Tag Archives: mortimer is a badass
#500 GIANT-SIZED (not really) ANNIVERSARY (kind of) SPECIAL
Okay, people, I know we’ve got a hell of a lot going on these days on a whole bunch of fronts, but let’s get our damn priorities straight and take a moment to APPRECIATE THE GODDAMN AWESOMENESS OF ME.
Why, you ask? AS IF YOU NEED A REASON. But okay, fine, be that way. Even though you should already be in a constant state of awe over your Warchief, today marks an EXTRA SPECIAL awesome, awe-inspiring, awful… wait. I think I just took a wrong turn there.
…
IT’S A SPECIAL GODDAMN OCCASION IS WHAT I’M SAYING.
Reason being, the post you see before you marks the 500th BLOG POST here on the Warchief’s Command Board. That’s right, bitches, 500 posts — that’s FIVE ZERO ZERO. Go ahead and count ’em. I KNOW YOU WON’T.
But that’s where we are, people — 500 installments of EVERYBODY’S FAVORITE BLOG EVER. And riddle me this: have you read them all?
Yeah, me neither.
I mean, there were a bunch in there by guest posters like Spazzle and Mokvar, and I like those guys and everything, but not enough to actually give a shit about what they have to say about… like… anything. But whatever — like trees falling in the forest with no one there to hear them, those guests posts still… um… make a… sound when they…crash the server and… um… that is…
OKAY, THAT ONE GOT AWAY FROM ME A LITTLE, TOO. I MAY OR MAY NOT BE WORKING ON A COUPLE DRINKS, OKAY, SO STFU.
Anyhow. I’d like to thank all my loyal readers, and say that I couldn’t have done it without you. I’d LIKE to say that, but I can’t, because I totally could have. Let’s be real, scrubs, I’m the awesome one here, not you. THERE’S A REASON WHY YOU’RE READING MY BLOG AND NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND, NOW ISN’T THERE?
But still, the occasion calls for something special, so in keeping with this month’s theme — I DO have a Poetry Challenge in progress, after all — I figured I’d take a look back at a 500-stack of EPIC the only proper way EPIC gets done:
That “LOK’TAR OGAR!” that I blogged for a starter;
I met D&U, but my wyvern’s way smarter;
Krom’gar dropped a bomb, but I dropped his ass harder;
EO gaming, “why fly” malaprop.
Twilights on a mission for that Cho’gall demon;
Ogres versus Grimtotem, and Magatha schemin’;
Johnny Awesome, beat it; Garona, keep dreamin’;
Saurfang took a turn watching the shop.
That time I went AWOL, then I was recovered;
Grabby Mylune hugged me till I damn near smothered;
Garadar reunion with my long-lost mother;
Year one challenge, rhymes of locks in socks.
Mom was just a cruel trick Magatha unraveled;
Trouble for Forsaken; Tirion’s endless babble;
Head to old Southshore thanks to FUCKING TIME TRAVEL;
Human Faranell’s a paradox.
Psycho!Mylune rampaged, eyes more wild than dewy;
Edwin fucked the past up; all the timelines went screwy;
We straightened them out; Theramore went kablooey;
Went to Karazhan to spin some tunes.
Pandas showed up teaching how anger is managed;
Got myself some trainees: DPS advantage;
Someone ganked Mokvar; he ankhed and wound up bandaged;
Rolled up on Pandaria with my goons.
Gurtash started drawing; Vol’jin stopped his breathing;
Cloudfall spoke of destiny and got me near believing;
Mokvar met Magatha, that one had me seething;
He went off the grid — he’d best run far.
Lor’the’whatsit’s bitching still; I got pounced by Tak;
Snagged the Divine Bell; that’s when Jaina blew her stack;
DPS got lost, but I (mostly) got them back;
Meet my daughter, Shay. (Have a cigar.)
Shay’s mage class was hard, her sucker punch was hardest;
Mokvar reappeared with green fire from the Black Harvest;
Gurtash got blindsided, we were down an artist;
Made an offer Blackfuse can’t refuse.
Green-eyed wolf named Golmash acting pretty fishy;
Gurtash still needs training not to be so squishy;
Utvoch got promoted, but I kinda wish he
And Dontrag weren’t always so confused.
EPIC VERSE and lemon squares, endless reader mail;
Ruekie getting ruekied; eternal minion fail;
Mortimer’s a badass; Shayari’s hunting sales;
Earth Online guild chat is always strange.
FYV; #LadiesLoveMe, ’cause they’re not slumming;
Trolls are always trolling, dumbasses are dumbing;
500 down so far, a thousand more coming!
Okay, maybe. Times could always change.
EPIC VERSE!
Keep checking in, people. The EPIC DROPS are only just warming up.
LOK’TAR!
Mortimer vs. the Razza
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!
Better luck next time, irony
Okay, so maybe backup isn’t such a bad idea. That was big ol’ pain in the ass.
So I climbed down the mountain a ways and watched the gnoll camp for more signs of Skarr. At this point he was pretty visible, so I climbed down a little more, jumped off from a ledge, and then pulled one of my favorite moves EVAR – the cannonball mid-air falling CHARGE! Jump, falling, whoosh, WHAM right up in your face, and stunned to boot (probably in more ways than one)! Only pro warriors need apply.
And so, I don’t know why this would surprise me, but turns out, yeah, Skarr is about as batshit crazy as all the other Twilight people we’ve come across. As in, FUCKING COMPLETELY. The whole time I was fighting him he kept ranting and raving, and referring to himself in the third person – “Skarr” this, “Skarr” that – and so yeah, that settled the question of whether this was the right ogre, in case there ever was one. (And okay, let’s be fair, I guess it’s POSSIBLE he might not have been, and hoo boy, if it turned out he wasn’t, and I had charged and slammed him anyway, would my face have been red.) (No, wait, it wouldn’t. EXCEPT FROM THE BLOOD.) Anyway, he kept yammering on while we got to fighting, word salad half the time. We hacked away at each other, and he was hanging in there but really not posing much of a threat, when who should show up but the damn giant chimaera again. Swooped on in and starting breathing this freakish blue fire at me. Which really only sort of tickled a little, but it was annoying as hell.
Thing is, though, even that didn’t last too long. Because, you see, as it happens, Skarr wasn’t the only one with friends flying around the area, and, well, let me just put it this way:
Wyvern > Chimaera.
(Seriously, you should have seen Mortimer go to town on that thing. As a matter of fact, remind me to go into more detail about it later. You’ll thank me.)
So, it was back to me and Skarr, which being as it was a one-on-one fight now, really kind of left the fucking ogre outnumbered basically. I had him backed up to one of the ratty tents and was pretty obviously wearing him down, and at that point it was just a question of how to beat him without actually killing him, when all of a sudden I started feeling kind of weak in the legs. I stumbled a little, got my balance back, then went back to swinging at him…only my arms were feeling weaker now too. I damn near missed a parry on that huge fucking axe of his – and I NEVER have close calls like that. A couple more inches and he would have gotten my head. As I was pushing his axe back again – taking more effort that I should have needed, mind you – it hit me: the blade was poisoned. He hadn’t gotten a good hit on me the whole fight, but there had been a few glancing blows, just minor cuts really…but that would have been enough for the poison to take hold.
I took a second to reset my footing again, and you could tell he’d noticed I was off my game now, and he started pressing back more, and pushing me toward the hillside. I was still holding my own at this point, but it was taking more and more effort, and I could feel the poison kicking in and weakening me more. And I have to admit, as much as I know you have to stay focused in combat, I couldn’t help thinking how familiar it was.
So this is what it’s like to be on the other end of it.
Maybe I’ve had this coming. Maybe this is what balances the scales.
And right when I’m about ready to come out on the losing end of this one, cause of death: poetic justice, Skarr suddenly seizes up, locked in place with his head jerking up, then a second later splats down onto the ground unconscious, with Garona standing there behind him looking all proud of herself. Rogues and their sap-stun-kidney-shot-gouge-cheap-shot bullshit. Well, hey, I fucking wore him down for her first, so, you know.
We’ve just finished carrying him back to Stonemaul Hold. (And thank the spirits for that camel – that ogre was one HEAVY motherfucker.) We’ve got him detained in the main cave there, and we’ll be questioning him as soon as he comes to, and the camp apothecary hooks me up with a poultice to take care of the damn poison. Based on the word salad he was spouting out before, this should be interesting.
Quoth the Druid
Once upon a late night dreary,
As I pondered, weak and weary
After many – far too many –
Gaming hours sealed off aloof,
While I nodded, nearly napping
Suddenly there came a tapping
Like an o’erhead wyvern crapping
Crapping pellets on my roof.
“That’s no shitting wyvern,” said I,
“Casting crap upon my roof.
That’s just knocking, stupid goof.”
Yeah, I know, that was retarded
To think my roof had been bombarded
By some incontinent wyvern
Doing business as he’d soar.
But, you see, I was so sleepy,
And exhaustion had me weepy,
And the tapping knocks were creepy –
Creepy tapping at my door
So my sleepy brain went places
Places never gone before
Anyway, yeah, it’s the door.
Then I strode so very bravely
To the door and bellowed gravely,
“What the fuck, dude, have you never
Ever used your brain before?
Never mind the creepy tapping –
Shades of sounds of wyverns crapping –
Yeah, forget it – just recapping
How you knocked upon my door.
Never mind your oddball rapping
Freaked me out – I should be napping,
Having dreams of BG capping
(Just provided rogues aren’t sapping)
And of human spinal snapping,
Not to mention big game trapping,
To the wagon, carcass strapping,
Mount the head with hunters clapping,
Then I’ll do some vendor slapping,
Winter’s Veil and present wrapping,
Hear the sounds of brown wings flapping,
Shit, I’m back to wyverns crapping!
Fuck it! This whole part I’m scrapping.
(Yeah, I really need some napping.)
But, the knocking on my door:
Dude, the time – it’s half past four.
Look, I don’t know where you grew up,
Or what mess you’re here to brew up,
But I’ll tell you, dammit, this is
Not the hour to just drop by.
Wrists are sore and eyes are stinging,
Just two bubbles short of dinging,
So, believe me, you are clinging
To your last hope ere you die.
So what business are you bringing?”
Here no sound save crickets singing.
Silence. What’s the deal? Stand by.
“Listen up, dude, I’ve had enough.
Take a hike, and use a haste buff.
Otherwise, it’s late, so tell me
What you came here to discuss.
By all rights I should be sleeping,
But the weird hours that I’m keeping
Have saved you a heap of weeping
When you came to start a fuss.”
And at that, heroic leaping,
Flung the door wide open thus:
Holy fuck! Lather-on-us!
Just a moment was he standing,
Posture stern and face demanding,
And he said, “Hellscream, the wrath
Of DEHTA now shall you incur!”
That one really made me chuckle,
Then a feast of sandwich-knuckle
Flew at him – his knees did buckle
As in air he formed a blur.
All around my chamber flying
When by rights he should be dying!
All my grabs and swings defying
As my rage he dared to stir.
“What the fuck’s your problem!” crying
Out I chased the blasted cur.
Quoth the druid: “Mortimer.”
“Fucking bird!” I screamed as he fled.
“Fucking bird!” He pecked at my head
As he fluttered round the rafters
In the room – annoying, sure.
Swooping ’round, he did not tire.
“Fucking bird!” He hovered higher,
Just beyond my grasp entire,
On and on this did recur.
“Fucking bird!” (At least not fire.)
Flying feathered saboteur.
Quoth the druid: “Mortimer.”
“Yeah, but what about him, bastard?”
Flying nuisance flying faster.
“Fucking bird!” He dipped and dove
And pricked my side as if a burr.
Driven out onto the rampart,
“Fucking bird!” The pricks did restart.
Even though I got a head start
He was on my ass, yes sir.
Driven back into the railing,
Tired and drained, my strength was failing,
Hopelessly my weapon flailing –
Not the fate I would prefer.
“Fucking bird!” I kept on howling.
Then above there came a growling
As of some winged creature prowling,
Swooping down with claw and fur.
’Tis some diving bat or owling
Racing near as if a blur.
Eyes deceive me! Mortimer!
Lather-on-us squawked delighted,
With his ally reunited –
But his joy was quite shortsighted:
Not quite truth did he infer!
For the wyvern’s swooping anger
Loosed afresh from Kor’kron hangar
Was unleashed with piercing fang, er,
Fangs, I mean. (That’s plural, dur.)
And the druid’s damned demented
Diving dusky beak was dented
And his cries grew discontented
As a beating did occur.
Flapping wings of flutt’ring feathers
Slapped around by wyvern leather
As if saying, “Garrosh? Never!
You shall take your leave now, sir!”
Thought he had me? Yeah, whatever.
Some bad news I must confer.
Now go get ’im, Mortimer!
Now the druid’s stitched up, resting,
While my wyvern’s upstairs nesting,
In the attic pen I’d crafted
Where he makes contented purr.
Banes and bombs and birds fate may send,
Kor’kron guards may help to defend,
But above all, you can depend
On what nothing will deter.
Dog may be the human’s best friend –
For the orc? That’s Mortimer.
Off flight duty, that’s for sure.
EPIC VERSE!
