There I was, surrounded on all sides, backed into a corner. The undead hordes were coming for me, and I couldn’t escape. My whole body was one tense muscle, feline reflexes prepared for the leap that would either take me straight over their heads, or see me torn from the sky to my death at the stinking hands of the rotten zombies that had trapped me. It felt like the end, and I found myself whispering prayers to Elune that it would at least be fast – that I would die a hero’s death worthy of a druid who had made a stand against Deathwing, who had faced down the Lich King, who had aided in the building of a druid stronghold within none other than the Firelands, and stood as the only creature between my dearest friends and certain death as we made our way to the final confrontation with the Destroyer.
Was this to be the end, then? Was this it for me? I swiped and snarled, thrashing and snarling. But of course, corpses cannot be intimidated. They kept coming. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of them. Their stench filled my sensitive nose, and I backed up until my tail almost bumped into a wall. I prepared to close my eyes and make the leap when I heard thundering hoofbeats.
It was their leader, riding up on a Crimson Deathcharger, spurring the undead horde into action. But my eyes had already found my salvation.
The horse the Death Knight rode was snorting blue flames, it’s eyes rolling in their sockets, glaring back at it’s rider in hatred. The Death Knight controlled the fearsome undead beast with force and pain. The horse was close to turning on him. It just needed a catalyst.
And, after all, “catalyst” starts with “cat.”
I judged my distance, what I would have to do. The horse and rider had entered the undead horde now and were making their way toward me, the rider intending to cut me down with his runeblade. And unknowingly providing my potential for escape. I backed up further, pressing my back against the wall, curling my tail around me, hissing and swiping at the enemies all around. A few more steps…almost…almost… NOW!
I leaped with all my strength, soaring over the heads of the first three rows of undead, and slamming into the mounted Death Knight with a roar. Startled at my weight and probably my claws, the horse reared. The shocked rider was thrown into the undead horde, but I kept my balance, my claws digging into the horse’s saddle and (just a bit) into the horse’s dead flesh. The moment the rider was thrown I grabbed the reins in my mouth and shapeshifted back to my natural Worgen form. With a smack from my heels and a jerk of the reins, the horse – now MY Crimson Deathcharger – reared and charged, plowing down the remaining rows of undead as I raced to escape the nightmare of old Stratholme.
Perhaps Baron Rivendare had won this time, but I would be back. And some day I would add HIS mount to my collection as well. For now, I had a Crimson Deathcharger to call my own – one who I would be treating MUCH better than it’s previous owner did. And that evening we roamed the streets of Stormwind together as I got my mount accustomed to a life without pain. And that’s the story of how I got my Crimson Deathcharger.
What do you mean you thought I got it in a trade? Well…maybe I did. But what kind of story is THAT to tell?