"I'm not looking forward to this," Fargor grumbles as he rests his heavy two-handed Paladin mace on the side of his legs. "I know that when I awake tomorrow things will not have improved." He shuffles his chest plate around, getting more comfortable for the forced sleep ahead of him.
"And damned if I do even wake up!"
Fargor slams his hairy Dwarven fist down on the wooden table, angry at the ruling Wizards of Dalaran for their impositions on him and everyone else.
All Osull and Marcella can do is look back and nod in acknowledgement, as they too feel more and more angst at the Wizards for their mysterious ways.
"At least it will only be part of a day," Osull offers up in comfort of the Dwarf. Marcella lays a supportive hand on the Osull's shoulder and nods her head in agreement, "Indeed kind Dwarf, it's only for eight hours."
The platitudes seem to do nothing for Fargor, as he shakes his head and says "Eight hours or eight years, it doesn't matter lass. No one should have a right to tell a Dwarf what to do!"
And as he says that the
Wizards can suddenly be heard throughout the city, "The realms will be down from three to eleven in the morning, as the mighty pacific clock tells time. Sleep well now citizens of Azeroth, for when tomorrow you awake things will be fresh and new..."
The voice trails off into nothingness and across the realms everyone stops what they're doing and falls asleep as they are.
The Wizard's maintenance has begun.
One week ago...