Argent Gossip Girl


At long last, a little something for you to enjoy while I go look into matters in Feralas.  My latest creation, BECAUSE YOU DEMANDED IT!


High Argent Confessor,
They call me that these days.
Once I was just Paletress,
No difference either way:
Just a simple Elwynn girl
Who joined the Argent Dawn;
I heard what would await me,
And baby, I was gone.
Truth is, I was not inspired
By service to the Light;
Nor did loathing of the Scourge
Compel me to the fight.
But to be a confessor?
To hear folks’ guilt and hurt?
I’ll comfort countless weary souls—
And hear some juicy dirt!
Confessions are in secret,
But wine is like truth serum;
And since you’re buying, between us,
I guess that you could hear ’em.

* * * * *

Mighty Warchief of the Horde,
Thrall: admired, revered, adored.
Blue-eyed orc,
Still a dork,
Way too straight and narrow.
Goody-two-shoes to the last:
Too few scandals in his past;
Worth adoring,
But so boring!
Straight A’s at Caer Darrow. 

You should have some better stories,
Tales of blood and rage and glory!
Not a one?
You’re no fun.
Such wasted potential!
Green skin marked by fiendish fel stream;
Kill a pit lord, raise some Hellscream,
Drink and brawl,
Listen, Thrall,
You need badass credentials!

You’re a mighty shaman, true,
But people won’t be scared of you
When as bad
As you’ve had
Is library past-due.
Kick some ass and take some names.
Give me something; this is lame.
Clark Kent, drat.
(Wait, who’s that?)
Green, but you can work blue.

To be fair, such trials to weather,
You had to have your shit together.
Freed the clans,
Fought the man,
Birthright to reclaim, huh?
Maybe memory’s mildly muddy
From being Saurfang’s drinking buddy?
But if not,
Well, nice thought.
At least, hey, you banged Jaina.

* * * * *

Where’ve you been?
Hiding with the Frostborn.
Tale belied:
Thought you’d died
When the prince found Frostmourne.
Pain and grief,
Such relief
To know that you’re not dead.
Slick respawn:
Mem’ries gone
From when you bonked your head.

At least that’s what you tell them now.
Cover story?  Yes, and how.
You come to me
To unburden your spirit.
Really you just wanted out
From all the guilt and fear and doubt;
Plagued your mind,
What they’d find
And what they’d do to hear it.

Back when Moira went away
Dragged to BRD, they say.
Was the man,
At least you let them think.
Now she’s joined the Dark Iron coven,
Little dwarf bun in the oven,
But forsooth,
Want the truth?
You’d better grab a drink.

Bronzebeard scandal – yeah, you guessed it.
You two went and straight incest’d it.
Yes you did.
Dagran’s kid?
That tale is kind of fishy.
She went hiding in the depths
While you by arctic winds were swept:
Better dead
Than inbred,
Except you’re not that squishy.

What a sin!
Knocking up your niece.
When he grows,
Has twelve toes:
A conversation piece.
So reviled,
Punishment exquisite:
Chaste you’ve kept
(Well, except
When Jaina came to visit).

* * * * *

Tirion the Argent Highlord!
Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.
Truth be told, I cannot afford
Losing this job; so do I dare
Spill the beans on Fordring?  Listen—
When we blab, he takes our heads off.
But I see the wine glass glisten—
Top it off once and all bets off.

Just a little more,
Pour it to the brim.
Here’s what you came for:
All the dirt on him.

Holy Light, that man’s insane!
Really, you would never guess it.
Hunting penguins with a cane—
Half the time he’ll even bless it.
Every day he staggers in
Angry-drunk and spewing rage.
Let him spot you, he’ll begin
To curse you out and act deranged.

Did I tell you what he did
The one time Eadric raised his voice?
Let’s just say he can’t have kids:
Eadric’s not “the Pure” by choice.
He steadfastly will refuse
To dine without his lucky mittens;
Mention Arthas, blow his fuse,
And he’ll go set fire to kittens.

If you are a lass
Don’t give him the chance
To grab at your ass.
(He won’t let me wear pants.)

I love the stories that I hear,
All the scandals, sleaze, and strife;
But I swear with Tirion near
I honestly fear for my life.
He’s unstable, he’s a loon,
Loud and lewd with vices diffuse.
Hunting Scourge and hunting poon:
Talk to Jaina.  (Daddy issues…)

* * * * *

Honored heir of House of Wrynn,
Varian, where to begin?
Stormwind’s king,
Touchy thing:
Temper, temper, sire.
First Cathedral of the Light,
Robs the coffers, then takes flight.
Just you wait,
Off’ring plate:
Empty.  Yep, it’s dire.

Why so angry?  Why destroy
The Church he’d served as altar boy?
Years ago,
Don’t you know,
Reading age for Highlights:
Benedictus, pastor then,
Spotted one young Varian,
Oh so sad,
Showed the lad
An early Hour of Twilight.

Ever since then, he’s been damaged;
Bloody miracle he managed
To perform
So was born
A son to House of Wrynn.
Don’t know how hard Tiffin tried;
Virginal king since she died.
Jaina?  Nay.
That fine day
Was saved for Anduin.

(Fuck you, Varian.)

* * * * *

No more wine?
Okay, fine.
No more stories, then!
Change your mind?
Till next time!
I’m sure we’ll meet again.

When you pour,
I’ll tell more.
No need to make a fuss.
But don’t fear,
Jaina dear,
That weekend’s between us.



So here's the plan
Monday mailbag
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December 11, 2011 6:30 pm

That truly WAS epic verse.

December 11, 2011 6:58 pm

Haha! Aww, poor Jaina!