Since I kind of promised to fill in the details yesterday of Mortimer’s role in my showdown with Skarr, I figured I’d take a minute today to do that. And considering what a kickass job Mortimer did of it, too, I figure there’s only one appropriate form…

Skarr went off to Feralas on a mission for the cult,
With the hope an ogre relic could raise Cho’gall as result,
And he made his camp in secret while his agents ranged afield,
And he waited there to reap the gains their search would surely yield.

His mission was a secret, details shared with precious few;
Even where he’d made his base was known by only one or two.
So when they went to see him, hardly had they neared his lair
When their path was intercepted by the Razza in the air.

Its wingspan was enormous, dozen yards across at least,
And one hardly could imagine how Skarr’d tamed the vicious beast;
But he somehow bent its will to his, this hunter sans compare,
And the Lower Wilds were now watched by the Razza from the air.

He’d lived there long amid the Wilds and Dire Maul and therein,
And his terror was the stuff of tales told by the Woodpaw kin,
For when the primitives would hunt, they’d fear not wolf or bear,
But they’d tread in dread that they might see the Razza in the air.

So now when Skarr set up his camp, he’d have the Razza spy
Down upon all those who dared come near from vantage of the sky;
And any who approached the camp was spotted unaware,
Then swoop and clutch, away were swept by Razza in the air.

And so when Garrosh found him and descended from the cliff,
Skarr engaged the orc in battle with an air of “Yeah, as if.”
For he knew he needed only hold his ground and keep it close,
Till the Razza could arrive, and then it would be adios.

Skarr held his own as best he could, and scored a hit or two,
When in the skies his eyes did spy vast wings of white and blue;
And Garrosh knew the day was his, until to his chagrin
He found a wild chimaera clawing wildly at his skin.

The Razza swooped in close to strike, and spewed blue fiery breath,
And let aloose a fiendish shriek from both its beastly heads.
And Garrosh felt the blue flames as he took another hit,
And they didn’t hurt, but it was hard to see through all that shit.

Now Skarr attacked reenergized and pressed the battle on,
And Garrosh ceded ground while he kept being flamed upon.
When suddenly there came a growl—Skarr scarcely realized where—
As wyvern talons tore into the Razza in the air.

Blue wings were met with brown as they raced in as if a blur,
And Garrosh yelled victoriously, “Go get ’im, Mortimer!”
He didn’t need to tell him twice: of wyvern wrath beware!
And Mortimer let loose upon the Razza in the air.

His biting was a frenzy and his slashing claws were fluid,
For “The Razza” say the Woodpaw, but “Mortimer” quoth the druid;
Another slash with furious claws, another vicious tear;
And blood was on the ground beneath the Razza in the air.

A blue-white wing was torn to shreds, a horn shattered like glass;
The Razza wailed as Mortimer was handing him his ass.
He yanked him back and clawed him deep, and clutched him from behind
And clawed at one of his two heads till it was rendered blind.

The desperate Razza spun around and flung Mortimer wide,
The wyvern crashing awkwardly into the mountainside;
He sprawled in pain on aching back, his upper hand upstaged,
And the Razza saw its final chance, and dove in feral rage.

The chimaera shrieked murd’rously and fell upon its prey,
While Mortimer grasped panicked for the one that got away.
A slashing, tearing pair of claws, and fangs fresh-drenched with blood,
Then a horrifying wail, followed by a lifeless thud.

Now somewhere in Feralas, Twilight cultists gloat and preen,
While the Grimtotem and ogres share the tales of what they’ve seen.
But the hunter is the hunted, predator is prey instead,
And there is no joy for Skarr, son, ’cause the Razza’s fucking dead.

EPIC VERSE!