough. Surrounded by some saplings, a bird croaked from the trees.
It was the rustling of the leaves that caused him to return to awareness. There was more movement in those branches than the still air could generate.
A bird in a tree
The creaking of their limbs…
The flutter of feathers…
So Gnome, what brings you from Northrend?
He opened his eyes and looked around, then up, and up.
Moonkin, not a bird then. The trees not your common garden variety trees. Still, Gnomeaggedon was puzzled. Moonkin all look the same and generally they don’t talk, they tend to roar as they approach.
You don’t recognize me, do you?
Spirals of green natural energy surround the Moonkin, clearing to reveal a familiar Elven figure.
Mr. Tree! No I didn’t recognize you without your bark!
What brings you to the plaguelands? Have you joined with Naralex to restore the earth?
No, I am head hunting, I am purely mercanery right now. I have been trying to break into the nearby keep of Scholomance but neither Moofire nor roots will break down the door.
Scholomance. No, you will need more than nature to beak down the doors of that old school of arcane arts. You will need a key, but that will take you some time, energy, trekking and more importantly for a mercenary, gold, to craft.
You are in luck though. I spent some time there a while back searching for knowledge. Scholomance holds many tomes of value and I managed to procure a key to grant me access.
Gnomeaggedon was going to rest. He knew though, there is no rest for the wicked, so either he was a very naughty Gnome, or the wicked of Scholomance needed some rest.
This time would be different
That last time he went seeking knowledge, he had struggled as the casters of Scholomance had struggled before him. Creatures immune to the arcane arts make him a sad and sorry Gnome.
This time he had two advantages. One was the presence of his fine feathered friend. He might wield nature in the form of spells, but he was also skilled enough to use those natural energies to transform to bear form.
The other was the backpack full of holy water. Maybe it was worth wandering the streets of Stratholme aimlessly. Luckily he remembered the wise words of his sagely Mage friend Tuna, and didn’t throw the religious rubbish out.
None may pass this point that are too short
Gnome reached the keep ahead of the Druid and rushed on in. A short while later he heard the Druid banging on the door.
Open the door you short arsed, green haired, dunnybrush faced Gnome!
Gnomeaggedon ran back to the door and leapt at the secret torch socket door opener. He leapt again and again. Stupid humans, they obviously never wanted the Gnomes to leave.
Hooking his staff around the torch, he dangled with his full weight until the torch finally rotated and Mr. Tree was silhouetted in the doorway.
While Gnome struggled to remove his staff from the bracket, Mr. Tree rushed ahead tickling the guards with some moonfire spam.
It’s all fun and games until the Gnome gets hurt
What followed was a frenzy of natural and arcane death. Room after room was filled with our destructive powers, wall to wall, floor to ceiling, before the mobs noticed our presence.
Gnomeaggedon had to laugh at one point while he watched Mr. Tree shed a tear for his lost friend.
Errrr mmm hmmm, I’m over here, that twisted Gnome looks nothing like me. Here let me show you…
Arcane Resistant mobs, meet the CLAW & flask
They soon encountered the arcane resistant mobs, but between the bear caving their skulls in with it’s massive paws and the fragile holy water vials exploding at their feet, they soon formed a ring of loot.
Maybe there was something to that religious rubbish… Those Skeletons certainly burned when bathed in holywater.
Gnomeaggedon didn’t notice the leaders until they were dead. The duo felt no need to carefully clear a path to each leader, they just rushed through them and destroyed everything in each room.
Scholomance was soon reclaimed. Maybe if the Gnomes don’t take back Gnomeragan, they could move in here. A coat of paint and a straightening of the book shelves and this place would scrub up ok.
The Druid wasn’t finished, but the Gnome needed to rest. His work wasn’t complete though, so he didn’t head straight off.
Gnome stood guard by the front door and played the door bitch role. The only person allowed in or out was the Druid.
The time at Scholomance made Gnomeaggedon crave the presence of other intelligent life forms, so he headed off to Dalaran.
But Dalaran was no more…
Still his thoughts were scattered. He knew now where Dalaran was and with a few mumbled words he was back in new Dalaran.
Oh the insanity of the city
The noise began again on arrival and as Gnomeaggedon tried to reduce the spam he noticed something. A band of adventurers were looking for help in cleansing Stratholme.
Gnomeaggedon tells them they have nothing to fear. After all he has just returned from the ruins leaving little intact.
They are going back in time to assist Arthas to repeat his shame? All his good work gone to waste.
This presented a dilemma. While he didn’t want Arthas and his Scourge storming Azeroth, it had been proposed by one of his Arcane Scholar friends that there was reason to the madness that the dragonflight would assist Arthas to lead the Scourge.
Was he the lesser of two evils?
Whatever the case, Gnomeaggedon decided that no harm could come of cleansing Stratholme at the moment of it’s infection, at the moment of Arthas’ shame.
Thankfully he was spared from spreading the plague. The other adventurers had already carried out Chromie’s instruction and begun the downfall of The city.
Still, Gnomeaggedon resolved to take the portal through time again at some point to visit the vibrant city before the plague spread. He wondered whether others had done this too, or whether it was another of his strange fancies.
The adventurers pushed hard through the city clearing the pockets of scourge as they appeared and putting the poor plagued civilians out of their misery.
For all that these scourge are at their peak in strength, not weakened by time as the ones he encountered just the other day, progress was faster, the deaths quicker.
A Chrono Lord… So Chromie isn’t the only one playing with the time warp continuum. The Chrono Lord is no challenge and even his bronze proto drake companion is discarded.
There is little challenge or reward in Stratholme for these heroes, beyond the faint hope of altering the course of history and hopefully the world as it is now known.
He knows that destroying the last leader hasn’t saved Stratholme. He knows he has been a catalyst in the downfall of Arthas, the creation of Arthas the Lich King.
Still, there is something reassuring about Chromie hovering over the final battle scene like an angel. Knowing that his actions are guided. Hoping his future isn’t set in stone. Hoping that Chromie and his cronies aren’t manipulating him in the same way that they do with Arthas.
At ease Soldier
The noise, the hustle, the bustle of Dalaran is somehow reassuring after the tragic emptiness of Stratholme. Gnomeaggedon aches for the crush of the crowd… Maybe not for the crush of the Tauren at the mailbox, or the drake rider that thinks it’s humorous to crush the body of the flight master.
Gnomeaggedon begins to feel the rage building within him. It is a side effect of living a life of fire. No different to a volcano, the body can only hold the eruption for so long. When your body is half the size of the rest of the Azeroth inhabitants, the eruptions tend to be a bit more frequent.
You may laugh, but…
People laugh at Gnomes. They deride them for being short, they pinch our cheeks, they pat us on our bald spots or pull on our pigtails.
What they don’t understand is the incredible will power we possess. We hold as much, if not more, arcane energies than those twice our size. When we explode, people notice, even if it’s the last thing they see.
Haven’t they ever heard of a short fuse?
Gnomes are the original short fuse!
Right now Gnomeaggedon was a short fuse in search of a bomb.
The bomb was found. Those frisky Horde were challenging in Wintergrasp again. It seems that barely an hour goes by without conflict there, but for once it seemed the perfect outlet for the Gnome.
He grabbed his tattered, horde-blood-spattered gear from the bank to replace his equally scourge-splattered raiding gear.
The Mages of Dalaran made his life easy, transporting him to the thick of the battle.
Kill, Crush, Destroy!
Bodies, skeletons, wrecks.
First he saw them, then he created them.
He held no concern for his own safety.
He faced off against the stomping Tauren Warriors, the perverted Orc Warlocks and the cousins of the Scourge… Would he ever see the end of the walking dead?
Destruction, obliteration, Demolition!
It was a Destruction Derby!
A horn blows in the distance and apart from isolated pockets of fighting the Horde were in retreat. Some poor souls found themselves behind our repaired walls being hunted like rats by the whooping Alliance.
Time to clear the Vault
The doors to the Vault stand open and Gnomeaggedon is asked to join a motley crew.
Motley… That describes their appearance and their success. The way they are equipped in comparison to Gnomeaggedon you would think that nothing could stand in their way.
Koralon, the latest tenant of the Vault is no competition for the unruly mob. Emalon on the other hand teaches this group of fools that there is more to a group victory than personal effort.
Kicked in the PuG
Ultimately Emalon has little to do with the defeat.
You could give credit to his pets, but truly the lack of victory can be laid squarely at the corpses of those that live with tunnel and boss vision.
As Gnomeaggedon slowly walked away, a slight limp in his stride from that last defeat, he thought of his own performance.
No great personal achievements, but there wouldn’t be while he worked with people that bought their way to the best gear. He was proud of the fact that he was changing targets, maybe it’s a Gnome thing, from his perspective he can see the whole world before him.
Maybe he should go fishing, he’s heard Squidly is kicking back somewhere dangling his line.
He could grab his rod and join him.
He’d be spewing if the Headless Horseman returned
One thing is for sure. A few days in the Dalaran inn munching on cheese and quaffing wine would be good for his soul. He needed to refresh his soul.
He wasn’t sure what would be around the next corner, but the way things were coming back to life, he bets he will be seeing that headless horseman again sometime soon.
Gnomer and Out!
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