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"Tis been thirty days since the two mouthed Lord Smugly honored us with his presence" the village elder explained. The warriors of the land grow weak from lack of direction and substance. They are starting to hang their low, feeling worthless, muttering "Lord Smugly has forsaken us yet again" and "They took err jerrbs".
The bringer of information from the barbarian gods has forsaken us once more. He sits upon his throne in his Tower of Smug, whispering into his orb of chat, polluting other realms with his vauge doublespeak, as his chosen ones grovel across the Moat of Glutoney begging and pleading for the Drawbridge of Vagueness to be lowered and shower us all yet again with his bits and pieces of pre-reviewed foreshadowing.
Why do they ask for his return? The last time the warriors of the realm were honored by his mere presence, he cast a mighty Battleyawn that has destroyed many of our number.
He strode into our shanty town village, once long ago a mighty city, upon his paladin mount, wearing his druid headpiece and tossed a crumb upon the ground at our feet. "I present to you a glorious feast, so that you might replenish your wanning strength and remove yourselves from my moat of gluttony!" "But m'lord" the crowd sang in unison "tis but a crumb, and it has upon it five sunders and a rend!".
The Lord Smugly twisted his face in disdane "You dare to mock my feast! Tis from the Gods! How dare you question my gift, you the lowest of all classes! I shall bring upon your heads a great nerfing, the likes of which ye hast never seen, which may be hard to believe, since ye hast been nerfed every time I have appeared!"
"But hear me now! I shall give you pitiful new talents with awe-inspiring names that will mock the very letters that spell them! I shall make you grow weaker each time you rise in power and call it 'Scaling'! All this and more shall I do! And then, on the eve when it finally dawns upon you that all is lost, I shall report to the Barbarian Gods and tell them YOU said everything tis FINE!!!" The crowd gasped in horror.
With that he turned his back upon them, as he has done countless times in the past, and strode back into his Tower of Smug, the drawbridge closing behind him forevermore. And the warriors knew, as they knew before each great nerfing, they would suffer a smug the likes of which had never been smugged.
Already some warriors began to whimper, dropping their now too heavy weapons and slowly picking up wooden shields. Tearfully removing crit rings and exchanging names of friendly priests and healers. "But I dont wanna be a tank Papa..." a tiny voice was heard to say amongst the defeated crowd, and with those emotional words, the crowd wept.
The fields that once ran red with blood now sport grown men who have shed their mighty armor as it has grown too heavy for them to carry, instead preferring to lay in the grass and play with butterflies and make wishes upon shooting stars. The realm is littered with glowing weapons of power and devastation, all left lifeless, sucked dry by the lies and doublespeak of Smug. If you listen carefully as the wind blows from the west you can hear him snickering to himself in his closed tower.
We lay listless, limp and unoticed. The mighty warrior barracks which once housed the mightiest is now a druid school for tanking. The Taunting Fields of Glory are now occupied by paladins practicing their newfound talents. Rogues who once feared us have snuck into the fields and taken our crit rings and necklaces.
His village now in ruins, the huts either destroyed by smug or painted with daffodils and frowny faces, the town elder tearfully shook his lowered head as he leaned against his staff. "Remember, remember," he creaked "the 5th of December." then collapsed into a heap of mediocrity.
Alas, all is lost.
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