Let me paint you a picture. It's 2 AM. My neighbors are probably drafting a noise complaint. I've just died to Groal the Great for the thirty-seventh time. You know the drill – that sinking feeling as Hornet gets clipped by a half-off-screen lunge, the slow-motion horror of watching the Muckmaggot poison tick your health into oblivion, the arena itself conspiring against you with...
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