Stage Fright

I’m sure I’m not the only one to be afflicted with such. That double-entendre feeling of wanting to be noticed, attended to, looked up to, yet you feel your heart gripped by fear of rejection, of being reviled, of feeling the baleful eye of public scrutiny focus upon you and the chance you will be found unsuitable.

I’ve decided the Secret Agent Cat should be about all things cat-related. Knowing me, of course, as soon as something is spoken its broken and this time next week I’ll be discussing dot-rotations on warlocks. But this is my goal, to collect from all the internethers the best information regarding cat druids and the DPS thereof, digest it, then regurgitate it out for any and all in, hopefully, a more pleasing and sensible manner.

The whole is just a sum of its parts yes? Yes.

And with that said, now for something completely different!


Under the hard edge of a dirt-crusted hoof cracked the thin top layer of ice, floating atop the snow. The sky arced above, palest of washed-out blues as the snow-clad fields outside of K3 slumbered. The hills and dunes, drifts and sweeping escarpments were wrapped in murky blue shadow.

The air smelled sharp as Coal scented the breeze which creeped in, crackling inside her nose with its chill. It was the morning. As the aged druid canted her head upward she could see the line of dawn creeping down from the mountains.

How different the morning broke upon the hills of Northrend compared to those much gentler rolling plains of Mulgore. Strangely enough, she found the cold and the isolation comforting. Here the sun was a nurturing mother, greeting her children of the world with the utmost gentleness. She crept upon them, bathing them in the palest rose glow, disturbing them not, yet waking the world anew.

The Tauren loved the morning. It was a celebration of a new day and a reaffirmation of life. As the rosy line of morning crept down from the heights, Coal shook herself from her maudlin reverie, how like the Taunka she had become,  and brushed off a dusting of snow. She raised her head to the sky and shifted.

Stretching her wings she flew up, up and up. Up until the shadow of the peaks no longer wrapped her in the predawn chill, up across that magical line of morning where she could see the sun cresting the horizon, where she felt the slighest hint of warmth on her primaries.


I’m out and on the road every morning before sunrise. I don’t like it, but I’m not blind and sunrises, especially over a landscape locked under a layer of snow and ice, are absolutely beautiful.


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