As kind of an epilogue/side-story to the previous post, last night I was blitzing through a goblin camp in North Downs for an easy rank of Zeal. There is a certain joy in being a level 81 tank with thousands of DPS who can one-shot everything with any of my skills, even the healing one and the one that makes people bow down before me. I made it a game to see how quickly and efficiently I could dash through the camp, kill everything, and then patiently wait for two minutes while it all respawned.
But it wasn’t until this morning that I looked at this experience through the eyes of the poor goblins and realized just how traumatic it must’ve been. There they are, just minding their own business, staying the heck away from any other settlements, and mostly camping out underneath the open stars. They while away the day by whittling sticks, putting their valuables (such as they are) into giant treasure chests, and petting their many adorable doggies.
Then a trumpet sounds and gouts of blood start erupting from outside the gate. A maniac woman wielding a six-foot great axe comes barreling through, cleaving the advance guards in twain with no effort. Behind her floats a spectral nightmare, a ghost archer who starts skewering any target the crazed valkyrie hasn’t killed yet. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to retreat to, just seconds left as death arrives in the form of a 30 mph sprinting full-plated warrior. The goblins never have a chance to even attack once before their heads are rolling around in the globby black blood on the ground. There’s no time to process the horrible nightmare that has descended upon this terrible day — no time, that is, until souls are yanked back from the great beyond, bodies are stitched back up, and firm invisible hands hold each terrified resurrected goblin in place while the angel of death returns.
Then again, quick rank of zeal. Score!