You called me strong, you called me weak, but your secrets I will keep
The amount of class warfare – contrived or real – that has erupted over the last few weeks is chicken soup for a Warlock’s withered soul. The backbiting, infighting, and ennui are beyond compare.
The amusing aspect of it was when some mages conspired to cast a comic sheen on the whole thing in a vain attempt to distract people from the very real and necessary needs of the real war. They did this, of course, by going after their old nemeses, the Warlocks.
It’s an old story, really, and I think the most apt comparison is that of Arthur outside the gates of that French castle. Arthur and his little kin-niggets pranced around and insisted that the French engage them on their terms, and the French responded by refusing – and dropping livestock on the little King.
You may have noticed: the Warlock community hasn’t really responded much within the idiom the Mages chose, either. The “battle” in this case is irrelevant. We didn’t start this war, and we don’t have any interest in getting involved in it, either. Let the Mages have the spotlight and prance about and preen. They’re really good at that. We prefer the dark alleys and back rooms where souls are bought and sold on the open market, and everyone profits.
At the end of the day, of course, we all stand in the same room looking at some monstrosity cobbled together out of body parts, and Mage, Hunter, and Warlock alike step up and light him up like a neon sign. There’s gold to pillage and loot to distribute, and Arthas awaits our righteous fury.
I watched the world float to the dark side of the moon.
After all I knew it had to be something to do with you.
I really don’t mind what happens now and then.
As long as you’ll be my friend at the end.