Friday, November 20, 2009

Of Course The Mages Made It

Fulguralis squints and raises a hand in an effort to shield his burning eyes from the bright light that assails them. He stands lamely in front of the Crusader's Coliseum wondering how the hell he got here. Vague recollections of a recent foray inside of the Coliseum remind him of the activities of the previous day, but after that... nothing. Had he really just been standing here the whole time?

Shaking his head at the confusing conundrum, the warlock attempts to refocus his mind.  Who the hell cares anyways?  Another beautiful day in Azeroth, another lineup of beasties to kill.  Life is good.

Above Fulguralis, the canopy catches the softly falling snow and keeps the cobblestones in front of him dry and clean.  Looking around reveals that several vendors have set up shop just outside of the wrought iron gates of the arena, peddling their wares.  This was nothing new as the tournament grounds had been crawling with seedy salesmen ever since it's inception.  War is a profitable business for opportunists.

These vendors are of a somewhat different ilk, however.  It only takes a simple glance to reveal their obvious alligence with the Argent Crusade.  Their clothes sparkle with the same strange infusion of Light that Fulguralis had come to expect from these self-righteous crusaders.  The warlock hadn't cared much for their urgings of peace and unity, but did rather enjoy the rewards for service in their name.  Being somewhat of an opportunist himself, Fulguralis had been in their dubious employment for some time now, facing the challenges of the tournament with his characteristic aplomb and a "can do" attitude.  Want something killed?  Here's your man.

Apart from the cash, the obsequious Argent folks had been showering him with emblems.  He had heard that these emblems could be exchanged for gear, similar to his past experience working as a mercenary in Naxxramas and Ulduar.  As before, Fulguralis had visited the vendors in Dalaran first in order to view the wares.  He had been unimpressed.  Some of the Dalaran trinkets and accessories were nice, but he was looking for the type of gear tailored specifically for warlocks.  Each of the various groups he had assisted in previous dungeons had prepared a matching set for his kind and Fulguralis had found that the sets were rather to his liking, with special attention given to the intricacies of warlockery. 

Dalaran did not have the gear.  After a bit of research, the warlock had been pointed in the direction of the vendors he now stood in front of at the Crusader's Coliseum.  What on earth were they doing with their deliscious gear all the way out here?  Wouldn't they have been more comfortable in the city?  Wouldn't that have been more convenient for adventurers such as himself. 

A quick memory of the crowds in Dalaran provided the counterpoint.  The Coliseum, at least, wasn't nearly so crowded.  Still, thought Fulguralis looking around him at the throngs of adventurers, the Crusade was certainly working on it.  The vendor in front of him smiles brightly as the warlock steps up to a booth.

"Show me the wares for warlocks," Fulguralis orders. 

If the attendant was put off by the warlock's rudeness, he doesn't show it, "Certainly sir, right over here."

The attendant indicates a box of robes and other cloth pieces that had been stowed beneath the makeshift counter of the stall.  Fulguralis begins to idly wade through the merchandise under the watchful but respectful eye of the Argent stooge.   Standing up and comparing the pieces to what he's wearing, a frown carves it's way across the warlock's face.  This cannot be right, he thinks.

He says as much, "This is the wrong stuff."

"No, sir.  I assure you it's not," the man replies brightly, tapping the side of the box on which warlock is clearly written.  "Only the finest for our crusaders!"

Fulguralis resists the urge to punch the man in the throat.  "I think you're misunderstanding me, sir.  This stuff sucks."

The directness actually flusters the clerk this time, "Um, sir?"

"This is clearly meant for a warlock of the destructive arts!  Look here, idiot, this sleeve.  It's going to hinder my casting making me slower not faster.  And here!  Look at the stitching, while it might make one get lucky now and then with a powerful spell, it's certainly not sewn for consistency.  This is wrong, all wrong!  Maybe those destruction junkies could deal with this shoddy craftmanship, but a true master of the arts of affliction like myself needs to be swift and accurate in his spell casts... and this helps neither! WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?  THE GEAR FROM MY LAST TWO JOBS COMBINED IS OF BETTER QUALITY!"  Fulguralis roars, sparks shooting from the tips of his fingers as he gesticlates wildly.

The area around the stall is quiet now, all eyes turned towards the confrontation.  "Well... sir," the man sputters, "I will, respectfully, have to disagree.  It was designed by some of the finest mages in Dal-"

"Mages? Mages?!  MAGES CRAFTED THIS CRAP?"  Fulguralis fumes outrageously.  The warlock then narrows his eyes and drops his voice, "Well I guess that makes sense then, this is certainly the kind a gear a mage might appreciate." 

The warlock takes one threatening step towards the helpless clerk and reaches out, snagging a handful of the man's crisply pressed tabard.  The man begins to squirm under Fulguralis's murderous gaze as he slowly lifts the man from the ground. 

Toes dangling in the air, the man chokes out, "Please sir, I'm just the distributor.  It's not my fault."

Fulguralis releases his hold and the man drops to the floor, clutching at his neck where the tabard had abraded his skin and gasping for breath.  The warlock straigtens his robes, composing himself before slowly lowering himself down onto one menacing knee.  The man looks up with wide eyes at the angry face that is only inches from his own.

"I'll give you a pass this time, but if you want us to assault Icecrown for your pansy sit-on-the-sideline-and-cheer-argently asses, you'd better get the next batch right," Fulguralis growls.  As if to emphasize his point, the box beside the two bursts suddenly into flame.   The man nods fearfully. 

"Mages, unbelievable..." Fulguralis mumbles.  He then straightens up, and in a swirl of robes, turns and stalks away from the row of stalls, pushing through the astonished spectators and out into the dazzling white afternoon.

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