I returned from Quel’Danas feeling almost holy again. The Sunwell’s glow still lingered on my skin, my thoughts quieter than they’d been in ages, my spirit actually centered for once. Golden light, gentle waves, and not a single idiot dying to random AoE. I felt reborn. Ready.
So of course I queued straight into an unrated Battle for Gilneas.
What followed was ten minutes of the purest psychological warfare I’ve endured in weeks. And none of it came from the Alliance.
My own team managed to turn a perfectly good match into absolute chaos. We’d cluster together like we had some brilliant coordinated plan, then immediately scatter in three different directions and plant ourselves firmly in the dead zone between the Waterworks and the Lighthouse, as if it were a scenic overlook instead of a slaughter field. I was spamming heals like a woman possessed, watching their health bars melt away for reasons that had nothing to do with enemy damage. They were dying purely from confusion and spectacularly bad life choices.
At one point I actually shouted across the field, “Are you guys bots? I genuinely don’t understand what is happening right now.”
Silence. Naturally.
Now I’m back home, the Sunwell’s peace already feeling like a distant memory, wondering why I keep doing this to myself. Why do I queue with even a flicker of hope that “this time it’ll be different”? What am I chasing in these random pugs? Competent teammates? A miracle carry? The fleeting sweetness of an actual win?
At this rate I’m going to need a permanent reserved spot on Quel’Danas just to survive my own battleground habit.
~Sahsha
(Weary Discipline Priest Freshly Returned from the Sunwell, Professional Healer of Hopeless Causes, and Already Craving Another Retreat)