I turned around suddenly to the clang of the gates behind me, viewing the span of a burning city before me. Undead horrors and abominations stared blankly and stumbled in sporadic groups. The city of Stratholme lay in ruins, overrun by the legions of the Lich King. I was alone; a still green adventurer that only two days prior was wandering the halls of the Scarlet Monastery. "I thought that the Scarlet Crusade was stationed here somewhere," I thought to myself. Knowing I could make no difference to the fate of this doomed city, I dug through my pack for my hearthstone, and touched it. The city view blurred and vanished before me.
My first adventure into Stratholme was far less poetic than the excerpt of my fan-fic above. Instead, it was filled with far more obscenities and questions as to why I can't get out, and statements of how no group could ever possibly take on 10 mobs, be them elite or not. They should have stuck a warning sign out front! I think back on that day, a year and a half ago, where I realized that the game did not end at 60. In fact, it had barely begun for me. And I've recently realized that the same can be said for 70.