Wimzig’s Whimsy: Don’t Mug a Death Knight
Once again, he was comfortable enough to call Ironforge home. In life, he was an enthusiastic, albeit ineffective vendor of water, but in death, he merely wandered. He was okay with that.
Muttering to himself about “life ambitions,” he wandered down an alleyway from the Forge to the Military Quarter, which during that time of the evening, was devoid of the dwarven populace. He could do now what he was clearly unable to as a lowly frost mage, barely into his early seasons serving the alliance.
Wimzig’s eyes fixated up on the numerous combat dummies that scattered throughout the alley. With a mechanical response, his instincts drew him closer to them. You could use the practice, he thought. Although Wimzig was more runt than ravager, his mental sharpness and skill with the elements of ice served him to be quite the underestimated Frost Knight.
He grabbed at the hilt of his axe, frozen with death, which hung around his back with a rough nerubhide strap. He set down a bag of his personal belongings, and began to swing at a straw-strewn figure before him. He noted the arcs of his swing, carefully adjusting its trajectory with each repetition, ensuring maximum penetration and effectiveness on enemy flesh. He was satisfied with the result, and quickly ceased his impromptu self-training.
To his dismay, Wimzig discovered that his bag had disappeared. In his previous moment of absolute concentration, he realized that the brief window of inattentiveness towards his belongings had rendered him a victim of petty theft. Ashamed of himself, a killing machine, he sought to amend his uncharacteristic mistake.
He mounted his steed, which, due to his own height, was no larger than a pony. Much like its master, the “deathcharger’s” size appeared inappropriate for its intended namesake, but served its purposes nonetheless, as it galloped away in an instant.
Unnatural thoughts of revenge and death surged through the cold veins of the angered gnome. His posessions were personal, and included a diary of his personal victories and defeats in his previous life. It was his only indication and proof of life at all, and thus he sought to end the life of the degenerate who threatened to take it away from him.
Blazing through the murky dark of the Forlorned Caverns, he spotted a blurred figure spiriting away into a secret pathway hidden between the shops. Dismounting immediately, Wimzig’s momentum retained as he turned towards his assailant. Perfectly able to smell the treachery, he caught up to him. A lowlife goblin, unsurprisingly.
Without hesitation, he conjured up his axe, and sliced through the greenskin effortlessly, as if he were knifing through melting butter. The goblin collapsed into the ground in a pile of parts, and Wimzig was once again with his possessions.
Leafing through his belongings, he found his diary, and read through its pages once more. Procuring a pen from the same bag, he wrote.
23 January. Practiced my axe on an Ironforge combat dummy. Paid dividends immediately afterwards.