Plague

It came to pass that Dios favored a certain group of mortals greatly. These mortals were called elves, and they were full of life. The Magus's power shone brightly in them. They were the first mortals It put Its entire self into creating, and that light was a beacon. Every elf that gave praise to the Sun, gave praise to the Light, was another spark of The Magus's power reclaimed.

Nyx grew envious.

She had no mortals of her own to play with. The elves, as She knew, feared the Night, for they could not see in the darkness. In the beginning, the elves were the only mortals worth playing with: they were the only mortals who could think. They made plans, they had dreams. No other mortal could boast such things.

And so Nyx went down amongst the elves at night, disguising Herself as a beautiful, if blind, young woman.

"Why do you hide?" She called out to them, standing in the town square.

One very brave elf cracked open the shutters to his window to respond. "It isn't safe," he explained. "You should go inside."

She shook Her head. "The Night is beautiful, if only you could see It." She beckoned the elf, and he closed the window to Her.

So it went. Nyx would cajole the elves to leave their homes, and one by one, the elves refused, until at last, a small child left her empty home. Nyx knew this child. Once in the forest, her family had been slaughtered by wolves. Nyx had watched with interest, but had not intervened.

"They won't come," the child explained. "They are too afraid."

Nyx smiled down at the child. "Why are they so afraid, little one?"

"The darkness hides fearsome beasts," said the girl. "We cannot see them to fight back."

Nyx rested a hand over the girl's eyes. "Then I will give you sight to pierce the darkness," She spoke, and so it was. The girl could see in darkness.

"The creatures are too strong to fight, Mistress," said the child.

And Nyx shifted Her hand, resting it atop the child's head. "Then I shall make you strong enough to face any challenge. No beast will be too great for you."

The Goddess did this for each member of the clan Ba'naelro, and She became diminished for her efforts. Her spark shone dark, shadowing The Magus' own, and her people were strong.

God-touched, Her children did not age. They were masters of all beasts. They were strong, and they were cunning. However, although as creatures of the light they had been able to suffer the darkness, as Children of Night, the reverse was no longer true. Sunlight burned them, as did places and things consecrated to Dios. Submersion in fresh waters weakened them, burning their skin like acid.

However, the Night was beautiful to them, and they were powerful. They became content with their new place in the world, and Nyx was content with her single clan of mortals.

One day, Dios learned of this treachery.

He raged endlessly, unable to find, much less punish, the wayward tribe. In His stead, He sent His most powerful clerics, and His fiercest warriors, to kill the Night Children.

The Night Children sent the warriors and clerics back in pieces, suffering only few losses.

So it continued for some time, and this grieved Nyx. She is above all else, a goddess of healing, not war. Her children's deaths weighed heavy on her heart, especially as they could not reproduce as mortals did to replenish their numbers.

In her grief, Nyx bestowed upon her children new powers. They would be able to become as beasts, or fine mist, and they could heal any wound

Most importantly, by sharing their blood with a true mortal, they could create new Night Children, and thereby replenish their ranks. These new creatures were the first vampires, and they did not have the divine spark their parents were given. They craved it, needed it to sustain their power - no, their very lives. Before long, they turned on their parents, killing almost every last elf of the clan Ba'naelro.

Then, when there were no more Children to be found, the vampires turned outward. They hunted down any elves they could find. Some did choose to expand their numbers, creating a great many vampires. Many did not, choosing instead to leave a wake of drained bodies behind.

So ended the time of the elves.

You All Meet In A Tavern

Or: But I don't even drink!

So, tavern-based roleplay. It's like a single's club for dark, brooding, sociopathic menaces to society. I haven't had to stoop to this in a while.

Tavern roleplay, like the aforementioned single's club, is a great way to meet people. The very nature of the place demands people attend. My very first experiences in roleplay, in fact, were through tavern RP - in ancient MSN chat rooms where typing speed determined victory - no lie! Nowadays, if your characters get into a violent conflict of interest and the other guy responds with a rapid-fire series of posts detailing the utterly one-sided victory he's just stolen from your battered corpse, you turn and walk away, slapping him with an /ignore so fast their head spins clean off.

At least, that's what I do.

So, anyway, there are some benefits to tavern RP, but there are some drawbacks as well. Like I mentioned up there in the subtitle (who reads those anyway?), the tavern just isn't the place for everybody. Raise your hand if, like me, you've never set foot in a bar for recreational purposes.

Now, put your hand down; you look kind of silly.

I imagine anyway. No, I really can't see you.

The point is, not every character is going to work well in a tavern. Shy characters and claustrophobes spring to mind. Honestly, would Loner McWoodsy - the high elven ranger so feral he understands his wolf companion better than other people - really spend much time in any civilized establishment at all? Really?

No, not really.

That's what I thought.

Not only that, but what about all these great warriors, mages, healers, and little kids? (I've seen it.) I'm reminded of the scene in the original Mass Effect where Shepard tells off General Septimus for acting like a drunkard instead of the proud military man he's supposed to be.

Assassins I can forgive, since they need a place to meet up with potential employers but ...

I guess what I'm trying to say is, if tavern RP is the only kind of RP you have on your server, there's a problem. And the problem is only highlighted, underscored, italicized, and in bold print when even that's nonextant.

So I moved servers. I'm quite content with the change.

Nothing else to report though.

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.

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."