Saturday, July 9, 2011

Drabble: Rites of passage.

Well-rested and restless. Luperci flew around Northrend, and found herself steering towards Dragonblight. A little gnome mage put out a call for help. Lupe felt bloated and lazy, but she answered the plea. She killed the enemy, the oathbreaker, fiend, and the gnarly animal. This was done without triumph or joy, but pure duty. Pure, grey, tasteless duty. Responsibilities without love, ashen and pale, turned her to annoyance. Her sister, the golden one, never had this issue, she imagined. Oh, if she could remove this shield, but the flux of conscientiousness welded it to her missing wings, forever it seemed. 

Note: Luperci is at that awkward stage. Level 78, still using her level 70 PvP purples, waiting for the magic moment of 80 to 85. And that's when the real work begins. "She" sincerely misses her healing friend. No need to come back, no call to answer: real world takes precedence every time. But this friend's insight has served that little pig-tailed tank well so far.

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