I am the Warrior.
When you see me, I will, most likely, not be attired formally. I will be encased in my steel. It will be dirty, bloody, and battered. I do not have a quick tongue or eloquent speech. I know nothing of the manners of the King's court, or the ettiquette of the formal ball.
I am known by many names. Tank. Meatshield. Fighter. Brawler. Corpse.
I am the Warrior.
I have not the capability, nor the inclination, to hide. I cannot strike from stealth with devastating blows, then fade into the darkness. I cannot incinerate a foe from twenty paces away. I cannot deal death from a distance, safe from the return attacks of my enemy. In order to kill, I must close with the enemy. I see his eyes. I smell his breath. I taste his fear. And he tastes mine.
I cannot bend Nature to do my bidding. I cannot tap into the Nether and force it to do what I command. I cannot study the arcane and master it to my control. I command nought but my mind, my body, and my will. It is by those, and those alone, that I stand or fall.
I have no friends on my journey. No walkers of the void, summoned from the Nether as servants and bodyguards. No loyal beasts of the plains or woods, to defend me and comfort me in my pain. My sole companion is my weapon. I must care for it better than any hunter has ever cared for his beast. I must master it more than any warlock has ever mastered his demon. Without me, it is useless. Without it, I am nothing.
I cannot heal. I cannot shield. I cannot call upon the gods and see my prayers answered. I call to the spirits of my ancestors in the heat of battle, and they are silent. My only ability to protect is to offer myself, my blood and bone and sinew, as a sacrifice. To draw the attacks of our foes. To take the blows that would kill a lesser being, and continue to fight on.
I cannot kill with the speed and grace of the rogue, the suddenness and shock of the hunter, or the flamboyance and power of the mage. When I kill, it is a slow business. Slow and bloody for all concerned, myself included. I fight on, pummeled and battered so that my companions may receive the glory of the kill and the wreaths of victory. If I die and they yet live, it is an expected sacrifice.
I come in all races, all sizes. I fight under a thousand flags, on a million battlefields. I am dismissed by the highborn, scorned by the noble, lectured by the priest, and forgotten by the peasant. Until the time when the trumpets of battle sound, and those who would destroy them come forth. And then the cry goes up..."Where, oh where, is the Warrior?"
Pray to your gods that I continue to answer that call.
Few do answer the call. Fewer still survive. It is a long and hard road, this way of the Warrior. Along it lie pain, and fear, and death. Scant rewards and scanter gratitude. At the end, for most, is an anonymous grave on some windblown battlefield. If they are lucky.
And yet, I fight on. I do not even know why. Perhaps for glory, perhaps for fame, perhaps for money, perhaps for my country, perhaps for my family. Perhaps it is simply all I know how to do. But fight I will. Whether you appreciate it or not. Whether you even notice it or not. I will be out there, on the battle lines. Fighting. Killing. Dying.
I am the Warrior.
Death is my business.
Be it yours...or mine.
As the copper that is traded throughout azeroth, so is our blood on the battlefield, with only the promise of enduring overtime in endless battles, I shall seek a quick end to my demise, though fortitude and will guide me, it is the rage of battle wich fuels me.
Knowing I move in by morning and leave at night, I am humbled each day, by each sunrise and sunset.
It is only fear that I fear, with the blood of my ancestors I press on in there footsteps. I seek the worst azeroth has to offer, knowing my weapon only will be remembered for who's blood it bears, it offers a legacy to those to follow in our path.
If we should meet on an open battlefield, I should be slain with haste, for it is the blood of battle that makes me stronger, and the cries of fallen warriors that enrages me, should a swift death be granted, you have spared your life and made those to come after me stronger.
As the fires spread and the battles rage across azeroth, you will find me, not dead, but alive and full of fury, like a whirlwind I will reap the battlefields and stain them red, for it is all I know, and I should think that someday there will be no more wars, because someday the chaos should be subdued by those brave enough to sense the urgency, and yeild to the call.
My armor is not shiny or polished and my weapons are not cleaned, I should kneel before kings and nobles, for it is not my matter to mingle in the polotics of such affairs or speak with great words. My honor, my courage serve me well and are cast before my companions to protect those who can entertain such granduer.
I am rarely fortunate enough to escape my foes, and it is this that has made me master my weapons and raise them in defiance.
If I should see death and know it is mine, I shall intercept it, I will demoralize it in defiance before I go, I will shred its tendons and slow its progress as it seeks out my faction, and if time permits I should disarm death so that it may overtake itself.
Should our weapons cross, and our wills collide, may the better warrior win.
I am the warrior.