Another Day in Middle Earth

Milkweed:  “Hail, Glorfindel of the elves!  I have been sent by a different, random elf to aid you in your battles on behalf of the free peoples!”

Glorfindel:  “Greetings Milkweed Slug Squasher!”

Milkweed:  “Beg pardon?”

Glorfindel:  “Slug Squasher!  It’s your title!  Right there – above your head.”

Milkweed:  “Whups!  Lets see, open character window, go to titles…”

Glorfindel:  “Greetings Milkweed, Apprentice Forester!”

Milkweed:  “Wait a minute…”

Glorfindel:  “Greetings Milkweed, Easily Lost!”

Milkweed:  “Hang on…”

Glorfindel:  “Greetings Milkweed, Purveyor of Odd Things…  Expert Forester…  Spider Smasher…  Firecracker…  Executioner of the Wicked….”

Milkweed:  “There we go.”

Glorfindel:  “Greetings Milkweed, Executioner of the Wicked!  The Free People have need of your blades!  We face a dire threat – elk!”

Milkweed:  “Elk?”

Glorfindel:  “Elk.”

Milkweed:  “This is like that ‘spider’ thing again, isn’t it?”

Glorfindel:  “No, brave Milkweed, for these are no ordinary elk!  These elk are…”

MIlkweed:  “Undead Barrow Elk?  Goblin Elk?  Elk who have fallen victim to the seldom mentioned 37 rings forged to bind the elk to the power of the Dark Lord Sauron?”

Glorfindel:  “No, no.  They’re just elk.”

Milkweed:  “So what’s so threatening about these elk?”

Glorfindel:  “They’re level 37.”

Milkweed:  “WHAT???  THAT’S INSANE!”

Glorfindel:  “You see the problem.  Should even one of these elk get loose in a lower level area such as Thorin’s Hall, Bree, or he Shire it would effortlessly slaughter every man, woman, and child, leaving behind only high level questgivers.  These Elk MUST BE CULLED FOR THE SAFETY OF MIDDLE EARTH!”

Milkweed:  *SIGH*  “How many?”

Glorfindel:  “Ten.”

Milkweed.  “Got it.  Ten.”

Glorfindel:  “And bear in mind the quest is repeatable!”

Milkweed:  “Repeatable.”

Glorfindel:  “AND while you are out there you should also kill some bears.  The dwarves need blankets.”

Milkweed:  “Why not just use the elk?”

Glorfindel:  “Dwarves don’t like elk blankets.  The’re not dour enough.”

Milkweed:  “I hate this job.”

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