And lo, IceFrog heard the cry of the people. From his spire he could hear it, the lamentations of all those souls lost trying to go high ground. Players Necro Scythed into the nether, unable to return. The howls of Wyvern pickers, the screams of Lyralei spammers, the weeping of Bane players. He heard their pain, and their sorrow, and for a moment, he felt for them. He wondered, idly, if today was the day. “7.07? Is it time?” He’d resolved long ago to make them wait- to let them feel that pain, and to feel no remorse. But that day, his will flickered.
In another world, that was the day we got the patch, at long last. But in our world, that was the moment that his brother IceFraud decided to whisper in his ear, and the worlds were like poison: “Le Balanced Plague Priest.”
In a fury, IceFrog shoved his brother aside, and stormed away from his balcony, away from the agonized cries of the Dota players. There would be no patch that day. They didn’t deserve it.
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