Magelog

And so, the plucky mage didst exceed level sixteen, by felling a forest of warthogs. Cashing in a mountain of meat and intestines, he felt strangely confident about tackling the small, scuttling crabs on the sea-shore of Westfall. Although, he could not find the pumpkin farm where he was supposed to liberate a precious wrist-watch from some thievering Defias Smugglers.

Reaching the city of Stormwind, our plucky mage gasped with exhaustion after casting 7,000 level 1 fireballs. He had needed to do this to plough through various mild-mannered denizens of the wilds, who were very slowly steamed to death. Staggering into the mage's quarter, he realised yet another foolish mistake that had ill-served him. He had neglected to buy new spells! There before him was a motherlode, a veritable Christmas Hamper of spells dealing all flavours of death and destruction. Newly bristling with power, he stormed back to the coast, where scuttling crabs had almost killed him dozens of times, and "opened the can". When the smoke cleared, there was pieces of fried crab and Murloc entrails raining from the sky, falling all around with a pleasant pitter-pattering sound.

The mage had become seasoned. His once meagre repertoire of feeble flares and twinkly lights was a memory, now brandishing a fearsome array of gizzard-busting crater-makers. Where once he saw 'risk', now he sees 'cost'. Where he once saw 'Morlocs', he now sees only 'Sushi'. His thousand yard stare now permanent set, he wanders zen-like in the wake of his fellow adventurers, Sheeping, Blizzarding and Arcane Exploding foes at will. For some reason, he still prefers the tangy taste of melon juice to water, and occasionally enjoys raining icy storms of death on large fields of dead crabs. Laughing unexpectedly, like a shrill, maniacal Banshee! All great magicians have their eccentricities.