Drabble: A dagger.

At one time, the dagger was wrapped in runecloth lace, crocheted by ancient sisters. The memory of its noble edge was long forgotten. Zep sensed the pulse, something poetic, not the pub-brawl poker it had become. Direbrew’s blood polished the blade once or twice. It was a blade meant for prison fights, not a dalliance or dance between ladies and gentlemen. This blade was a street fighter’s blade. No fairness. Kidney punches and in the back, fistfuls of hair, and jugular veins released. She felt the edges of her shoulder blades where wings grow, while wrapping the blade in embersilk.


Señor: Zeptepi looted the Coren Direbrew's Bloodied Shanker today. Bet Chap could take him out. She's going to keep in her bags for awhile, just in case someone messes with her.

That's just like, your opinion man.

 Someone's Original Artwork for Which I Cannot Find the Reference

Haven't been playing Luperci much lately. Was kind of saving myself for tonight: a guildmate scheduled painless Zul runs, because still being in PUGs with those can hurt. Besides, I need loot redemption for those damned plate shoulders I passed on last time by mistake. (*Bangs head on desk, doesn't see red Swingline stapler and it leaves a mark.*)

GM basically implied the other day I am too nice to tank. He is not. 

I am not sure the superlative 'nicest tank ever' applies to me, but perhaps lack of confidence does. So, I'll get back in there, and do my best. And try to get those shoulders: stronger ones might help me hold up those standing on them better.

Postscript: Situation: Cranky dwarf with a chip on his shoulder over his brewing techniques feels slighted. Luperci goes in there everyday to have a chat. Does fine. No one has ever died. Until this morning. Druid dies immediately. Then everyone struggles - and the priest dies next. I barely hang on and have to use LOH on COREN DIREBREW.

I don't know. Beats the sh*t out of me.

Apparently, this is an opportunity for the healer to criticize my tanking skills. "Tank didn't have on righteous fury." (I did. Didn't I? Did the buff drop off the second I went in there? Second guessing and self-doubt: worse than bosses.) Crixa still has issues.

That's right nimrods and numbnuts: I saved the day. You're welcome.

 Oh well. My shield is going to start to reflect back to you players. I honestly do not care if a DPS dies. It happens. You pull the baddies to you, think you can take them all on, and then wonder why you...can't. There are some solid reasons why there are roles, delegated responsibilities. We don't care if our DPS is highest--we are your shoulders to stand on and rock. Needed a little redemption after this, and sure enough, did great. Coren got that chipped knocked off of him in no time flat, no muss, no fuss.

On the plus side, Matty did win the Swift Ram! 

Comes with cup holders.

Lost in the mail.

This is the only engraved invitation I have ever been in control of. 

It's taken me months to earn an intermittent spot on the ten-man raid team: I am so grateful that the GM is understanding and tolerant of my real-life responsibilities, and when I can go, and there's a spot open, I will go. There are veteran guild members who have been with the guild through much, and their tenure is secure and just.

But how do you explain that to a new guild member, one who thinks they may be, dare I say it, entitled to a spot? Who seek out an invitation, instead of just signing up and taking their chances, or even starting their own raid?

I was just in the process of drafting this post, when a young guild member quit. Took others by surprise, but not me. He had said several times statements such as "Guess I don't get to go," or "I didn't get an invite I guess."

The writing is on the wall in those occasions.

Theme Song: Some Postman/PUSA

Fight.

There is a hackneyed saying: never discuss sex, religion, or politics in mixed company. And my close player friends know, and it's no secret, I've had to turn off guild-chat once in awhile for some peace and quiet. 

Chat has been vulgar, ignorant, mean, silly, whiny, full of shrapnel and shards; mostly arrested development humor of a 12 year old who's found his dad's Playboys under the bed and shares them, except more like a German porn house with magical creatures. Still kind of charming, but mostly not. It gets crude. You get my point.

And I have taken my share of ribbing, teasing, and whatever. Controversial topics like evolution (there is no controversy, just ignorance), religion, and whatnot. I actually enjoy intelligent and funny debates, very much; others' points-of-view fascinate me. (I am still friends with an old boyfriend whose political views are diametrically opposed to mine, yet we still enjoy great debates over policy, social contracts, and views.) The guildmaster can shovel his blarney like no one's business. Tolerance? Sure. Tolerance means just that: the Dude abides. Doesn't mean he likes it. 

Until tonight. 

Politics.

The States are certainly a hotbed of ignorant media reporting, dangerously poor journalism practices, and corrupt politicians on all sides who are greedy, and special interest groups lay waste like robber barons of  the past. But for the most part, the guildchat hasn't had that much political chatter, as least as far as I have noticed, since I joined last February. A few players tonight mentioned their views, not in any articulate "let's debate this way" but in a Fox media blitz way, and when I politely mentioned how much I enjoyed guildchat having been a "politics free zone" was not too kindly told to deal with it, that those days were gone. 

Huh.

So, okay. Since I was told to "deal with it" by a guildmate who is not the guildmaster, (whom I adore and respect), I shall deal with it. How I will choose to do so, well, I have a few options.

I have enough battles, fights, and obstacles in real life to deal with the collective ignorance in my virtual world. I don't want to know how you feel about politics, your real feelings. You are not going to change my mind, and I am not going to change yours. I don't care, and don't want to. 

Deal with it.

I don't fight fair.

(I am a Texan, originally. And found this funny.)

Postscript: That was one reason I ran from Facebook: relief from talking opinion avatars.

You can't always get what you want.

But sometimes you get what you need.

Tonight was a good night.

No competition for gear, and have amazing upgrades for shoulders and helm.

Now when I face my 16-to-17 hour day tomorrow, I will go virtually protected and with increased imaginary agility.

That.
Was.
AWESOME.

Like a boss.

If only, if ONLY, real life 'bosses' came with the tiny skull icon hanging over their heads when you moused over their name plates, then we who play WoW would have a clear signal of "danger" and "look out, they will schedule that meeting and undermine your professionalism" sign. If only.

I consider my colleagues like a guild. We have the usual suspects, to be sure, but for the most part, all of us feel mutual respect for one another, and do everything we can to support each other, truly--we share our time, resources, and hearts.

But sometimes the bosses....are Bosses.

How to handle real life bosses? As stress relief, I will write an allegory. That's what writers do (and we are all writers). We release those frustrations and maddening personalities and transform them into parables and metaphors. What's a metaphor? To keep me from going crazy.

What will I do in real life? Shield myself with calm professionalism. Have my colleagues back me up. And go find King Wyrnn if necessary. I know he's got my back. Besides, he has too many other things to worry about, like finding his son Prince Anduin a date for the prom.

Question: In your life, which WoW boss is most like your real life boss? Is it a Council of Asshats (pronounced ash-hawts) or a singular, vile Jabba-esque boss?

To Real ID or Not Real ID...that is the question.

This is quite a loaded question.

To exist in the state of knowing someone's name, their true identity, in WoW creates a dynamic that doesn't exist in many other social media formats. (The levels of knowledge of my Facebook friends and family varies by the thinnest of social threads, to the deepest cords of blood and friendship. I have Facebook friends I have known since I was four years old, and some I wouldn't know if they slapped me on the street.) In WoW, we are taking on the identity of a character at its outset; in every other media we are who we say we are.

The delusion of personal privacy is powerful: I know many young adults who think everything they do on the Internet is private, gone, vanished: quite the contrary. You have left your permanent stamp, and the harm you do or mischief you make can come back and bite you in the wireless fanny.

Poor Yorick, I Real ID knew him well...

We all know unmasking the hero weakens him. We know their vulnerabilities, Achille's heels, and chinks in the dragonscales. If we find out personal details, it is truly a dual-edge: on the one side, we can help defend and support one another; on the other, we can cut, and deeply. But that is the nature of human relationships.

Nacho! Summon your eagle powers!

Whether or not you choose to become Real ID friends, consider those friendships carefully, with a skeptical and cautious eye. And it's not so much because of the wolves in sheeps' clothing, (which are dangerous predators), but the enjoyment of our time in play, too: when we are in Azeroth, we are enveloped in some degree of make-believe, whether we like to admit it or not. Knowing Real IDs can strip away the varnish and glamour somewhat, and once it's scraped away is nearly impossible to repair.

To those of you who are my Real ID friends: I have no regrets. It is wonderful to be able to play cross realm, time zones, and factions. To those of you who are not, you're not simply because I like the friendships we have as they are. You are my masked heroes in Azeroth, and I want you to keep your power.

Joker's wild.

From MMO Champion. 

Señor: You must get Chap out of retirment for this. Seriously. Can't you just see that little gnome flying around Stormwind with wings? Hope no one mistakes him for a fruitfly.

Theme song: The Joker/Steve Miller Band

Healing sucks.

I have tarried far too long writing and playing this fine, misty fall morning. But I need something to wash out the sour taste of 'bleh.' This is pure, uncut whining: sometimes this avocation is just not satisying.  Ran a dungeon with guildmate, and I could tell his frustration when we died on the last fight of Shadowfang Keep. I didn't dispell fast enough, or good enough, ran out of mana too soon, and couldn't have dispelled if I wanted to. Boss was pulled before I had a chance to put out lightwell, make sure we were all buffed, packed, and ready to go. Needed to top off mana, and the impatience was palatable. Normally this particular guildmate is pretty easy going, but there was an edge today. Don't really blame him: on guildchat, he has been grousing a bit about bad PUGs. I got put in the proverbial doghouse, I guess.

NowI love Shadowfang Keep, and wondered what it would be like to heal it. It is not fun. He was using his Death Knight as the tank, and there was another DK who kept fainting at the sight of blood, and an elemental shaman who graciously put out his mana totem for me, but I could tell got a bit frustrated with me at the end. I have not taken the time to figure out my healing add-ons and am still learning so much. But there is little patience in Azeroth for dorks and noobs, we all know this. What was simple enough in regular dungeons is not on Heroic mode, but since Catacylsm has been out for almost a year now, the expectations are that every level 85 character is an expert. Admittedly, my learning curve is somewhat softened by the fact that I do have a main, and know more than I did.

But sometimes I just don't feel like it: I don't feel like researching add-ons, or watching videos, or reading blogs, or blah blah blah.

On the bright side, I did manage enough to get the healing gloves, and that should help quite a bit. I need to be patience with myself first, in all things. And off I go to do some things I am exalted with: Laundry Baskets of Doom, Junk Drawers of Never Ending Absymal Depths, and slaying the Demonic Despots of Unpaid Bills.

Story Time: A Paladin's Tale (Chapter 3: Bargain)

The moon led Micah, the rogue, to the paladin: a swinging pendulum, knocking sides of clouds, new to wax to wane. He had three moons, and two were spent.

Deals with the devil are seldom fair; no matter how balanced the scales, one of the parties will be shortchanged. Winners have their turn, and losers often go bare-chested after losing shirts, vulnerable to the elements and ridicule. But the underworld isn’t filled with merely one or two gleaned souls: the spirit dust of the ages reside eternally in the multitudes, having lost their bet, or broke a contract. Because the luck always favors the house.

But make no mistake: Devils want their due, too. The advantage can be gained. Consider in any trade, there is the expectation that one will be better off with the object or service. The barkeep in the Old Town pub has no desire to sit on his wares, and the healer needs that water. He makes a profit, keeps his nagging wife happy: meanwhile, she serves others, and basks in her arrogant glory. There is an exchange of gold and silver, goods transferred, and each is better for it. The barter of time and money are more abstract than the weight of a copper in a palm. Money indeed makes the world go round, on an invisible gyroscope of love and lust.

But when deal sour, regret reigns.

Micah traded his sister, bargained her soul, in exchange for his worthless hide.

“Rogue,” the Boss paused, “Options?”

Micah had stopped squirming hours ago. Never had defeat and futility been so palatable. Rarely had there been any occasion he couldn’t talk his way out of, sneak around, hide, maneuver, or manipulate. For a chest of gold, he believed he could win this time, too. The chambers had been deceptively easy enough to slip into. The concubines soothed him, caressed, and giggled. He used their apathetic lust to his advantage. The paid guards were no more than dogs at the door, pacified with meats. Instead of a bone, he used their stupidity to slice their throats while they were easily distracted by shiny pretty baubles. Micah smirked. And was a tad disappointed. This was the security of the vilest fiend in all the land? He found the domicile’s protection amateurish. In his over-confidence, it never once occurred to him that the main resident of the keep lured him there, and used the rogue’s arrogance to his advantage. The bargain had been arranged before Micah had crossed the threshold. The boon he was seeking were two daggers of such renown, which in his hands guaranteed his lethality and dominance. He brushed the dirt off of his patched leather pants. The glamour was fading, and it had become increasingly difficult to keep up appearances. His time for glory was calling. He deserved those powerful daggers, was entitled.

The chest was reported to be under the Boss’ bed. Only took a few goblin jugular veins to spill that secret. Simple enough. The snoring alone indicated the lord of the house was half dead and drowning in his sleep. Micah slithered under the tall bed frame, reaching for the chest, when two cold palms snatched both his wrists, dragging him to a deep hole. Slammed against sharp crags, tossed to the bottom like a wishing penny, the fall broke his left wrist and tore out his shoulder blade.

Up from the dirt pit floor, sprung poisonhoney vines. Wrapped quickly, his entrapment was more than sufficient. These vines grew in one area, and required soulless druids to harvest them. Each thorn pierced flesh with slow-acting poison that diminished mental acuity to the point of a slobbering idiot. No antidote exists. Each barb had a thousand infinitesimally small needles that burred into the skin, irremovable and parasitic. Even when cut from the mother plant, the vine would seek a new host, growing tentacles around legs, groins, and breasts, caring not for gender or status, seeking, attaching and winding along the pathways of veins and arteries. The damage of the vines could be lessened with quickness of freedom. Micah knew for every second the vines bled him, poisoned him, it would mean another year off of his life. And he very much loved his own life.

Options? He had no options. The most dangerous place of all, the realization that all is lost, and the choices belong to the one with no soul to lose: death or death, but whose?

“I know from the whispers of blood, Micah, what you came here for. And I want you to have those daggers, my venal friend. I need something in return. I abhor lies, so to the point: bring your sister to me.”

The Boss gave him three full moons to complete this task. Simple enough.

Oh, here was an out. He’d promise anything to the Boss. Any deal. His sister? Once he found her, they could figure an escape, break the deal. He agreed, so quickly the Boss cocked an eyebrow; a flicker of an expression Micah caught, but couldn’t interpret. It unnerved him, but the deal was done.

Chapter 2
Chapter 1
Chapter 4

Backhand.

I am smiling wryly this morning: talking to a guildmate last night about this and that, and I mention that I would like to try to obtain shoulder and helm upgrades.  I talked another guildmate, who has some time on his hands because girlfriend is off on a mission right now, into setting up some raids. In my opinion, or rather, it is my desire, to do those raids that have been nerfed, with my guild, because, well, I like them. I don't want to go to these places in PUGs. (Which leads me to my concerns about LFR...but, like all great PUGs, I'm sure it'll be fine, just FINE, what can go wrong? Smells like Teen Nerd Rage.)

In any case: I said something to the effect that I have improved.

Guildmate: "Yes, X and Y were talking about that, [sic] you don't suck as much as you used to."

Whatever.

May be an angel, but I ain't no saint.

I am sure many other players are far more logical and predictable, that when they are leveling a character who has two very different sides to their character and class, they balance carefully the talents and skills along the way. I barely remember starting this character, and yet, there she is. Like Luperci, who has been a human and Draenei, Zep tried being a Night Elf once, for a brief time, but it just didn't work. Luperci has only been raised as a protection paladin, and Zep as a holy healer. Her leveling was so fast, that when I took her back to Azuremyst to slay pink elephants, and was shocked to see how much of the territory she had yet to explore in her own backyard. Leveling by healing dungeons was all she knew, and now what I am hoping is that learning to be adequate DPS in Shadow is as intuitive as healing is now. That this spell builds on that one, and in order to get one's wings, need to know when to do this or that. Spent some time looking over characters on the armory, and copied a few recipes down. Time to get cookin'.

But as far as her first set of skills go, she did two heroic Cata dungeons recently, and no one died. She got precipitously close to draining all of her mana, but close is not the same as out. And her true inner beauty is most apparent when she's working the hardest. Like most of us.

In the shadows.

In the blink of a gnome mage, Zeptepi reached Level 85 it seemed. She did not do this alone, far from it. In my small but loyal group of friends I have made in Azeroth, two in particular had genuine sincere interest in helping her. Their generosity of time, materials, advice, and gentle nudging along made playing her as shadow/holy so enjoyable. In fact, I am so used to their presence, be it in the game or as a voice I know well from our long game friendship, that when they are not 'there' at Zep's side in particular, I feel a little bit off. Now, to be sure, she is a hot mess. She has her intelligence and spirit smeared thin all over the place, and I am sure her talent trees need some hefty pruning. Her shoulders are shoddy, her dreamcloth is used up, and damn, that belt makes her look fat.

But she now has Leap of Faith. If anyone needs to be pulled from the fire, they may have to wait their turn, however. She is not planning on wasting this on lemmings. This is for the truly faithful.

P.S. Señor, the line about putting out mana totems really helped tonight. Gracias de nuevo.

Miller time.

Get lost, hoser.

 I am sure I overpaid for it, and am sure it will be replaced soon. But, damn, this brings back awesome memories: Tankards of Terror. I still have a set of two in my bags, a suggestion from my dear friend, and those jugs got me through some hard times. (Giggles to self, gnome-like.) Not being able to wait for 4.3 to come out, I needed to get the Tremendous one NOW. I am still grinning ear-to-ear over carrying my weapon-of-choice: an oversized beer mug. Good times. Now it's time to go fill it up.

Distracted.

Damn.

It dawned on me today I have too many alts.

No. That can't be.

I have too much stuff. Or, my alts have too much stuff.

(George Carlin, godspeed: Stuff)

Matty? Lupe? Zep? Is that you?

When I was dragging my fourth character's tail down to Booty Bay to get her pirate on, I was thinking, enough. Definitely have become Jack of All Trades, Master of None--that should be my new title.

Did the CoC thing on Luperci. Got the achievement. Wasn't sure I had it on Matty. Went in there. Dork already did it. In February. Went into Zul'Aman on tank. Thinking everything's cool. Good pauldrons dropped. Did I need them? HELL NO. I thought I had good ones already, and I do. On the shaman. Lost those. Am still wearing crappy blue ones. Am still drying my eyes. Didn't even win the orb, either.
Losing tabards, stuff, gear, hoarding for transmogrifying, this pet, that mount, this holiday chieve, that one, I am out of control.

But...but...but...they're all so cute! Can I keep 'em, Mom? Can I?

Anyway, in all the hullaballo, Manalicious hit the streets with this comprehesive post: http://manalicious.wordpress.com/2011/09/19/patch-4-3-notes-this-just-in/

Also, more stuff: http://us.battle.net/wow/en/blog/3502667/Patch_43_Dungeons_Preview%2C_Part_Three_Hour_of_Twilight-9_19_2011

But, Señor, I did buy this mount for Rökkr and the other girls. I didn't realize that I could do this, (and I blame the Dork Factor), that once you are exalted with a guild, (and the guild is level 25) you can get these for as many alts as you like, being account bound. So, Rökkr is now riding around flying your colors:

Please don't be surprised if I go crazy and clean out most things from the guild bank. It's just sitting there, and I need to have a big garage sale. I cannot wait for the extra closet space coming...and not fast enough for me.

Nod nod.

Zep is not built Ford tough.

As I look at my little characters, I realize I take a lot of shots of them sleeping. This poor little priest girl has been working so hard - she is about 40% to level 85, and has been busy getting recipes and justice points so she can get into dungeons. Priests, by all accounts, are some of the most complicated classes in the game, as are warlocks. If I was mystified by lightening bolts and moonbeams, mind blasts and spikes are even more of a mystery than brain freezes. Glad she made all that dreamcloth. She deserves some peaceful sleep. Oh, and was blasted to smithereens about five times in Twilight Highlands. Which leads me to this:

Why do I really want to raid? Two reasons: One, it's fun. Two: gear, and not because it's the best, or elite, or whatever. Really good gear = faster everything. It's like a really good, dependable car. You never have to worry about it breaking down or being high maintenance. I love good gear simply because I can do drudgery faster, and don't have to spend most of my play time in shades of gray looking for my poor corpse. No wardrobe malfunctions, or chestgear blow-outs. I just want to get the job done, to get to the good stuff. (Patience is not my strong suit, no matter what the title says.)

On my schedule.

Now it's time for sleep. Good night, little priest girl. Say your prayers. Those Twilight Highland baddies are mean.

Story Time: A Paladin's Tale (Chapter 2: Cradle)

He was seven when his baby sister was born. His father’s absences had grown more frequent with the rise of his mother’s tummy. One night, she howled like a she-wolf: terrified, Micah ran for the Widow Shannon to get help. The bustling, sturdy dwarf woman took charge, but gruffly put the boy in his place, forbidding him from coming into the house until she said so. This was no place for a child. She ordered him to wait in the warm but pungent stables with the broken-down mare. He knew his reign as the Lord of the Small Realm was over. Something had taken his place, to be put in the barn with the stink and waste, and his mother didn’t protest? Terrified his mother would die because of her exploding body, because whatever made her look that grotesque was surely a demon, and trying to kill her. Micah didn’t know what was worse: hearing his mother’s screams, or not hearing them. Hours passed. For a boy of seven, the ticking of clocks or ferryman’s schedules did not mandate the sense of time. He had the primal sense of time as a wolf or dog would—instincts and senses were his timekeepers. He would hear the calm mutterings of the Widow Shannon, but nothing he could understand. Maybe the Widow made the demon? Maybe she was friends with the devil, and was hurting his mother? The mare sighed bored breath, and paid him no attention. But Micah could not be calmed.

Then he heard the most terrifying sound of all: a baby crying. His beautiful mother had become a freak and malformed with…a baby? Wasn’t he enough? This baby had tried to kill her; of this he was certain. Since his father was nowhere to be found he would have to kill it if it was truly an imp. He saw an image in his head, something with biting teeth, all bruised, pulpy-purple and black, with horns, like one of the Draenei (of whom he was terrified). His father had told him tales of imps and devils who stole into the house late at night, and bit on cheeks and spit in the milk. The heavy wooden door closed, and the widow waddled down the garden path, to her own home. It was nearly dawn. In her exhaustion, she completely forgot about Micah. If his father had been home…well, what? This was a blank page in Micah’s mind. He loved his father, and his father meant wild stories, a dance with his mother, her laughter, and her silent times. He could tell a wild tale, growing more animated with Micah’s widening eyes. His father fed off of innocence and trust.

He went into the house, and went to his mother’s room. She was sound asleep, and breathing—her breath was the air of his life. Next to her bed, was a tiny bed holding a large grub-maggot thing wrapped in blankets. He’d have nothing to do with it, except maybe kill it, like a bug, if it so much as harmed his mother. His mother didn’t seem to be alarmed, but still, he needed to keep her safe. She stirred. “Micah, everything’s all right…go to your cot and sleep, sweetheart. I’ll get you some porridge in the morning.”

Three months went by, and they were both housed at the Widow Shannon’s daughter’s house. After the baby was born, Micah’s mother’s blood did not stop, and her drained lifeless body was what the Widow found in the late morning light. The boy, thank the gods, was still sleeping. The daughter was kind enough, though, but had a brood of her own to take care of, much less the orphan elf children of questionable parentage.

In the benign neglect, left to his own devices, Micah peered in on his baby sister. He had had nothing to do with her until this moment. But the other children didn't play with him, and his sullen pity was tiresome. He was drawn to her cradle. She was in her little bed, the one she had been placed in as a newborn, and was already growing out of it. She had a healthy baby appetite, and took whatever milk mixtures were fed her. All chubby, milk-fed, and angel skin, she delighted in her own universe. Micah wanted to hate her. If it wasn’t for her, he would be home with his mother, and maybe even his father, and everything would be perfect. The Widow had explained to him, very gently, but honestly, that his mother loved him, and loved this baby, too, and it was up to him to be her family. He wanted none of it. He looked down at her, with the intent of harm. Like she had hurt him. When his face peered over, she smiled her tiny baby smile, and reached up and put her chubby fist out, grabbing a handful of his hair, pulling him near. With her other hand, she touched his cheek, and cooed. It was so fast, he had no time to think. This baby loved him! She smiled…at him! She had green eyes like his mommy’s,  and reddish tinge to her fuzzy hair, and look—a big line of drool was coming out of her toothless grin, and she didn’t care! He laughed out loud for the first time in weeks. The baby smiled even bigger, mimicking his face. She grabbed his finger with her fist, and held on so tightly, he was sure she was the strongest baby ever born. And she was his sister.

Nothing else mattered.

Story Time: Chapter 1: A Paladin's Tale

What you want.

During my lunch break yesterday, with a lingering cold, and just feeling a bit like my own active mitagation was nerfed, I read Vidyala's Manalicious post, "How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Nerfs." She touched on some thoughts I believe many people think or feel, at many times. Not just playing a mulit-player game, either.

I can't help but ask, again as relatively newer player (wonder what the statute of limitations is for that adjectival phrase?), perhaps WoW is just going through good old-fashioned growing pains? And players are sensing it. The level of nostalgia and "good old days" conversation is fairly thick, and this time of reflection for many players is interesting.

This observation or analogy may bristle some folks, but here it goes: I think about my own mom who used to play bridge or canasta, drink margaritas, and hang out in the summer time while the kids played. She wasn't in the kitchen baking cookies; she was having fun with other moms in the neighborhood, and made no apologies for it. We kids were well-fed, clean, and looked after, but she needed her social time, too. I am not suggesting Azeroth is one big bridge club (shudder). I am saying at no point in time of being a human have we homo sapiens have not banded with others. (And I will never learn how to play bridge. Lucky in love, not at cards. Now, a margarita sounds lovely.) My mom probably doesn't remember every bridge score, or when she gave Mrs. Perfect the smack-down with hearts and clubs, but she probably does remember having fun summers.

Maybe this anecdote will reaffirm Vidyala's sentiments:

A young druid, who was recently in a Horde guild, having reported downing boss after boss in Firelands, on normal, and then heroic mode, was quite proud of this. He was a tank and dps, often the top performer in scores, whatever the need be. Interestingly, as he and his guild downed more and more, he would make more side comments about guildmates, not mean spirited, but how one did something that was annoying, and in general, the other players were dull. Very, very dull. Perhaps that is the greatest sin of all in a social game: boring others to death before the bosses do. He finally had enough of one guildmate's particular brand of whining and tattling to the GM, and the young druid left. Took his DPS to another guild, one that is hopefully more fun and engaging.

Now, the guild I belong to has that in spades. No question. On the scales of shenanigans, they have been summarily tipped. When I think of the nerfs, though, I can just hear some of the unintended smugness and "there there dear's" of some of my guildmates. They can be a touch patronizing sometimes. I have shared a success or victory, only to hear the next statement, "Yes, but they nerfed that quite a bit."

Sigh. Like dating 10 Comic Book Guys. Worst. Guildchat. Ever.

(But really, we are all pretty sweet to one another, with hearty congratulations at every success--nice!)

But I do wonder what my GM wants. I will ask him next time I see him.  I count on his honesty. I may ask him if we can schedule a raid one hour earlier on one night, or what he would like from me. Reading a Matticus' post recently, one comment resonated, that when a player leaves, Matticus doesn't keep them in mind--if they're gone, they're gone. Fair enough. One reason I didn't join another raiding guild a few months ago was that the GM was very honest with me--basically, if I didn't perform, I'd be out. (And I wasn't ready. My DPS on little Miss Shaman pants is pretty solid now, ironically, when I don't have time to raid when I would like.) That cut-from-the-team attitude may not work for 4.2 or 4.3, and those who have enjoyed the strict raiding team line-ups may be in for a rude awakening and have to ask hard questions: "Do I have the player who can be trained and is intelligent, and spend time getting them geared up, or do I throw them all into the river and see which ones swim?"

Well, I know that is traditionally important for many guilds: just win. But that doesn't fit my personality. And I think---maybe I'm reading too much into this--many great players are feeling the same. Vidyala's openness about her full-circle reflection and coming to terms with what she and her guild has, and has not, accomplished is perhaps an eye-opener for many players. To me, what they really accomplished is something I yearn for: A guild that truly likes one another, gets together, and enjoys each other's quirks, humor, and personalities. Wow--that is awesome. And of that, I am a little envious.

At the heart, the only question one should ever ask and answer is, "What do I want?"

Vidyala, your humility and honesty are truly refreshing. I haven't yet read the 20+comments, but I can guess what the majority of them say at the heart: Thank you. I believe that this world, as we band together, make alliances, prove loyalty, and friendships, is where the strength endures. In any world. Recently, I have had to take a long, painful look at my own professional life, and rip up excuses or toss out crutches. I will do what I can do, but I will still need my colleague's support, as they need mine. We have all decided to be kinder, more positive, and supportive of one another.

Sounds like a solid plan. And again, f-it dude. Let's go bowling.

Drabble: Shadow healer

The stitches become raggedy. This—had been a long week. Zep felt as if small goblins had set up house under her eyes, bringing bags full of rocks, taking souvenirs of sleep. She twisted the silver band around her finger. Every instinct in her wanted to rain golden light on the group, not cast shadows and death. She was terrible at this. Practice? Yes. She turned the ring three times. How did her sisters do it? She put down her needle and thread. She laid her head on the embersilk pillows, a gift from a patron, and found edgy sleep. 

Oh, my...the poor little priest girl is a bubble or two away from level 84, and is really awful at being a shadow priest. Much more complicated than it looks. 

Monkey business.

Gotta love the simian theme-notes Blizz has injected in Azeroth. Got this surprise the other night:

Yes - that's me in a gorilla suit, in a big purple bubble. Gorilla suits are always in style, and never need tailoring.


Theme song: Toots & Maytals--Monkey Man

Ride at dusk.

The moment.

Between the sun’s power and the moon’s guile

The time.

Under which logic goes to sleep and intuition takes its foothold.

The hour.

Upon which she rode, just to move freely

And

Answer to no man, beggar or king.

In all the noise of the day, the demanding obligations and duties, one thing that never ceases to be fun, however silly, is a new ride. Just obtained the Celestial Spectral Steed. I know many of you wouldn't step back in Tol Barad if King Wyrnn himself asked you, but she sure is beautiful, isn't she? Worth every token.

Devil you know.

Not trying to poach another blogger's content, just sharing an article I found interesting:
http://www.worldofmatticus.com/2011/09/01/just-some-thoughts-on-the-game/

In real life, I am also in a position of leadership. There is a 'buck stops here' philosophy one must take if in any capacity, shape, or form there are delegated obligations and responsibilities. I think about one huge project in particular my colleagues "should" help me with, but in the war of attrition between those in "leadership" and those who, well, aren't getting paid extra to be a "leader"*, I guess, the divide grows. I think of the Little Red Hen parable quite often: I'll ask everyone if they want to help me bake the bread, but in the end, I'll do it, and still have to share, whether they helped or not. Little Red Hen got the bread all to herself and her chicks. I envy her sometimes.

Well, Superman didn't have the luxury or inclination to give everyone credit checks on the planes and trains of those he was rescuing. He just did it. But players are human, not superhuman, no matter how big of shoulders they have to carry everyone, or how scoundrel and meanly-spirited they behave. Finally, finally, made it through Zul'Aman on my tank the other day. After one misguided mob wipe, was kicked. Shrug. I rage-quit after a mage was telling me to use consecrate in not-a-very-nice way, among other things and tone he had. Two better paladins than I, have told me to take consecrate off of my action bar. It's a waste of mana. I wanted his attitude to be gone, and shamefully admit I did try to kick him. Guess other players told him, and then he proceeded to call me the part of underwear that does its job. I had to go. Not going to argue with him anymore. Interestingly enough, he said, after calling me this choice name, that we were in the same guild. Not sure how truthful he was being, but, if he is, he should step up and say something. If he has an alt on our server and in our guild, that may be grounds enough for me to permanently hide guild chat.

Finally, though, called in the reinforcements--those members of my guild who have my back, who are courteous, funny, and confident. Got through it. Had some issues at the end, but gave me the chance to reflect on what I need to change and practice as a tank. Funny--Zul'Gurub is awesome as a tank, and Zul'Aman, for me, is awful. Just the opposite feeling from my sparky little shaman. Being on both sides of the shield has given me an interesting perspective.

Not sure what my point is. Maybe it's just that in the human-factor dynamic of any cooperative time spent together, there are ups and downs. No harm, no foul - just trying to do what's right.

Took a much-needed break from grinding Valor Points on shaman this past week, and focused on tank and priest. And it was--nice.


*I am using sarcastic quote marks because I'm a lazy writer this morning.

Honor.

Before they made the procession to the hero's tomb, Guarf gently admonished Luperci, whispering, "This is not a tourist attraction, lassie. This is a solemn day. We may celebrate a life well-lived in the service of others, but not our own vanity." Luperci nodded. She was trying to comprehend the gravitas of the moment, but was still too young to completely understand. Her path had been chosen for her long before the path to Uther's monument was laid. They said their prayers to themselves, and kept their own counsel on their thoughts.








Here are stories that you may want to hear:
http://storycorps.org/listen/stories/father-michael-duffy/
http://storycorps.org/animation/john-and-joe/
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/445/ten-years-in

Drabble: Late Summer Walk

The air was like the forest’s humus: the moon played reluctant sun. Pollinated air vagabond-camped on the streets. Before the undead walked, the night was claimed. The canopied horizon smoked pink and orange piping veils, rolled up, blown out, in rings, across the trees’ heads. The moon followed her, whether predatory or protection. There was never a time, not in a waking world or a dreamy sleep that she did not wonder if he remembered her. A box of letters merged betraying words with ink and paper, growing denser. It composted. From whence it came, so it would go.

Vanity, thy name is Luperci.

Once again, her paladin friend has the timing of a Swiss watch, and arrives on the scene to help her reforge correctly...but, isn't she lovely?

Story Time: A Paladin's Tale (Chapter 1: Weight)

The young paladin hid under his slumped shoulders, protecting the drink like a fortress with his arms. His eyes stared at the bottom of the glass. The pub was near deserted this time of day, except for a few mercenaries and barmaids. Those women, if any man ever looked at their faces and not their corsets, looked older than their years. Some had a kicked-dog look. This was not the cheery inn he rarely frequented. This was a place to become a shadow.

The thud of a gold piece hit the hardwood bar. The coin was made all the heavier from the jugs of the blood smelted into its alchemic mix.

A hollow voice spoke.

“Buy this young hero another ale, on me,” said a rogue. An assassin. Stealthy as love and as draining as a skipped heartbeat, the rogue smelled of oiled tannic leather and whisky-imbued sweat. His bloodshot eyes burned the back of the paladin’s neck.

Pushing back the gold coin has if it were made of goblin spit, the barkeep said, “Keep your money, blackguard. It’s not wanted or needed here. Get on with your business, and get the hell out.”

“Blackguard? You flatter me,” the rogue smirked.

Ignoring the glares of the weary innkeeper, the rogue turned his attention squarely on paladin.

“What troubles you, my friend?” the rogue slithered.

“I’m not here for conversation. Leave me be.”

“Ah, I see your stalwart reputation is true. You are a man of few words. But I ask again, and this is the last time, for I can slice out that tongue faster than you can tell me if the sun is out: what are your troubles?”

The paladin felt weakened. He was already at a disadvantage, having been in his cups since daybreak, and exhausted. He felt a need to surrender. He turned his head and looked at the rogue, face on.

“Just having a drink, friend. Nothing to report, and I want, or have, no trouble for you. What do you want?”

“Well, you were known to be an honest paladin, but now I am not so certain. Seems I have caught you in a lie. I have my own specialties, and detecting corruption is one of them. You sir, are a liar. You have plenty of trouble, hero," sneered the assassin. 


The paladin stayed in his seat, but shifted slightly. 


"There are those who have been searching for you. For some reason, and, I have no idea why, for you seem worthless to me, your family is concerned about your whereabouts." The rogue shrugged, continuing, "Seemed easy enough to find. So, little lamb, if you get lost again, I can lead you back to the slaughter house.”

“I will pay you double not to tell them a thing.”

Only the scythe of the Reaper outmatched the rogue’s patience. Timing was everything. Sometimes the best way to start a defeated man talking was to remain silent.

The paladin shrank, and said “I, er, can’t go back. I am done with being a champion for lost causes.  Their ignorance…it has become a burden to me,” the young man haltingly confessed.

 “Ah, I understand, sincerely and true. You do need a break, my friend. You have carried the stupidity and carelessness of a hundred misguided souls, haven’t you? But you should know –we assassins don’t give up our quarry without an accord. Let us come to some understanding."

Relief at knowing he had some control again, however miniscule, pulled back the paladin’s shoulders. He lifted his head, slightly, and the rogue's whisper chinked the armor of solitude and isolation.The words were like snake’s fangs, striking quick and deep. 

The rogue whispered, "A girl, it's always about a girl."


Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

You gotta fight. For your right. To PVP-ay!

Great new PvP blog: http://pvpzen.tumblr.com/

Please check it out when you have time!

Pumpkin.

With the seasonal changes, my hopes of raiding, however slim they were, are diminished even further with the fading of the sun's light here in the Northern Hemisphere. I wake up with the cows, and staying up past my bedtime demands too high of a tithe on my ability to meet my responsibilities. (And, there have been a few times I've gutted up, drank all my flasks, and shown up, only to be asked to go when a prettier date arrives. Kind of sours the experience of being called off the bench.) It makes me reminisce  about mornings spent with my dear friend, and I know he's all right. We would drink a cup of coffee on cold winter mornings, kill monsters, and be all the more cheered to meet the day, knowing Azeroth was safe once again. But in my time zone, at the stroke of 10:30PM I turn into a pumpkin, not a princess, if I don't get some sleep.

We all have friends all over the real world, too, with different time zones and responsibilities. How we determine or compromise on those schedules can be challenging at best. So, I'll just say again, to those friends of mine whom I don't get to see in Azeroth very often, doesn't mean you're not missed. But I take comfort in knowing you're out there, you're all good people, and behind the pixelated shaman, paladin, hunter, and priest, you have a friend, too.

And, to keep one hoof in both worlds, if it's okay with you, Senor, I may bring another one of my Draenei girls to your guild, so between the rogue and whomever else, we will help build up the guild's reputation. You would probably prefer the hunter, but she has a few obligations to her current guild: as soon as those are fulfilled, I am sure she'd be your choice. She'll bring her own Sweater. She acts just like the rogue anyway, going off on her own, not being seen for days.

Good advice.

Don't skip to the last one, but it's the best:
http://theoatmeal.com/comics/senior_year

Clothes horse.

Time to do some window shopping:
http://roleplaygear.wordpress.com/


and this looks like the perfect thing:
http://roleplaygear.wordpress.com/2010/01/10/green-dragon-mail/

Rewarded.

Luperci picking out her boon from the blown-out side of a head.

Just like she wished, she finished getting through Zul'Gurub this evening, only one incident, but once the wise healer clued her in, all was well.

Move along, people...

The true sign that summer is definitely over: eyes popping open at 4:00AM with a long list of the day's events. 


It's also a good time for me to catch up on various articles, etc. Stumbled upon this one, written by Matthew Rossi, regarding killing the pure DPS class: http://wow.joystiq.com/2011/09/02/is-it-time-to-kill-pure-dps/


An excerpt:

Any WoW player who played during The Burning Crusade can remember the clarion cry of "LF1 DPS Slabs, CC" that meant that, say, a fury warrior needed not apply. That role in other games is often called by varying names: the mezzer, crowd control, and so on. If we include the role of mezzer to a discussion of World of Warcraft, we suddenly see that we in fact have a more complicated situation. Two classes can only tank or DPS (DKs, warriors), but the rest all have some form of crowd control. (Priests can Mind Control or Shackle; shaman Hex or Bind Elementals; warlocks can Fear or Banish; paladins have Repentance in one spec; druids have Hibernate, Entangling Roots and Cyclone; mages can Polymorph; rogues have Sap; hunters have Freezing Trap.) If we include this role, then we come to see that we already have no pure classes in the game.

If we decide to include crowd control in the discussion, of course, then we have to consider how and when it is used. Groups are notorious for hating to crowd control, to the point that AOE tanking in Wrath of the Lich King reached a fever pitch of ludicrousness, and many DPS players complained they never got to Sap, sheep, or Hex anything. (I know a DPS warrior who didn't have those options ... oh, wait, it's me.)

As a result, Cataclysm increased the difficulty and damage of individual mobs in the opening months of the expansion, and even though gear inflation has rendered some of that content AOE-tankable, it's fair to say that even very well-geared tanks simply can't pull all the trash in the Rise of the Zandalari dungeons without greatly taxing the healer. I just experienced this today, in fact, as a tank with pretty solid valor gear blew himself up pulling the four-pack before Jan'alai without any form of CC on the Flame Casters.

I highlight the list of what class can crowd control what for when I play Luperci. Perhaps I should make a quick index card, with a cross-referenced spreadsheet for which can and cannot be crowd controlled. For example, you can elemental bind one of those humanoid things in Grim Batol that flashes around and hollers like a revenant when destroyed; or, you can only shackle the undead, but sometimes it's tough to tell if it's undead or just really pale. Most things, humanoids and animals alike, can be hexed, (love my hex) but not everything. And there is nothing better than stepping in one pixel too close and pulling the mob to you, while the tank rolls his eyes and the mage flips out. I have tried to tell newer players to take a breath and cc on the fly, which can be done, but when something is about to eat you, it's difficult to remember your Boy Scout training and play dead for a second while locating your "bear please don't eat my head" spell.


I have been not-so-gently told to "READ THE TOOLTIP" and, I do. But I don't have the inclination to memorize not only my tooltips, but those of every other class either. And that kind of defeats the purpose of multi-player social gaming--it's about the communication and support. Standard protocols of triangle=hex and moon=sheep don't always play out either. One man's purple diamond is another man's green triangle: how these cultural nuances occured over time I have no clue. Did Scarlet Monastery missionaries go out into the world, spreading the gospel of "Put out thy Moon, and Shepherd Thine Sheep?"


I am not sure of his observation, suggesting that the ability to crowd control is creating an impurity in class. (Maybe I am reading that wrong: it is early.) It seems the crowd control is absolutely a pure quality of DPS players: we are the riot cops in the crowd, creating the pentagon of healer=tank=fighter=fighter=figher, all supporting one another's abilities. The second highlight, regarding the tank in the Zul fight, reminds me that even though I tanked the snot out of that fight, and the other bosses, the group dynamic wasn't there. Those players just didn't dig my stuff. It happens. Hard to imagine, I know, because to know me is to love me. 


Here's the thing (as I ramble on)--sometimes, groups just work better and are more fun than other times. I can't explain it. Was in Shadowfang Keep the other day as a tank, and it was a blast. Yes, the DPS was great, yes the healer was great, but it didn't keep us from pulling more than we could handle by mistake, and it become a saloon-brawl, and really, really fun. I winced when the druid was so apologetic--so tired of that nonsense. To clarify, this poor druid must have been put down and bullied by other players at one point to be so apologetic.  It's meant to be fun, people - and it's okay to admit you're having fun. This "never say it's just a game" is, well -- your choice. But I still say paradoxically, you're having fun nonetheless whether you think it's a game or serious business. No one is paying you to do this, you are completely and intrinsically motivated (or not). It is more than a 'game' if we take up any recreation to the  level of avocation or hobby. Hobbies are serious business, it's true. 

As far as DPS is concerned, though perhaps "we" are considered dime-a-dozen, expendable, etc., I still maintain that it's not just about high dps numbers. It is knowing when to crowd control something to support the healer, bringing down the tank's target first, and working cooperatively. Showboaters need not apply.

Postscript: I just remembered that the shadow priest in that ill-fated Zul said something like, "I am helping heal, too." Oh dear. I have learned the hard way that when playing dps, play dps - the faster the monsters go down, the better it is overall. This is not to suggest a dps race, but to say it's important to focus--that helps the healer and tank more. 

Drabble: Survivor

The summer months had been fat and lazy, like an overripe blackberry that didn’t reach its promotion to lips, tongue, or tummy. Summer lies. Before the rains, before the snow, the sun pretended as if nothing was wrong, that it had been strong, and in command all along. Haanta and Sweater went into the fire zone. It was probably too late. Seasons were changing, and they had missed their target. The huntress put her face in the bear’s rough yet comforting fur. He smelled like pine needles, salt, and scorched earth. Always protecting her, the beast and beauty: winter approached.

Warning: Zuls may cause boots inserted into fanny.*

I really, really wanted to work my way to that silly chest piece.

Last night, tried to tank a Zul with guildmates. Not too bad. But, I was tired, I mean like bone-tired and fatigued, and needed it to go fast. I see, before every wipe, (and there were a few), one guildmate typing strings of guildchat. And not just once. Many, many times. But, I don't know this guildmate that well, and wasn't in a frame of mind to ask him not to do that, but to focus on the fights. The healer was newer, too, and seems like a nice enough guy. The least this rogue could have done was perhaps, gee, dps for a bit? I bowed out, leveled up tailoring on my priest, and went to bed. No reason to make everyone feel the fatigue I was feeling, too.

Brand new day, and decide to try again with a PUG.

The rogue and shadow priest were doing about 6-9k on average, never breaking above that. We got through every boss until the last one. There were some stupid mob wipes, mostly people pulling aggro, but no matter. It happens. The rogue won the BoE ring, on a need roll, so hope he knows it is soulbound. We didn't wipe on any bosses, even though their dps was quite low. (Did I mention their dps was low?)

Healer is a little bossy. They are sometimes. But damn, I did impress myself with my skills as far as cooldowns, taunts, etc. I used Hand of Reckoning, and often, and except for the elemental shaman, I have the highest dps: granted, I didn't WANT to be the highest, but thought, how good it would be to keep everyone safe and happy.

And then the last boss.

So close to my 140 Valor Points.

If I got those points, and then perhaps ran one or two more Zuls today, I would be one week closer to that chest piece, instead of two.

But, running back, after one wipe (dps very low, healer got eaten, sigh) I stupidly, STUPIDLY, got one pixel too close to a baddie and was quickly killed.

You know what happened next.

Kicked.

Now, I realize, after I've calmed down a bit, that their frustration with me is just a case of Zul rage. I get it. And my own embarrassment and anger is due to:
1. I hate that Blizz forces us to go into that many Zuls for VP/week. I can see forcing one or even two, but to cap out heroics at 490 just seems cruel:
2. Which leads me to the fact that I just don't have the time to run that many Zuls on two characters. This is the "I am a grownup with a job, a job that pays for this silly game, am quite put out right now."
3. I think one should be immune to being kicked on a final boss. Period.
4. My friend told me that I should have chosen to kick someone earlier, that way I would have been immune -- so, in other words, become the thing I hate. Become the pendejo who kicks low dps players, become mean-spirited, callous, and smug. (Not in my nature. Not going to happen. Which is why I wouldn't have lasted one episode on 'Survivor.' I would have done that TV show just for the diet tips. Easy to lose weight when you can't crack open a coconut or spear fish.)

Which brings me full circle: I am the grown-up here.

I will not make those mistakes again, and will reflect on the things I did right, which were many. Those Zuls will become as easy for Luperci as they are now for Matty, I have no doubt.


As I dislodge the boot from my tail and put on ointment in the knife wounds in back, realizing I just need to shrug this one off. I still say running with guildmates who give a damn about me and my success would be better. Considering the four hours I ran with a guild tank the first time through, they owe me that much. No typing in guild chat. No kicking. The reward will be greater than having another guild tank on hand, at your beck and call. I'd give up my satchel of gumballs for that.


Not the first time I'll be kicked, I'm sure, nor the last. First kick stings the most, though.


*No, my NZ friend. Not that kind of fanny.

Zephyr.

Zeptepi emptied the dust and shards from her pockets. She could not complete her training. The was one obstacle: gold. She knew her sisters had been trying diligently to support each other. The reality was this: since their parents' absence, they were on their own. And since none of them were to give themselves over to indentured slavery or other unsavory exploits (least of all marriage to a fat, ugly nobleman - gads!), their independence was a bit starved on occasion.

The unexpected patronage and friendship came from the horizon: gold never buys friendship, not friendship of any real value. Those who recognize that gold and gifts are merely the ease to increase life's enjoyment fully get the most of those lives.* The boost, the aid, helped her have the next bit of courage she needed to get to the next step, steps she could now, and forever more, take with a friend.

*How many parables does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? King Midas, Ebenezer Scrooge, and Gollum all seemed to get this.

Fool for Zul

Five little guildmates, going to Zul

this one tripped on venom, started to drool

Four little guildmates, battling panthers black

nothing is as wonderful as getting kicked in the sack

Three little guildmates, taunting gods, all tiki

this one pulled more, things got kind of kinky

Two little guildmates, making a stand

healer goes off line, in panties must have gotten sand

One little guildmate, going native and solo

talking smack in guild-chat, thinking he's cholo

Finished the dungeon

and got all the loot

Should have long ago given tank the boot

Postscript: Desperately seeking cracker-jack team to help get my tanking skills polished for Zuls. 

In plain sight...

Rökkr made it to Level 50. Quietly, the achievements rang to no one's ears. She went into Strathholme, and only due to the great skills of a tank and healer, did she blithely stab a ghoul or two. She had had a few glasses of red wine, and then felt the urge to go stab things. She is going to hang out with the sandy goblins in Tanaris and see what else she can do.

Say, are you going to the Darkmoon Faire?

The chicken looks great.

The few occassions I stepped into the Darkmoon Faire, I felt disoriented and a little gritty, like I needed to take a shower. With 4.3 on its way, the sense I get is that there is new and more imaginative content overall, that Blizzard is allowing WoW players more options and creative input. In the relatively short time I've been playing, I haven't seen as much excitement from my friends over the transhoopdejoo and other additions.

Psynister, Bible of Dreams and Manalicious have put forth their intelligent, charming, and creative thoughts. The ideas are sweet and fun. As I commented (although my comments haven't been showing up --I promise you ladies and gentleman I may be cheesy, but I am not spam!), there is a darker side to carnivals: hope my little Zeptepi doesn't run off with a carnie. It could be all Katherine Dunn Geek Love-ish, and really freak us all out.

Check out these great blogs:
http://psynister.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/new-heirlooms-in-4-3/
http://www.furlinedteacup.com/bibleofdreams/2011/09/friday-five-five-dreamy-additions-to-the-darkmoon-faire.html

http://manalicious.wordpress.com/2011/08/25/the-new-and-improved-darkmoon-faire/