100 – Small Game

Nothing lofty for the final sonnet; I’m sorry to disappoint you. If there’s one thing you can always rely upon me for, it will be my inability to muster solemnity at the appropriate moments. I’ve been fortunate enough not to have to stand beside many caskets so far in my life, but it’s pretty much a guarantee that one day I’ll be choking back laughter beside a family member’s corpse, because I am full of bad machinery.

Tomorrow I’ll share some thoughts I’ve had during this project and some plans for what I want to do next. Today, to thoroughly squander your faith and perseverance in getting this far, I have… a poem about my old WoW character. The rest of this is likely to be either impenetrable or blitheringly inane to you if you weren’t also a Warcraft player, so you have my permission to bow out now and come back tomorrow for the good stuff.

I played a tiny Blood Elf hunter who hung around a lot with a terribly large Orc warrior, and the way it went in our heads was that she was tiny enough to kneel on those goddamn enormous pauldrons they used to give Orcs back in Burning Crusade. I know you think they’re large now, but they reduced the size of a lot of the shoulder models during Cataclysm; they used to be bigger. I imagined my Hunter crouching on the Orc’s shoulders like he was a mobile artillery turret, raining down arrows while her lion pet trailed along handing out strategic maulings.

I also imagined that after she took down the Lich King in Northrend (Light of Dawn 25 before the nerf, baby) she retired to Nagrand for a few years to recuperate from frostbite. It was always my favorite zone. I thought she’d have a cabin there with a nice big porch, near one of the floaty islands so that the spray from the waterfall drifts across sometimes. Take potshots at the deer and the Allies and then go in for a nap on the giant Worgen-skin rug. Blissful retirement.

Yeah, I also did the legendary cloak quest.
Because when will that ever be relevant to brag about again?

Lines of spikes like soldiers ranked and filed
along the shoulders of the green-skinned man.
You wouldn’t think that there was room to stand,
but there are worse perches in the wilds.

She kneels on his shoulders as the scion
of the Frostwolves charges down the hill.
She does her very best to steal his kills,
as does that damn everpresent lion!

After the cold of Northrend she goes home –
a hunting lodge on the slopes of Nagrand,
its walls adorned with weapons from the war.
From the verandah she shoots at the gnomes
and clefthoof who stumble onto her land,
and then she mounts their heads outside her door.

Check out the rest of the 100 Sonnets

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