I remember it as if it were yesterday. I had just logged off my hobbit after smoking a pipe, or two, of Old Toby and signed on to my reaver. I stared in awe at the instruments of death I wielded and proceeded to kill things in glee.
The next day started pretty much the same. I logged off my hobbit after smoking a pipe, or two, of Old Toby and logged onto my reaver but, my weapons were gone! In its place an ugly stranger resided in each of my hands. "I can't kill thing's with these," I told myself, as I logged off. When I logged back on I remained in disgust. Another cheap imitation of a weapon wormed it's way into the grasps of my hands. "I'll just have to try this again," I reassured myself. This continued to the point where I had spent the better part of an hour logging on and off.
Eventually, I logged back to my hobbit to smoke another pipe, or two, of Old Toby as I drifted off into a deep slumberous sleep. As I slept I dreamed of a world where I could choose my weapons. To advance the tiers of the vast threshold of intimidating weaponry and not only inflict death, but to strike fear into the hearts of those who lay witness to the weapons I wield in battle.