How does it go?

*Bweeeem* *Fwooosh*
Achievement Accomplished!

You have reached level 60!
Fast and Furious! (Epic mount)
Stalkers from the Blog!

I was accosted, this weekend. Not once, but TWICE, by people that recognized me from my writings. Adrexis, Nasmin, you crazy people. And no, if anyone else decides to harass me, you will not get a callout. These two just surprised me so much they have to get recognition for making me basically spaz out. It’s rare to throw me off my game that much, but this has never happened before, so I had no idea how to respond to the whispers.

Adrexis caught me in Undercity, trying to figure out what I was going to do with a bunch of quest items from - oh, about the time I started writing here. It’s pretty bad when you upgrade your gear and go “Oh, hi, I’m replacing this belt from Maraudon.” Palmface. So, yes, I was flustered. And then, out in Brill, Nasmin is poking at the mailbox when I run by, half asleep and being poked with people asking me to come heal for them in SM or something. I wasn’t even looking for a group! I was just checking the prices of the dead horses, and then it was crash - into the inn for sleeptimes. Nasmin was very polite, though, even if she DID think I was Vonya in disguise.

Hrmph. I would like to point out that there is no WAY that space goat could fit in these pants. …they look like they were sprayed on, anyway.

MOVING ON.

I did get the Big Girl Pony, finally. Purple Warhorse is MINE! I’m so happy. It’s … purple. And - yeah, I suppose describing it any further just lends itself to way too many innuendos. We’ll stick with ‘Epic Dead Horse’, then. Glee!! Put a serious dent in the guild coffer, though. I may have to do something about that, now that I’m actually in Outlands.

I was doing some quests for the orcs out there, who had me go and kill a bunch of orcs (confused much?), and I was very excited to see the upgrades for my pants and robe. I got the pants upgrade first, so I didn’t really see what they looked like. Doesn’t matter! I have a ROBE! And then I get a very nice, very svelte vest to wear. And then I realize what I was wearing under my robe will be quite visible to all the world.

I had heard legends of this effect, but I thought it was just alliance mages, or troll trollops that had this issue. No. One of the first pants upgrades you get, once you’re through the Dark Portal and are battling for your survival against the Burning Legion and the terrors they’ve created in Helfire Penninsula, are whore pants. Panties and thigh-high stockings.
REALLY!?

All I need is a blasted bikini and I could look like a paladin. I switched from shadow to deep discipline and I wear THIS!?

Unacceptable!

I did a quick check, found a decent upgrade could be found right next door in that castle with all the other nice orcs in it. I finally gathered up four compatriots from the lowest dregs, and off we went. Let’s just say that the shaman spent more time telling everyone else what to do than he did putting down totems. Since he was very adamant that the prot paladin was the tank, and the prot warrior should be helping him, and that the hunter should dps, and I needed to heal - I made sure that the two protection fellows got priority on heals. If he decided to pull agro most of the time, and then happened to die, well at least it wasn’t a wipe, because our tanks lived. Oddly, he kept popping back up after dying, so I can only assume he did that self-resurrection thing that shamans do right in the middle of a fight. Very odd tactics for someone who was meleeing. Without totems. Shamans are the ones that put down totems, right? It’s been a while since I’ve seen them used properly.

As it was, I got my pants, killed the Ramparts bosses and got another achievement (you can get those things from sneezing, apparently), and now have to keep an eye out for gems to make my pants super special.

In other news, I’m sure you’re all very excited to know that I’ve hired a troll rogue to do my dirty work back on Azeroth. He is an engineer, and has grand plans to someday build a motorcycle. I also use him to keep tabs on how the pugging situation is while I’m off on another planet. From what he says about his forays into Razorfen Krawl and Razorfen Downs, and even the SM Library, it’s not much different from a rogue perspective. Being able to hide while the rest of the group implodes, though, seems to have its perks. He giggles a lot when relating the stories to me. Maybe I’ll share some of his adventures, sometime. No, I have no idea what his real name is. He’s a rogue, they tend to not be very outgoing with stuff like that. But he goes by Thomas.

Yeah. Thomas the Troll.

I laughed, he didn’t. So I don’t know.

Yay dead horsey!

*cough* Sorry.

So you had questions. I guess I can answer a couple.  There weren’t any GREAT ones, but these will suffice.  It’s my first time requiring anything of you, so I suppose some hesitation should be expected.  The free ride is over, though.  I expect higher quality from people who have been absorbing my goodness for this long.

Weta asks: I need help killing a dwarf who is so inept that he wound up accidentally summoning an Elemental Lord that blew the snot out of his kingdom and has now enslaved his people.
–Rather than simply say something cynical like “Wait for him to try another brilliant plan, he’ll take himself out for you”, I suppose I could point you in some direction.  Wowwiki, really, may be your best bet.  It has all the details on what gear you can steal from the old munchkin’s battered body, and gives a few suggestions for tactics on how to get to him and how to make sure his body is sufficiently battered.  Wowhead and thottbot are there, too, but they’re more focused on making sure the old man is naked of all his loot, rather than how to get him to hold still long enough.  Weirdos.

Vendric wants to know: How come life is unfair and the fights are so easy/hard in the battlegrounds?
–Life is tough, you silly boomkin.  For one thing, you are a Prime Target.  Imagine being the guy out there that can transform into an Ogre.  YOU WILL BE SHOT AT.  I imagine if you remain ‘just another tauren’ (or something), then you can launch a few more volleys before anyone figures you out.  Starfire and Moonfire are good, too, because they don’t see where the pain’s coming from.  As for what’s being done to equalize the battlegroups?  Are you serious?  My people joined the Horde mostly because we were both desperate.  We allied with DEAD PEOPLE because we are so bad off.  There is no equalisation, we are Horde, we must overrun them with sheer numbers and stubborness and the elitist belief that only kids play Alliance.  Glory to the Sin’dorei!  …I may have lost track.  What was the question?

Weta says: Nevermind, I killed him without your help, now I want to know why I should be friendly with my own faction!
–Bah! *fistshake*

Axethrower asks: Hanners where aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrre yoooooooou?
–Uh, I think we’re done here.  BETTER QUESTIONS THIS TIME.  *hides from stalkers*

(Note : this is an “episode” in a continuing story. All of my stories can be found under my Storytime tag, and the most-related stories are The Job Part 1 and Part 2. I say “most-related” because they’re all somewhat related, and you never know when I’ll weave an old character back in. This note has been brought to you by commenters who are smarter than me.)

—–

Tayt,

I am sending someone to train you. Do what they say.

I mean it.

When they are done with you, go to the bank in Orgrimmar and retrieve a package left there for “Hannelore”. Take it to Camp Taurajo and drop it off at the butcher. Purchase a blackened Thunderhawk from him. It will contain your payment.

~2

Tayt balled up the parchment and frowned.

Train her? What did she need someone to train her for? Obviously she was pretty damn good at what she did, otherwise why would Tyrsdae have hired her in the first place?

She snorted, then idly tossed the crumpled paper into a nearby brazier, watching to make certain it was ash before she turned away.

It had been two months since she’d had the meeting with Tyrsdae. Two months with no word, no sign at all of the bargain they’d struck.

It felt good to be out from under Garvis’ bootheel with regards to the gambling debt, but she’d been on pins and needles for weeks waiting to hear from her new employer. After that, she’d assumed the woman had simply forgotten her. Or maybe she’d even managed to get herself killed. As heartless and cold as the blood elf had been, it would certainly not be a stretch to imagine she had enemies.

And now this.

(more…)

I once had a Hispanic friend who was a bit of a ladies’ man. They loved him - thought he was funny, charming, and debonair. Most of all, they always lauded over his hair. Oh how the women-folk would go on and on about his thick lustrous wavy black locks.

But had they known what I knew, I think they would have stayed away from him. You see, my friend Valdez had a secret. That fancy head of hair had been attained through preternatural means. At one time, he had almost no hair and it was obvious it bothered him greatly. He had tried all the “natural” remedies. Sought medical advice, tried every anti-balding solution on the market.

Eventually, he gave in and turned to the dark side. He visited a Voodoo priestess.

She gave him a precise list of ingredients to procure in order to cast the spell to restore his hair.

As these stories always go, shortcuts in the recipe were taken. My friend did not want to kill the yearling cockerel with his own hands and strip the meat from the bones. Instead, he stopped at the local fast food restaurant and picked up some fried chicken. He didn’t want to shear the wool from a newborn sheep, and instead chose to purchase a cashmere sweater. The list of unfortunate substitutions was long.

In the end, I suppose you could say he was lucky. He got what the spell promised - a full head of thick, gorgeous hair, if a little on the greasy side.

The Voodoo priestess, however, was covered from head to toe in a thick black goo that no amount of washings and soap could remove.

… (wait for iiiit) …

Tragically, it was a spill over from the hex on Valdez.

My intention on posting this is for the replies to be similar confessions of either ignorance (I did not know it worked that way, I swear!) or simply forget mistakes (mine will be the example there…trust me) or what have you. Shall we begin?

*Red faced and all* So we are going to run Uldaman once more to complete the gems of power quest. While waiting for my group mates to finish their preperations, I decided to see if I could solo Revelosh. It took me a few tries, some learning and tactics (kill the little healer first and fast, use War Stomp to interupt his heal, then focus on the boss next he hits harder than the other melee mob you get) and those learning trips meant some deaths. (druids still cannot vanish). We clear Uldaman and much fun is had by all. The consensus after is to move to ZA and since its moderately late we decide to just kill and not worry so much about quests.

The juicy part…

We have no trouble at all through the instance, even clearing the graveyard in one continuous pull (Vonyas mana regen stacked with an innervate is something to behold). Now we come to the temple. And maybe when the mobs at the bottom spawn I get a little cockey and pull ahead of time. And maybe we get them ALL and barely survive due to expert playing of my three comrades. And maybe we med up and the second waves of mobs spawn. And maybe I pull again…and again get them all. Only this time all does not go smoothly and we have a wipe fairly fast.

*sigh* Nope, that is not all. In fact it is not even the reason for the red face (hard to believe, I know).

We run back and head back to the temple. We finish clearing the trash between us and the bosses (lost our shot at finishing that quest, QQ). Bosses down and I charge in with a “but they aren’t even elite!” feeling in my head. And I die. FAST.

*Musters confidence*……..*Prepares admission* I never repaired from playing around in Uldaman…Who knows just how long gear had been breaking. I died so fast on the non-elites because my armor was at a grand total of 2% (per DurabilityFu). Needless to say that when I told the group a great many good deep laughs were at by everyone…well, everyone else at least.

Oh yes, it’s that good.

Posting a moral at the end as instructed by Vonya. No matter how long you have been playing and no matter how skilled you may be you, too can be a noob. Or Only you can prevent noob-fires.

It is highly recommended that you read Part 1 before continuing here.

Tayt scowled and watched Roshii eat another beaded silk pillow. The orange raptor sprawled across the center of the room, his tiny forelegs clutching the offending decoration. His long streamlined head turned from side to side as he surveyed his prey, eyes half-slitted with ferocious intent.

Finally satisfied with his angle of attack, his head darted forward, wide mouth opening to expose an array of wickedly sharp teeth. Swiftly and viciously, he tore into the smooth pillow with the sort of glee he normally reserved for a fresh carcass.

The entire process was nearly silent, save for a few purring chirrups whenever Roshii found a particularly satisfying clump of stuffing to pull on.

This was his fifth pillow.

At first, Tayt had forced Roshii to stand at attention and behave himself. But after the first hour and a half in the opulent waiting room of the Grand and Illustrious Lady Tyrsdae Sunseeker, she’d let the raptor…relax.

She gave a small smile. Even if Roshii was burping up expensive beads for a week, it would be worth it. What sort of person requested a guest, specifically mentioning the importance of punctuality, and then left that guest sitting in a waiting room for…what was it now? Three hours?

(more…)

A message from the Ego : As you can see, I could very easily have broken this into sections and toyed with your curiosity over seven weeks. I chose not to, however, because I’m a nice person.

Okay, that’s not true. I chose not to because this is REALLY old. Older than the Reluctant Mistress stuff by far. So why share it, if it’s that rough, you might ask?

Because it involves Tyrsdae, and you’ll be spending more time with her in the next stuff I write. That, and I’m still in class, so I need to drag out these entries as long as I can, so I can seamlessly go back to my two posts a day as soon as I get done.

Whiska’s story will not be posted - it’s incomplete and very, very long. It’s also very good, but incomplete means you guys will throttle me at the “end”. And I’m not going to ever finish it, because the person I was writing it with decided we should write something a little more ours and I agreed. So we’re writing a book together. If Whiska shows up again, it’ll be as part of Tyrsdae’s story. (This is mentioned for the benefit of those who have read Whiska’s story and will probably wonder why I’m not posting it).

My “small” author’s note done, here is the Golden Days of Youth, a lead-in to totally fresh and new stories from me.

Because this truly is a monster of a huge entry, I’m going ahead and hiding it behind a fold. Trust me, even those of you who like it to be complete for your feed reader will appreciate the favor.

(more…)

The human sat with his back to the wall, half hidden in the shadows of the World’s End Tavern. His drink sat, ignored, on the warped and greasy wood of the table in front of him. His nut-brown skin was deeply scored with age, like cracked leather after years of being left in the dusty sun. The lines on his face may have been the result of either wrinkles or scars. It was difficult to tell from a casual glance and no one was brave enough to ask. Twin eyes burned in his face like embers, alive and always moving, watching everything around him though his expression never shifted from the faint sneer that twisted his lips.His opulent robes and soft, uncalloused hands declared his status as an experienced adventurer - only the wealthy could afford such clothing, and only a caster would have hands unmarred from the grip of a blade.

Any who speculated further were careful to do so quietly. There was an air of danger about this man. The fine silken robes could not hide the threat of violence that followed him like an ominous cloud. Even the enormous ogre that frequented the bar kept careful distance. The class of people that visited this tavern lived on the edges of society; the dregs of civilization. They knew danger when they saw it and word spread easily. One lightfingered pickpocket reduced to ash was all it took to find himself untroubled by unsavory attention.

Quane caught the eyes of one unlucky patron too slow to avert his gaze and held them. Eyes widening, the other man dropped his drink to the bar, the sloshing ale spurring a few gutteral complaints from nearby drinkers. With shaking hands, he spilled a handful of coin on the bar and hastily left.

The sneer curved upward, just a little.

(more…)

In Which Vonya Does a Good Deed, and is Punished For It.

Vonya’s vanilla-colored hair lashed around her pale face as the chill mountain wind spun wickedly around her, gleefully whipping her skirts into a frenzy. The draenei stood for a moment, surveying the area. It was rocky, and a bit barren. Far too desolate for her own taste. The nearest town was a goodly distance away, and even the seldom-traveled road was tucked out of sight. The grassy hummocks that dotted the mountainside were lush and green; there should be plenty of fodder for Esmerelda to graze on. And although she had not seen any of the actual beasts, there were split-hoofed footprints the size of her head pressed into some of the softer dirt, so her rose-scented nuisance should easily find companionship, should that be her desire.

This would be perfect.

Vonya patted Meena gratefully on the shoulder before turning to Esmerelda. Her frostsaber had been very patient with this whole business, carrying her through brush and unbroken territory for most of the day as she searched for the perfect place to release their rose-scented companion.

(more…)

In Which Vonya Bathes

Vonya dripped.

It felt achingly good to be standing upon solid ground once more. Had it not been for the presence of the dwarf that had escorted her away from the ram pastures, she might have fallen to her knees and kissed the dry, dusty road. But that was a childish reaction, and she was, as ever, an emissary for her people. So she had stood and bade a formal farewell to the dwarf, beyond glad that her mud-laden skirts hid the weary trembling of her knees.

It was full dark by the time she’d whistled for Meena, and while she waited for the great cat’s arrival, she dripped. Great, fat squelching patties of mud that slapped against the dusty roadway, a sound she would forever relive in her nightmares.

In one hand, she held the worn, twisted end of a lead rope which led up to the sagging leather halter fastened securely around the white ram’s head. Esmerelda. A silly name for such an ungainly creature. And the truth of the dwarf’s insistence that she was a white animal remained to be seen; if anything, she was covered in even more filth than the draenei.

Vonya sighed. She was absolutely coated in mud, an almost obscene amount of which seemed to be collecting around her hooves, accompanied by, of all things, a giant goat. This has not been a good day. If anyone sees me like this, I shall simply die of mortification.

She glanced up the road again, and nearly cheered when she saw the great spotted frostsaber loping toward them. Meena. Thank the Light.

The great cat drew near, then came to a stop a few feet away, ears flickering and nostrils twitching. Vonya took a step forward and Meena took a step back.

“Oh, come now, Meena, this is just silly. I know I’m a bit dirty, but the sooner we get to an inn, the sooner I can be clean.”

Another sheaf of mud slid from her skirts and slapped wetly against the road. The cat took another step back.

Vonya threw up her arms, sending another spray of mud to either side. “Oh, you! Fine!”

Speculatively, Vonya turned to the ram, who immediately threw her head back and gave a half rear, bleating. Vonya’s brow furrowed. “Oh, a pox on both of you!”

This was never going to work. She could hardly arrive on foot in Thelsamar covered in mud, followed by a cat and a goat. She’d have to bathe in the Loch, crocolisks bedamned.

(more…)