Dear Horde,
In Nazjatar, I will kill you.
When your friends arrive, I will kill them, too.
And then, when you come back to life, I’ll kill you again.
When you’re a furious Warrior trying to get your revenge against me, please give chase. Chase me alone, into the deepest, darkest cave, so we can be together. There, I’ll show you the way. There, I can soothe your rage just before you spin yourself straight into my thorns. That’s not just the sound of your ego dying to a cat’s claws; that’s the sound of me, killing you.
When you’re an insufferable Demon Hunter flapping your way into the sky to rain fel lances down from above, I’m delighted! My shadowmeld lets me work on something while I wait: Murloc laundry. As you float back down, straight into my jaws, your wings sing to me the sweetest of swan songs. With clean socks, I will kill you.
When you’re a Priest, whispering a desperate prayer, I want you to know: Dispersion is merely a shadowy breeze running through my whiskers. It also helps me clean out gristle from the last Horde I’ve eaten. So, you’re welcome to do that. For us both. Before I kill you.
When I find you, Rogue, ganking on the bridge outside of Mezzamere, I salivate. There’s no Druid transformation more satisfying than transforming the ganker into the gankee. You may try to run and hide, but we both know staying in stealth isn’t easy when you’re bleeding out. I can see you clearly, limping back to Newhome, and what’s more: I can clearly see me, killing you.
When you’re a Warlock, foolishly bounding around the Coral Forest with your Deepcoral Pod, understand this: I do not fear you. Your curses dissipate with a shrug of my feline shoulders, and your bolts of chaos will never touch me. You will feel more agony in death than Anemonar, watching his precious Sky Ray murdered before him. Because I will kill you, and make all of your demons watch.
Death Knights, feel some comfort that your pitiful attempts at death strikes do actually tickle me, somewhere, deep down inside. I can count to five, but to you, trapped and tangled in my roots, it must feel an eternity (and I know you’re used to suffering). The good news is that you will eventually find “release”. But only, of course, after I’ve killed you.
If you’re a Hunter, I can understand why you might briefly confuse me for one of your loyal animals. But there’s no bandage to mend the pain I’m fetching you. You’ll wish you could collar me, but instead I’ll just leave you under your turtle shell, to contemplate where you lost your way. Because under that shell, my disobedient bleeds will absolutely kill you.
When you summon a thunderstorm to knock me off a cliff, Shaman, don’t feel bad when you find my claws leaping right back into your face. Druids just have a better mastery of these natural forces. It’s ok; you can tell yourself that you never had a chance, anyway. It’s much more calming to go with the flow, and submit to your watery death. In Nazjatar. Where I will kill you.
Monks, I hope you’ve had your tea when I find you, because you will need it. Just slow down; my bleeds are to be savored! I have gained much wisdom in my travels, but there’s ultimately only one lesson that I guarantee you will learn, here: the four elements are Storm, Earth, Fire, and a cat killing you.
Precious Mages, please remember an important detail: I’m no one’s sheep. I’m a cat, waiting for the moment until your buns are well and properly cooked. When you Ice Block, do you think I’ll lose interest and wander off? No. I’ll tap my claws on the frozen exterior and drool, like a hungry Kul Tiran, peering through the window at a seaside donut shop. Because as soon as you thaw, I will kill you.
If you’re a Paladin, I feel your frustration (as much as I can feel my own joy whilst fighting you). You sadly won’t be able to avenge anyone’s wrath because you’re stuck in place with a truly righteous wound. I am happy to add a splash of red to your lonely consecrated ground, though, as I watch you die from what I can only assume is a frustratingly distant distance. When you’re locked in a holy war against your own panic, valiantly attempting to bubble-hearth, nothing pleases my magic banana more. Because there’s no retreat this time. I will kill you.
Even if you’re another Druid, pressing your clumsy paws on some helpless sea snake to see if it swallowed any pearls today, don’t worry: I don’t discriminate against my own. Bring me moonfire, or try to run, with flowers in your wake. The truth is I envy you, since you’ll soon be even closer to nature than I. But, only because you’ll be underground. Because I will kill you.
With War Mode Never Off,
-Salty Kalechips
P.S. For The Alliance!
