A year and a half or so after I started playing a Forsaken, it suddenly struck me: Forsaken might be really funny.
“Oi,” said the human boy tugging at her sleeve. “Got something special.”
Orgrimmar was thick with stuff. Dust. Bodies. Noise. Motives. The hot Durotar sun made a half-hearted effort to tan the parchment of her skin.
Verthilde looked around for a moment, then continued her walk up The Drag. It was a slow walk, as she paused to look at each shop, every stall and business shingle.
The Forsaken in the brown woolen robe sat in her quarters, a dusty room dominated by a pine desk.
“Well,” she thought.
Cool light filtered into room as the sun rose somewhere beyond the layer of clouds over Brill.
“That was stupid.”