One cannot help but admire, with a certain detachment, the splendid spectacle of Azeroth’s megaservers, not unlike the fields of Alterac Valley, where all were gathered, each to display their refinement, yet none truly acquainted. Here, too, thousands assemble in grand procession, each purse lightened by 600 gold for a mere Flask of the Supreme Power, paid not with reluctance but with the solemn joy of those who accept custom as necessity.
In former times, one might have ventured forth with companions, trading good cheer and small courtesies beneath the boughs of Felwood; now, all is transacted in the great auction hall, a palace of numbers where friendship is measured in buyouts and loyalty lasts but until the next undercut. The Black Lotus, that most rare of blooms, makes its appearance with all the ceremony of a rogue’s backstab, only to vanish before any hand dares reach for it.
Inflation reigns as sovereign, speculation as minister; community, alas, has been dismissed from court, her presence deemed quaint but inefficient. Yet still, we attend, day after day, not out of need, but habit - for what is Azeroth if not a grand masquerade, where chaos wears the mask of order, and we, ever-patient courtiers, bow politely before the absurd?