I iz feral, hear me rawr. (Part 1)

((I can not stand boomkins. I am sure that you are all lovely people in real life, but that stupid-looking chicken-bear-moon-thing grates on my nerves like they were soft cheese.

Shush. That metaphor totally made sense.))

Laia has always been a feral druid. From the very first moment that she started bouncing on my screen, I knew that a path of finger-twirling was not for me. I wanted Laia to be a savage huntress of the wild, with muscles like steel springs under thick violet fur. I wanted her to be the eyes in the darkness, beauty and ferocity combined, not some silly antlered owl-creature.

I thwacked things on the head with my staff for ten levels, eagerly awaiting my first form. The second I finished the questline, I smashed that icon with all the strength in my hand.

There was a poof of lavender smoke, and then a massive, hulking beast, covered in tattoos and wielding claws like scythes, sat scratching itself on my monitor. I nearly succumbed to helpless weeping on the spot.

Laia was strong now, her iron hide blunting the blows of her foes, the keen nose of the bear warning her of any that would dare to stalk her down. Her weak, mortal shell was no longer neccessary, the strength of the ancient forest spirit compensating for any elven weakness. She was unstoppable.

I have never stopped loving the sheer, raw power of a druid's bear form. Even today, I feel like Laia simply tolerates the trapping of civilization around her, that she could stalk off into the woods and return, unscathed, in a few years.

Ten more levels passed, and the shape of a panther was hers. This shape she (and I) liked even more. We were swift death in the shadows, mist in the hands of our enemies, the whisper of a growl on the wind.

We never gained another form after that, aside from the skin of a cheetah, and the soft hide of a sea lion, but those do not truly count because they are not specialized for combat. The silent hunting of prey through the wilds, the pounce and the feel of their throat between your jaws, the sweet blood that splatters on your whiskers as your fangs slice through their flesh and end their life, the meat of the kill, rightfully earned by skill and wisdom, these are the things that are the triumph of the huntress. These things made us grow stronger in the way of the predator, that endless cycle of life and death that is failure to the dead and victory to the living. We embraced it, gloried in it, chose moss-strewn hollows for soft beds and lapping water from forest pools for a mug of ale at a tavern.

We were wild, free, and unstoppable, with not a care in the world or an obligation to anyone. Until, that is, we found our family.

((This post sort of turned itself into a RPed one as I wrote it. It's rather nice, actually, I hope you don't mind, my non-existent readers. ))