Weapons grade.

What the hell kind of crest is this?

*Matty* is desperate for some new weapons. Although comic relief of using the upgraded Tankards of Terror was necessary at the time, the punchline (get it? Punch? like drink punch? punch in the face? get it?) has gotten stale, just like that pun.

I am sitting on (not literally...ouch) four daggers right now. Enhancement Shamans should use maces, or better, axes. I have had this explained to me why. Something to do with my spells, slower speed weapons, and packing more of a punch. If I looked at the upgraded daggers purely from a numbers' perspective, I see all green lights, so that's why I get a little confused. But, my tankards have served me well; however, I need some axes, my weapons of choice. (And I am going to take my favorite Death Knight into the Halls for cool transmog stuff...)

Because I just don't pay attention sometimes, (I mean really: I am swinging two large tankards at monsters...how seriously can I take myself?!) I should have been praying to the RNGs for Baleroc to drop the Eye of Purification ax.  But alas, that has intelligence on it, and I am a dumb shammy. According to my armory profile, for I have lost count, I have killed that shard-pooping behemoth seven times. What, bro, can't drop an ax for a girl? Whatever. Didn't need it anyway. I did however, need the Gatecrasher. Come on, man...what's a girl gotta do?

Going to do a little more research on what axes, and then maces, I should be saving my landslide enchant materials for (another small complaint: that enchant is not pretty. It leaves dirt all over the floor. I only like pretty enchants, not ones I need to clean up.) Looks like there's a gorgeous on called No'Kaled, The Elements of Death that is made just for me. 

Oh, but this looks interesting: Vial of Shadows. New lipgloss color? Very trendy.

This may be outdated, but it's still funny, and admittedly, love the analogy about Stonecore:
http://wow.joystiq.com/2010/12/25/totem-talk-gearing-an-enhancement-shaman-in-cataclysm-heroics/

Enhancement Shaman 4.3 MMO-MeltingPot

General 4.3 Quick Advice: Click here


Theme song: Molly Hatchet/Flirting with Disaster*

Oh, Southern Rock...need a large keg of cheap beer and plastic party cup. And a field. Maybe a large linebacker boyfriend. Yikes.

Story Time: Chapter 3

The Princess

Blackberry Winter

-3-

Matty heard a story once, and she wasn’t sure if it was true, but it felt true, even though it had a goopy, gossipy tone, of a young princess and a king. The princess was beautiful and opaque. She did not reveal herself to anyone, king or peasant, nor bend to another’s will, save for her father’s: at his command, she was marked for marriage to the king.

The king, when he was a boy, had been chosen to serve the people by divinity, to serve as a powerful bridge between the old ways and the new path, a king to help lead his country out of the past and into its future. Here was a king who served the incumbent and emergent gods, the pagans and paladins. He was fair, just, and good. Deeply good. His tolerance in the ancient ways and the redemptive power of the new dawn made him a beloved leader by all.

His young bride, however, did not feel the warmth of his sun, or the pull of his gravitational gravitas. Mortal or deity could not fathom her immunity to his centrifugal charisma. In her, a blue light danced deep: potentially incendiary, and did not need or seek the yellow-white light of his noble nature.

Comrades would tell tales of his frequent generosity. If he met a woods-witch, he offered her food, ordering the group’s cooks to make specialties for her, especially mashed apples and potatoes. He knew elderly women had trouble chewing, their teeth long gone. If the princess came upon a woods-witch in her way, she ordered her foot soldiers to whisk the woman off the path, dispose of her, like a black cat, unlucky and superstitious. If the king met a priest or priestess, he would offer them alms for the poor, and his blessing upon their works, and his gratitude. The difficult work and burden of healing through spiritual guidance were lessened by the king’s favored blessings. The young princess, soon to be queen, did not share in his support of the healers. She saw them as overstuffed dressing gowns of mana, and puffed up by spirits (she was afraid these spirits would harm her, because she was ignorant of their abilities).

Every woman in the kingdom would have given her life to spend a single night as his queen. Though he was righteous and pure, to them, he was also a man, a man of power, grace, and attraction. But he chose an outsider, a golem of soul: a princess who did not love him. Not only was this an insult to him, but to all of the women of his kingdom. “Who does she believe herself to be? Does she think she is above us? Better, perhaps?” For the princess’s own safety, she was protected by thick castle walls: the women’s scorn scorched holes in the backs of her servants, and only out of loyalty to the king did they remain calm and not shred her hair or claw her face.

The king, in all his purported wisdom, saw none of this, and was as blind as the sun, not realizing his light did not shine in shade.

The princess and king married; the princess became Queen.

No one questioned what happened next, no one looked deeper. All assumed that the new Queen overplayed her hand. Never coming close to garnering even one female friend, or confidant, she isolated herself in her daydreams and loneliness. She succumbed to lust, and the blue flame ignited the kingdom. The Queen defiled her marriage by cuckolding the King. And the paramour? The king’s most trusted friend, his knight by his right hand. No one blamed him --he was just a man, after all.

When Matty heard the tale, at first she felt pity for the king. The king had done nothing wrong to deserve such heartbreak. Each time the story was told, the injustice to the king’s heart grew to legendary proportions.

But then she thought of the women in the story: the women of the kingdom were betrayed, too, because of their familiarity, their open, heart-on-sleeve adoration, but mostly their commonality. The king dismissed them: too domestically grown. Soul mates are of the highest elevated realm, on pedestals, he imagined. There were a few young women in his kingdom who were beautiful, intelligent, and honest; however, the king chose the one who was unattainable, at least in reciprocated love.

And what of the Queen? Was she misunderstood? The story, told by women to other women, certainly had a slanted perspective, where the Queen always played the villain. What if she was just an inexperienced young girl who didn’t really understand her power? Powerful men sometimes use their strengths to suit their singular purposes, to fulfill their own needs. The Queen’s choices were limited: exile, or marry a man she did not choose or love. She was dammed before the wedding night, banished by her own heart.

A moth seeking a dark flame is not enough to warrant a lifetime of fidelity. The king, in choosing this far-away bride, tore out his own roots from hearth and home, and suffered pitifully.

Soul mates? What a dangerous notion.

An elusive, biting myth, the belief in soul mates: that there is one, and only one great love out there for each of us binds us to a lie none can navigate clearly. This lie keeps us in fog and steam.

But of all the players in this sad tale, the King, the Queen, and the women of the kingdom, Matty sympathized mostly with the young women who would never catch the eye of a king. No other choices, save the nunnery, witchery, or drudgery.

Stories of punishment for the second-best were abundant. Stories of stepsisters and handmaidens who lied, cheated and stole to win over the hearts of kings and princes. Stories of sins, in greed for love, these women subjected themselves to cruel compromises. Horses’ heads were nailed to gates. Poisonous fruit served. They cut off toes to fit in slippers, or rolled in barrels of spikes as retribution for lying about love.

She had put on a dress. 




Chapter Two
Chapter One

Story Time: Chapter 2

Black & Blood Dress

Blackberry Winter

-2-

Matty woke up in her own room.

Guarf may have said their living arrangement was conditional, but his actions belied this sentiment. In this room, he had the mattress stuffed weekly with fresh straw, the windows washed, and the dressing tables and wardrobes free of minutiae. And though his territorial mess marked the rest of the house, this room—this room was a fresh as a daisy in a lion’s den.

None of this happened by magic, except for the magic of money. Guarf was thoroughly thrifty. He pried open his vault and spent a few silver coins to a goblin girl who lived down the way to discreetly keep Matty’s room orderly. Mat knew the dwarf created this room to be her sanctuary, but also knew it would embarrass him if she revealed his kind secret.

The morning rained green and grey, draining the fuscous winter. The air vibrated in the contrasting lenticular patterns of leaves, droplets, leaves, stir, bend, droplets, showers, wisp, leaves, arch, droplets, twist, leaves. She had nowhere in particular she needed to be, but it was time to go. It always felt time to go. She heard Guarf snoring in his room, the cool muted morning made for perfect sleeping weather. His vigil over the house, hearth, and her, and maneuvering her gangly frame to her room, was taxing. He was a good friend, but he was no nursemaid. She slept in her clothes. She peeled them off, and lay back down, pulling covers over her, unmotivated to pack bags, but not going back to sleep either.

If she didn’t step hoof-to-floor soon, the will to go would dissipate, and then, she would be snared by a nesting memory, entwining her thoughts.

She stretched the wrong-way over the mattress: like an irritating pea, a lump bubbled up from underneath. She reached in and pulled out a black dress. She had shoved it in there months ago, after one of their few encounters. She wished she had burned it. What a stupid idea that was, how humiliating it was now. She was such a fool. As if wearing a dress could keep him near, as if she was enough. 

The crimson-iron black of the silk dress, cast in vats of boiling, angry Northern blood, came in a scarlet-satin lined box, with stitches of heartbreak and cut on a bias of lust. The silhouette revealed more than it protected. Who was it that said the space between the notes made the music? The siren dress sang its song to a succumbing audience. His reaction was worth a few pints of Vkyruls’ blood.

The tone of the day was revelations: her priest demonstrated his ability to hold her in leaps of faith. The dress box gave the prize it promised. And jovial crowds flexed and sported in sunny courtyards. She found a place, right outside the Keep’s courtyard, a ledge, where she could sit undisturbed, watching the far sails swirl on the maelstroms, and the comings and goings of the human kingdoms, small and large. To end the day, he showed her uninhabited pockets, hidden right in front of everyone’s eyes, down alleyways and behind shops. She showed him the dress – “Wait, please, one moment – let me change…”

But for all the day’s illusionary control by the inhabitants of this world, she felt the gods shuffling Fate’s cards. Heard the snap of the deal. Flicking the two of hearts in a cup.

Time was up. The cathedral bells rang. The boat would be departing soon. She leaned in, but like a misfire, missed the moment for a kiss. He was so strong that moment: he held her, and then let her go. He meant what he said. He could not control the gods, but he could control himself. 

(Writer's Note: Not inspired by a dress, but a pair of 501 Levi red-tab jeans and a pair of boots.)