More Reasons to Dislike Level 58 DKs

So my last post was a rant about the PVE reasons DKs are evil.

Now for a different approach.

As you probably know, I'm an avid Roleplayer. It's interactive storytelling, basically, and it's intensely fun - when you do it right.

It is incredibly rare for Death Knights (especially level 58 Death Knights) to be doing it right.

I have a theory about that. It goes like this: in lore, Death Knights are incredibly powerful, and this is reflected by the class's starting level and array of skills. They are also the most triumphant anti-heroes of the piece. As a faction, they were more instrumental in defeating the Lich King than either the Horde or the Alliance, second only to the Argent Crusade for sheer, brutal effectiveness. Death Knights are damned - and also damned cool.

This combination of factors attracts young people with God complexes to the class. The high level is a cheat toward perceived power, even in roleplay. It's actually rather telling that even RP guilds often have a minimum level set for DKs well above their level 58 introduction into the wider World of Warcraft. The level also grants them access to a variety of clothing options. The cooler you look, the more powerful you are perceived to be, the theory goes, and since Death Knights are so fascinating and overpowered to begin with, as well as actually looking cool, Death Knight player characters generally end up not being cool after all.

To put it bluntly, ever level 58 DK I have seen roleplaying (with few notable exceptions) have done so poorly, and fall into one of three categories: the Death Knight godmoder, the Death Knight eRPer, and the "not-a-Death Knight" godmoder/eRPer.

And, since the death of the Lich King, Death Knights have stopped being particularly lore-relevant! The only thing we get about Death Knights post-Cataclysm is a little blurb about Thassarian and Koltira in WPL, which tells us that since their grand mission is up, most of them have pretty much just joined whatever faction they started out as ... maybe.

TL;DR: The Death Knight class tends to be just plain bad for RP, and bad roleplayers flock to it.

Need More Rage

Caution: This posting contains a RANT.

So, I think I've figured out why it is that back in the day, Warriors were the only tanks. That reason is rage.

I am right now enjoying my second ragequit ever, and have discovered that there is a hard limit to the number of people that can be vote-kicked from a group, period.

So I mentioned I have a pocket healer now. We've been trying to keep our levels together, and it is difficult, as I want to level while he's roleplaying, or on an alt - and vice-versa.

He's 56, while I just reached 58.

I think if either of us run BRD one more time we'll both go mad, so we agreed to queue for UBRS on a whim.

For nostalgia, he said.

I should note here that I am not a very nostalgic person, and I don't remember UBRS all that well. I was very much a noobish idiot-child back in Vanilla, so it's probable that either I was never allowed to come with, or I just wasn't paying UBRS the attention it deserved but nobody got hurt since I was just healing.

The first thing we see upon zoning in is a Death Knight who made me ashamed of my server.

He died on accident before I had a chance to save him: at level 58, he was wearing cloth, leather, and mail greens.

For those who have not yet experienced Death Knights, the World of Warcraft Hero class, let me explain, with relish. And also ketchup and mustard.

There is literally no reason for a level 58 Death Knight to be wearing sub-par gear.

The gear the class starts with (at level 55) is composed entirely of plate greens. It has reasonably optimal stats, and it is sufficient for a level 55 to get by until 60.

The gear they get on the way to level 58 and joining the rest of the population is blue and can last until level 70: everything, every single piece of gear a Death Knight sees from 58-69 is either a sidegrade or, at best, a very minor upgrade.

IF the unthinkable had happened and this poor sod had been hacked, he's only 58. Rerolling his Death Knight from scratch loses him almost nothing.

So, as soon as possible, we lose the useless DK. While we wait to kick him, one of the other DPS flat-out leaves.

We get two more DKs.

And they are both idiots.

Both of them Death Grip off of me, which is actually the least of their sins, although one of the more frustrating to deal with as a tank. One of them apparently has a grudge against the very idea of wearing a helm, so we have to talk him into putting his on. They seem to want to do the [Leeeeeeeeeeeeeroy!] JENKINS achievement, at-level for the instance, judging by the sheer number of eggs that ended up smashed before we ever reached the Father Flame event.

Neither of them are inclined to help me, so much as "wander off doing their own thing, which is, by necessity, in my general proximity."

The healer flat-out refuses to heal either of them, nor resurrect the first one to die (who promptly goes AFK for the rest of the instance). I can't blame him. As a matter of fact I pretty much just encourage his behavior - if there was any way for me to directly kill them, I would have done so myself.

By the third wipe, my pocket healer leaves, and I've /ignored three people before leaving, myself.

Thank you, level 58 Death Knights. You have so enriched my Warcraft experience.

Blind Rage

Deantha Ashenmoor was angry.

She slammed the door to her rented room shut, locking it tight as tears rolled down her face. She was so angry.

A plate had been on her table. It hit the wall, smashed to bits, a bowl and a cup following as a scream of inhuman rage tore her throat. Finally, even the table itself was overturned, rolling through the air to slam hard against a bookshelf.

Hungry for destruction, she ripped the blankets from her bed, claws slashing -

Claws ... slashing ...

Not even human.

She collapsed on the bed, shaking, a howl of grief escaping her that gradually became a wail, until that, too, faded. Deantha sobbed brokenly, fur melting away to reveal soft, human flesh.

Images flashed through her mind. Armod filled most of them. The warrior's calloused hand stroking her lupine muzzle as he softly reassured her that she'd be all right. His own face covered in wooden splinters and gore, foam rolled from his mouth. The sharp pain as his sword snapped her shield arm in a training exercise gone awry.

The confused fear in his eyes as she pried his jaw open. As she reassured him that he would be all right, her hands pouring the faintly-glowing liquid down his throat. As she violated his trust, took his free will away.

It was the only choice she had.

You thought you could trust him, came the insidious thought. Him, a Worgen. You've seen him in a rage, and you thought you could control that? Or did you think frothing at the mouth was normal?

Deantha decided to take her emotion out on her pillow, punching it with all the strength she could muster as she tried to ignore that cold, logical voice.

You thought you could trust him and he hurt you.

You thought you could trust him, and you tempted him, goaded him into losing control. How long has he been infected, even?

You don't know. Years maybe.

You thought you could trust a monster like him.

"He didn't mean it," she mumbled weakly, curled up in her bed. "He didn't mean it. He wouldn't hurt me on purpose."

He trusted you, the voice shot back. Trusted you to be strong enough for him.

But you're weak.

She didn't have a response for that accusation.

She never did. 

Outlands Rant

So today I'm going to rant a little bit about Outlands, since I only have ten levels until I get there. (Avid RPer means that the sheer amount of time I've spent on World of Warcraft does not indicate what level I should be.)

Hello, Outlands. How are you today?

My biggest problem with Outlands is there is no choice involved in going there.

You reach 58 (60 at the latest really), and you pretty much have to go to the Outlands to be appropriately leveled for the content you're visiting. Once in OL, you pretty much have to go to either Hellfire Peninsula, or if you're daring, Zangarmarsh. From there it branches out minutely.

Since the demons have been beaten back there's almost no logical incentive (storywise) to bother going to OL. It bears no real threat to Azeroth anymore.

But you still have to go, if you're questing.

This bothers me, to say the least. There are also no alternatives offered whatsoever with the Cataclysm except maybe, maybe doing what I've been doing since 25, which is to say questing out a green zone and ending up five levels above the mobs I'm killing. I'm starting to think I should take my heirlooms off and see if that makes it easier for me to not outlevel things - but given the rarity of me actually going out to level, I need as many boosts as possible.

I also still need to join a guild.

The reason I say this is, even RP guilds have mostly cracked level 2 or level 3, since even avid RPers tend to want to see content, if only to incorporate it into their storylines (not to mention those who take levels into account in RP conflicts). Therefore, getting +5% experience is a fairly trivial matter, regardless of what kind of guild you want to be in. And like I said, any boost I can get, no?

In-Character: Dreaming of Things

((I may have mentioned this at some point, but I am an avid roleplayer. This particular post is an in-character look at probably my most favorite new character - a Stormwind human, bitten by a half-feral Worgen. Forgive the awful accent, it makes me giggle a bit inside.))

"'Allo, Poppet."

I made a friend today, I think. Her name is Miranda, and she is nice.

I am leaning on her because I am tired, and very cold besides. I turn to look at her, and I am smiling, with my very human mouth. Only, she is not there - it is HIM, instead. I am caught, the rabbit before the wolf, and I cannot look away.

"You're real pretteh, yeh know tha' roight?"

I am kneeling now. There is blood everywhere, limbs and fingers and toes. A lower jaw ripped from a face, skin and muscle, lip and teeth, all together in my hand. The tongue remained with the rest of the skull, and that remained with the body. Although I barely know her, I realize somehow that this maimed corpse belongs to my new friend.

And I know that I have killed her.

"Kill you? Now whoi would Oi do a thing li'e tha'?"

He is above me, his long, sharp teeth sunk into my shoulder as he does unspeakable things to my body. He is not a man, although he walks upright: fur sprouts from his skin, inky and blank, and his eyes glow with crimson. Bloody crimson ... so much blood, I am drowning in it, I think. I do not want to die. With all that I am, I do not want to die.

"Oi need you aloive."

I am one of them. I can see my fur clearly. It is a muddy, brownish color, covering hands that end in claws like scythes.

I do not understand what is happening to me, the changes I am going through. I hold my stomach, as the pain is most intense there. Looking down, I see my abdomen swelled and bloated, and I am confused. The pain is intense, and with the first splash of red, I realize in dawning horror what is happening to me. Tiny teeth housed in soft, furred muzzles chew their way out of me.

"Moi children, love."

I wake up, trying not to scream. It is all a dream.

My hands come into view, and I realize they are paws.

"'Allo, Poppet."