Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Heals good.

A HUGE and hearty "thank you" to fellow guildmate, Turkic, for this:
http://raidinghogger.blogspot.com/2011/05/05312011-rare-return-to-wow-and-shaman.html

Ya know something? This WoW community can be very cool sometimes.

Thank you, Turkic for your help: your motivation could be that either you're a very kind player, or you just didn't want our guildmates dying horrible, fiery deaths. Or perhaps both.

Took some of my Band-Aids out into the streets and played doctor on Lolan:
Look at all the green, glowing goodness!
Now to go get the prescription filled. Bet there's a co-pay.


Theme song: Feel Good Inc/Gorillaz

Saturday, May 28, 2011

Undelivered letter.

In an unlit corner of a cobwebbed closet, a letter went undelivered, unread, and unloved. It gained its power by it's not being received more so than if it had. Both parties assumed the worst: each thought that the other was ignoring or, worse, abandoning the other. The insecurity that rattled their rib bones, hardly protecting their hearts, gave clearance to these notions, instead of just assuming the most logical, and true explanation: that there was good reason and cause for not hearing from each other. Indeed, if they had known, they thought of each other often, and with loyalty and friendship.

Fortuna is a slippery girl, and quite careless, and she is the one who slid the scroll off the stack and blew it into the space, lost, as if down a mine shaft with a dead canary. No one sang of its presence, or sounded the alarm when the letter was lost. (An echo of a giggling goblin could be heard, though, if you listened carefully..)

The letter said:

My dearest friend and champion, 
I fully understand your duties lie elsewhere, and your loyalties are true and sure, but I must urge you to please send word of your health and happiness to me if you can. Our mutual friend, the little gnome, is wasting away; she won't eat, or drink, and her water minion has grown moldy and mildewy. She has gone into seclusion, and only her death knight serves her now. She is not healthy. I am faring much better--my weapons are sharp, my armor is bright, but my heart is conflicted. I miss your presence, but do understand that, however selfish it is of me, that you must serve others, and seek more golden, fortunate boons than what is offered here. There are greater rewards in other worlds, or at least I've been told. Some news that may interest you: my sister Luperci has reached a substantial level of training, and seeks one of your acquaintances in the healing arts. Perhaps you know of a priest who would enlighten her path? She still struggles with holding the monsters close to her, but indeed, is coming along. Her success depends upon the aid of a skilled healer: she is humbled by this. (And we both know the necessary arrogance of paladins: it is their survival and their fatal flaw.)
Please send word -- your friend, M
Instead of doing the logical thing, which would have been simply to send a second letter, just to make sure, she waited foolishly. She imagined he had been cannibalized by trolls. Or skewered by murlocs. Or ripped by talons of basilisks. These were her nightmarish worries. But then, she remembered that nothing got past him, nothing hurt him, and she took a deep breath, and reassured herself. All would be well. Or it would not. Or it would.

But those are the swirly-thoughts and spinning, ever-collapsing-on-itself conclusion: when there is no word, our minds fill the void for us. Nature, and hearts, abhor a vacuum.



Lupe has a few drinks after a bad dungeon run...Sorely kept buying rounds...

 Postscript: Luperci is Level 70. There is a wide swing between dungeon groups: there are those who allow her to set the pace, and those who don't. It has been a very different experience being on this side of the shield to say the least.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Cuidado.

It's not just Matty who meets banditos in dungeons: her priest, Zeptepi, encountered a few last night, too. So gallant, so chivalrous were they all: and although the spirits of Stratholme would not be subdued, one caballero sweetly kissed Zep's hand, apologized, thanked her for the kind healing, and bid her goodnight.

The group spoke Spanish only: but, the international signals of watching a hunter not engage in the fight (he was told "Cuidado..."), and the red threat circles, and falling health of players, needs no translation.

But I do have a dumb question, (but I know how to get it answered): just before I die, my body turns into a beautiful angel, and I hover in this angel-like phase for a bit, then it drops off, and I fall down dead. I've been running up Zeptepi a bit fast maybe, and this spell is new. She's just reached level 50 today, and I believe got this ability at 48. And what is the point of it? Does it allow for other players to rally and kill the boss, but why do I die anyway? Why isn't it a big Hail Mary play? I mean, it's lovely, and I am thoroughly enjoying being a priest healer, but what is its purpose? Just like Leap of Faith -- as far as I can tell it serves no other purpose than to make me happy.

Maybe that is my Cuidado Angel.

Oh, I must admit, I really do miss the Reincarnation spell on the priest. Win for shamans!

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

You're not wrong, Walter, you're just an asshole.



Walter Sobchak is a memorable character. Large, lovable, big heart, but doesn't want a league game to go over the line.

I have often wavered between the Dude and Walter. Sometimes I'm Donny.

Tonight, I acted solidly Walter.

To my three friends: I apologize. And when Walter apologizes to the Dude, he means it. (See the funeral scene with coffee can/ashes props.) I succumbed to my impulsive side of my nature. Just didn't feel like it. Acted before I thought. I was squarely in the wrong.

Sorry, Dude.




http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0118715/quotes

Sure shot.

Well...after leveling one silly shaman from 1 to 80, and then 80 to 85, this seems a tiny bit anti-climatic, like seeing a movie when you know a spoiler, or reading the last pages of a murder mystery, but this does deserve a bit of pomp and circumstance, perhaps...

da-da- DAAAA: 

Haanta, the Huntress, is level 85!

I feel that, even more so than Matty, Haanta belongs to a group effort. Between knowing expert hunters, and a master leather worker, she had a tunic, cloak, and belt waiting for her; the right polearm (Lucky dwarf! Going to put you on a keychain!), and a necklace in storage, too.

But now the fun really begins. Grinding rep through the new Cata factions, getting those Ugh (Ugg) boots from the hippies in Mt. Hyjal, and a whole lot of drinking with dwarfs in Twilight. Good thing she already has her hair pulled back for the ensuing spew fest.

I know others are more adept at this, but when I switch from enh shaman to survival hunter, the transition is tricky. I either want to run up and pistol whip everything with my gun or stand back and glare at monsters with my fist weapon. I find that I am not great when a mob runs up to me, nor am I great at judging melee distances. Jack-of-all-trades, master of none time?

One concession I made with Haanta is her dual specs: she is survival and beast mastery. I'm in good company: http://forthebubbles.wordpress.com/2010/10/12/four-point-oh-noes-the-bm-hunter/ Figured I might as well have some fun getting cool pets in between PUG moments when I'm called names for being a huntard. And a pre-apology and warning to my expert hunter friends: the expression "you'll shoot your eye out" was created for me.


This is a horrible recording, but you'll get the point: Beastie Boys/Sure Shot

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

No Girls Allowed.


Tanky and Spanky take their oaths as faithful members of the He-Man Woman Haters Club.


 The reason why I started this blog was very simple: I was inspired by my WoW friendship with another female player, a young woman who is very comfortable in her own skin, and has not only kept up with the big boys, but has surpassed a few of them, too. She's a scrappy, can-do kind of girl, and is to be admired. And I like to write. So sue me.

So, I have been known to exhibit moments of scrappiness, too. And as smart and fun as I believe myself to be, it kind of surprised me the other day when asking to do a run, a guildmate said, I think...jokingly...,"No girls allowed." As far as I can tell, there are five women in my guild, not including me. Since the other guildmate who was going to run the dungeon with is, indeed, a man, I'm pretty sure the guildmate was referring to me. I felt the tiniest spark and sting of my 8-year-old-self when I was banned from some activity or another simply because I was a girl. I had to learn to throw better, higher, faster, etc. Like the old quote, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did but backwards, wearing high heels.

Not go because...I'm a girl? What is this? Third friggin' grade?

The poisonous venom barf-pools of the Zul'Gurub bosses are the only Zul ones I know. I have yet to roll into Zul'Aman. The priestess gave us some understated trouble. After, I don't know, four or forty wipes, I went to put clothes in the dryer, coming back to our dungeon group having been disbanded while I turned my back on my weapons and toward dryer sheets and lint. That'll teach me to try to have clean clothes. I would say I was off my game for the other times I died, horribly, painfully, the after-burn of acidic regurgitated rat stew and corn chowder, along with lime Kool-Aid that first boss barfs up creates some pretty weird pixels for me. (Admittedly, when Matty's female draenei voice yelps in fear, it's difficult not to patronize or think, "man up for gods' sakes!' It stops being cute after awhile.)

But before we went to the Kit-Kat club and got our litter boxes cleaned out, I did procure two very cool items: one is a fist weapon, and the other some new gloves. In my girlish voice, "squeeeeeee!~"



So, again gentlemen, it is not a problem if you don't want me on your team for awhile. I respect that. Don't want to get my girlness all over you, cooties and whatnot.

The Lamp




Not all shadows are dead.

Some, a rare but aggressive few, breath, grow, and flourish. Fertilized by fears, shuffling, layering, filtering anguish and doubt, these shadows move in the soul-pools, and feed on festering apathetic algae.

He sensed that one was growing in Matty's heart, and he knew just what to do. Summoning his warlock comrade, he commissioned her to create a lamp. (Warlocks are accustomed in extinguishing their own dangerous shadows, and are quite skilled lantern crafters.)

The recipe is ancient: to make a powerful light that will kill a metastasized shadow includes some unspeakable truths. However, this is what is known: the paper is crafted from ground Azuremyst moth wings, fire beetles, and boiled to make a gluey mixture, to which is added two fistfuls of light feathers (priests are stingy with these), rolled with a diamond-tipped staff to a web-spindle width. The frame of the lantern is made from brass shavings found on the floor of a thrice-widowed blacksmith, smelted with baby's tears, talbuk horns, and paladin mana. (How these items are obtained are known only by goblins of the lowest social rung, and the black rats who witness these deeds.) The eternal bioluminescence is the critical secret, but most suspect it is derived from fathomless sea creatures who light their own ways in the abysmal depths, captured by drowned sailors and traded for their souls. No one knows for certain.

The lamp was created in the speed of a wish. There was no time to waste.

She opened her gift, and gasped - all despair dissipated. The cheery bobbing lamp stayed with her every step, lighting her path, inside her heart and out, and made her see truths that bruised, but the hope to face them. She embarrassed him a bit in her gratitude; he humbly, and mumbling, accepted her thanks. No more needed to be said.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

It's complicated.

One of my favorite bloggers and experts on all things WoW is Psynister's Notebook. It's well-written, informative, and funny. His metaphor of learning a new spec at the end of a character's path is extremely timely for Miss Matty: to him, it's analogous to learning to walk in high heels. (He calls it his "high HEALS" quest.)


(Being a female, I can attest that learning to walk in high heels is indeed difficult, and a skill that doesn't stay for life. From playing bride in mommy's heels, to the prom date (when you realize your shoes create a Nicole Kidman/Tom Cruise effect--the real reason they divorced. Haven't you noticed Katie Holme's posture deteriorating?), and those platforms with the 1/2" base that creates a teetering death fulcrum: one wrong step and your ankle will be twisted like a hot metal. This is all for the accentuation of calf muscles: setting off those gems on the gams is defining sign of femininity.)


He is on a mission to create a healer out of a shaman. 


I am, too.


Now, my posse knows this, and have been incredibly supportive. Even dragged one of them into a two normal Cata dungeons yesterday. There were a few mishaps, but seriously, nothing I haven't died on myself as a DPS. They were truly moments of: "Disculpa no pude hacer nada."   


Another buddy, hearing of my attempts, is an expert on healing, (a priest healer), began asking me ("grilling me" is too strong, and "mild interest" is too weak) about my add-ons, sub-woofers, tweet decks and mojo-risings. Something like that. Another one of my favorite bloggers, which I need to start studying like an Arnold Schwarzenegger paternity test, is Josh Myer's blog on WoW Insider. He has mentioned macros, and setting those up, too. 


Now when my buddies start to rattle off these seemingly simple things, it sounds like this to me sometimes:


I am Ginger in this scenario. Just wanted to spell it out for you.


But here is my teeny, tiny rant: Sometimes I just wish that I could just play with what Blizz provides, and not all the accoutrements. But that's what they give us intelligence for, and it's not really in the spirit of the game, is it, to not try to think and plan, eh? I guess if I just want to put my brain on ice for a bit, I'll just go grind rep for mounts. Because right now, managing my mana is making me manic.


So, bottom line: guild master told me it was time to put my big-girl panties on and deal with it. (I actually have that expression on a T-shirt somewhere I think...) He was gracious enough to hand over some cool healer purple Kool-Aid to me the other day, too. "Thought that would make you happy, Matilda!" "Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!" So, the gear isn't the issue. It's the player. (As usual.)


To the big girl panties! Away! (Thinking of these like a Bat-signal over Gotham.)
Bat...or thong pattern?
Theme song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dkmI2yRJwgc

Friday, May 20, 2011

Nerd Rage: Scientific Fact!

This is when "science" is kind of a "duh!" But interesting nonetheless:

You Bug Me: Now Science Explains Why

We all have things that bug us, and to add another layer to these author's theory, consider the annoyances of multi-player games.

Or don't.

Just go drink with some dwarfs, do a few solo quests, and don't answer that cell phone.


Top Ten: You're Playing Too Much

I've had this list rattling around in my head for awhile. This may be updated or revised a few times over.

Top Ten Signs You're Playing Too Much

10. You're more concerned about preparing for a raid than a presentation for your boss.
9. You are developing a 'gamer's hunchback.' (This is very problematic for women, especially, because of the, um, imbalance of weight distribution on their backs. Posture, ladies, posture!)
8. You start to wish more humans would walk around with shields and swords than briefcases and cell phones. (Actually, this is a pretty good idea. Don't think the cops would like it too much.)
7. Your mother calls and you let it go to voice mail. A lot. (Oh, you do that anyway? This is your MOTHER for goodness sakes!)
6. You're starting to think blackened surprise or basilisk liver sounds pretty good for dinner.
5. Spend more time justifying your choice about Beast Mastery spec to strangers than making sure your own dog is brushed and bathed.
4. A 'night out drinking with buddies' now means a group of randy dwarfs versus old college friends.
3. You question whether you should put your 525 professional crafting level on a resume.
2. A friend whispers you telling you they're okay after some calamity (natural disaster, personal crisis, dog ran away, end of the world, you know, bad, evil things), and you tell them you'll talk to them after you're done with the PUG dungeon. (This will go on the Most Shameful WoW Moments Hall of Defame List.)
1. Your significant other is feeling amorous, and you resist the urge to type /hug on them.

*sigh*

Postscript: A friend asks you, "Aren't you suppose to be at work now?" and you realize, yes, indeed you should be at work. Five hours ago.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Story Time: Chapter One

Guarf’s Tale
Blackberry Winter
-1-

The evening hour was past its prime. Vain, vernal northern light exited the stage protesting. Spring peepers boasted amorously to their larger, less-interested ladyloves. Pink-grey mist of the spring’s night drugged the clover, punctuated by orange cabin fires and hearthstones. Travelers and vagabonds moved down the silt path quietly. The peepers’ cacophonous croaking drowned out all other thoughts and inner meditations. One amphibious amante sat under a bush and loudly, profoundly, exclaimed his intentions to any female frog that might be within a two-kilometer distance. Early spring lavender-green frosted the pots and planters. Smaller worlds behind the veil shifted unseen.
Inside the unassuming hovel, Mataoka bent over a bit-too-small woodblock, mincing sungrass herbs for the evening’s spring roasted lamb. This was not her choice. She wanted to be sitting in the over-sized chintz chair by the hearth, one hoof curled under her leggings, with her head rested against the chair’s headrest, but the chef of the house had put her to work. She held the blade carefully so as not to cut her own fingers. Draenei blood does not make Shattrath lamb taste better, contrary to goblin lore. She suppressed the urge to take out her mace and pound the delicate grass to smithereens.
“Please, Guarf, tell me you won’t burn it like you did last time?”
“Burn? No, my dear…not burnt. Flame kissed!” said Guarf, in his own kitchen, completely in control.
“Guarf, it was inedible. Confess, sir, last spring you were utterly and hopelessly sapped by that widow-woman next door, hanging her dwarven-sized bloomers on the wash line…that would distract anyone!” laughed Mat. “Did you ever get in those knickers, my friend? Never mind…please don’t answer that!”
“Aye, lassie, you must admit: getting in Widow Shannon’s knickers is enough of a defense for any red-blooded male! She’s got a backside like an iron kettle.” He then muttered something about stirring the widow’s pot, which Matty chose to ignore.
The spring lamb was basted, browning, and made her mouth water. Guarf, without the protection of hot pads, took the clay roaster out of the oven in his well-calloused hands, placing it on the counter. She was deeply hungry, as if she hadn’t eaten in months. A profound, saturated hunger. With one smooth swipe of the butcher knife, he swept the minced sungrass in the pan, throwing the herb like confetti over the lamb.
When he cooked, he seemed to need by divine right, almost a do-or-die quest, to dirty every dish, pot, pan, and cup in the house. Their living arrangement was based on Mat’s being able to stay there as long as she needed (she was habitually homeless), in exchange for her doing the dishes if he cooked. Normally, he was an excellent cook, with the one exception of the Widow Shannon’s backside distraction, so she didn’t mind being the sous-chef. Her duties did not include laundry or cleaning. She wondered if subconsciously he created such a performance and abuse of resources because she refused to keep house. The bewitched critters of Azeroth stopped short of scrubbing chamber pots while Matty sang, or dusting ancient tomes of lore with their squirrelly tales. They were no help. She skipped gingerly across piles of dirty linens, danced around leggings and sheets piled on floors, and barreled through the stacks of books, books, and more books. Perhaps Guarf’s attraction to the Widow Shannon had more to do with her washboard room skills than her bedroom skills. (So far the buxom widow had shown no interest in giving him, or his linens, a scrub-down!)
However, he took meticulous care of his weapons and armor, and had only spoken sharply to Matty once, when she had accidentally knocked over a row of axes ready for grinding. Her big hooves and tail sometimes made her a bit clumsy.
They were each often off and about on their own missions and seldom encountered one another. It was a rare and comfortable treat to be sharing a meal together. She looked down at his face, and absentmindedly, maternally perhaps, licked her thumb and rubbed out a soot spot on his cheek. She thought of tweaking his beard, but knew that would cross a line. One doesn’t touch a dwarf’s beard. Ever. (She didn’t know how indulgent he felt towards her: if she had, he would have forgiven her. It wasn’t as if his beard was one of his axes, for gods’ sakes!) His uncut ocean-sapphire eyes, affixed in his white-web flossy beard and braids, showed a sparkling, stunning contrast. Those eyes—if he looked at you, you could not tell a lie. His paladin honor, discretion, and respect would shine on anyone, friends and enemies alike. His smile wrinkles, earned by laughter, ale, and merriment, belied his age. He wasn’t old for a dwarf, only 166, but he had a bit of travel on him, and a few stories.
What he saw in Mat’s eyes was exhaustion, but he knew better: you never tell a lady she looks tired.
“I was helping your sister the other day,” he said, a bit vaguely for him.
“Which one?”
 “Lupe. She’s got a fine fiery sword now, and her armor is coming along.”
Mat loved her sisters, but she didn’t always understand them. Luperci, the middle girl, could be as self-righteous as an hagiographer, one who begins to believe he is just as holy as the saints’ stories he records.  The notch in Mat’s right horn was a result of Lupe slamming a flaming shield to Mat’s head when they were children. Mat had made some crack about the color or shape of Lupe’s horns. Matty often spoke before thinking, having a sharp tongue on occasion. Lupe had learned a bit more patience over the years, too; thank heavens, because that irascible arrogance and self-importance would have grown tiresome if left unchecked. Mat avoided her as it was.
Rumors, mostly faded now, persisted that Matty was the love child of their mother, Alenke, before she married Arkkis. These rumors were true. Her mother had been in love; sincere promises were made, secret vows taken, but he died in battle before a priest could sanctify the marriage. The only thing that wasn’t widely known was the draenei warrior in question was Arrkis’ brother. Arrkis admired Alenke, and married her to protect her honor and out of a sense of obligation to his brother’s memory. Compromises created out of duty do not inspire love, and kills lust. Even so, they were fond of each other. But when eyes were closed and lights extinguished, each dreamed of other faces in the dark in their minds’ eyes. He never loved her as his brother had. That would have been impossible.
Mat’s own insecurity of her paternal line wasn’t helped by both her sisters being so different from she was, though this had more to do with sibling rivalries. Mat was the eldest, and by tradition, should have been married, solid, responsible, and wise. She was none of those things. Their father, Arrkis, was a loving, patient, and firm father, but with little time for his daughters. But when he saw a natural paladin in his girl, Lupe, he spent much of his time with her, training and teaching her the ways of being a true champion, as he was, and his father before him. Zeptepi, the sweetest and youngest, had followed in their mother’s healing ways. Mat was the wolf in the flock, a shaman, standing in the muck of grey between the old ways and the new path. She was a young woman divided in thirds--never quite harnessing enough power for one path.
“Well, good, the world needs as many champions as it can get,” she said flatly. She reached in her bags and pulled out two Booty Bay rum-infused limes. She struck a deal with a gritty goblin awhile back: not quite a deal, but more of a mutually-beneficial-I-won’t kill-you-if-you-don’t-kill-me arrangement. They would never wholly trust one another. She would bring him knapsacks of Elwynn Forest flour, and he would give her, in exchange, common fish oil and the succulent limes. She felt the hold of winter’s touch needed the zest of the limes, a promise of sun and warmth. She shivered.
“Aye, oh, and I almost forgot…there’s a letter for you by the door.”
She knew before she reached it that it was from the mage. Usually, the phantom postmaster sprayed satchels of letters with oil of Hart’s horn, (its ammonia smell kept wharf rats from chewing the scrolls). However, the mage had infused the scroll with his brand of magic. He smelled like a forest and fresh water, intensely masculine, and the scroll smelled of him. He was a trickster, for certain, it was the only true thing about him, but worth every brief moment he appeared. She had toughened her heart to his frequent disappearances. Early in their friendship, when he would vanish, her heart felt as if it was cut in two. She had learned that things are not what they seem, that a man can be mute for months, silenced to her, but not to be hurt by his illusions. His priest brother, too, would often sequester himself in study or mediation. “Oh, for Velen’s sake, these men! What is so important that they need to think all the time?” she asked herself.
No other man looked like him. During his infrequent appearances, second only to an oft-missing friend, she would just look at him. Once in a blue-mage moon he would send her flasks, and urge her to drink them liberally. Matty was convinced he put some other ingredient in there that kept her paradoxically disoriented and well protected. He made delicious potions--always added a touch of herbs from far-off lands, and honey mash. These concoctions transformed her into a masked gnome, or any number of other illusions and surprises. He never revealed what was behind the wand, the cape, but would produce delightful surprises that caused the reaction he wanted: her unashamed laughter. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, how handsome he was. But she was under his spell.
It was odd to be sending a letter without some flask or potion attached. Her brow knitted slightly. She used her witchblade to slice open the scroll, and nicked her finger. A drop of blood seeped into the edge of the letter. 
My dearest Mat,
I have been summoned to the mage quarters to train apprentices in incantations. Do not expect to hear from me again for a long time. It’s not as if you needed me to give you a port; the gods decide when and where to allow freedom of movement. Please keep an eye on my brothers for me. They would be lost and hungry without you.
-R
She crumpled the letter, making hot wrinkles in it that would never be starched and ironed out. Long time, indeed! She felt quickly ashamed, and tried to smooth out the letter as best she could, so she could keep it, read it, and yes, smell it when she missed him. At least she had this. There were other absences that dug deep. She had only received two types of letters from him: this was the third telling her of a long-term absence, and those filled with potions. She greatly preferred the latter.
But this letter stacked with others who had not written her. Very absent friends. Craters on the heartfield.
She joined Guarf at his long, plank-board table for dinner. She had felt so ravenous, but now, food tasted a bit woody. Raising one thick ropey eyebrow, Guarf looked her over. She was not the same girl who came back from the mail basket. Sometimes the longest distances are not measured in lengths and strides, but in the size of a tear. He wondered who, or what, could have caused this: most likely a ‘who’ in his experience.
“Tonight, lassie-doo, put your troubles down. Let them run away: troubles always have a way of finding their way home, like bad cats and children, so let ‘em all go, shiny girl...” said Guarf. He was referring to the story she told of drinking moon potion around her friend in the winter, and he called her “Shiny Mat.” This reference made her smile, and then push a tear back in her eyes.
“Guarf, the lamb is delicious. You have outdone yourself. And I see the kitchen looks as if the Lich King himself has raided the larder. But I will see to it in the morning, I promise, my friend. You know you have my word. Besides, I wouldn’t want to break our deal and find my tail out on the street...” she smiled weakly.
“What’s wrong, my sweet dear?” he asked quietly.
Matty shrugged, and just said, “I don’t know, Guarf, perhaps I am in love with the Widow Shannon, too!” She laughed. “It’s hard to say in your words, Guarf. There is a word in my language, my mother would sigh sometimes, but I don’t remember exactly what it was, but I think it means, 'discouraged?' Let’s go by the fire and drink our ale--how’s that sound? I brought some heaven peaches back from Darnassus for us, for dessert.”
Matty lay down on the floor, on an island of rare cleanliness, curled up with a large pillow. Guarf sat on his leather chair, and lit a pipe. “Ah, that reminds me of a story from when I lived in Teldrassil,” he said:
 I met a young woman; a priestess, I thought, of Elune, although now I have no idea which god she championed. I was not a proper paladin at the time, you understand, just a young dwarf looking to see the world and, I hoped to make my mark on it.  We spent a great deal of time together, this young woman and I, for a number of days, close to a moon’s month, until one afternoon, she took me outside the city.
My woman, in her lovely night-silk black dress, took my hand and pointed toward the sunset.  'Do you see the green hills that rise in the distance?'
“Yes.”  The hills seemed to shimmer as the sunlight played over us.
“I will take you there, if you will let me, and we will live as lovers in the orchards where the fruit will be our jewels and the birds our orchestra.”  And as she spoke, it was as if I could hear the music and feel the gentle rain, misting on my face.
“I dinna know.  The seems to be something...” Something seemed out of tune then, lassie. I couldn’t put my finger on it, couldn’t see it.
“I am not false, my love. Let me show you, that you may find what you seek.”  And in the speed of a spell, we were standing in the green hills by the edge of an orchard.  “Come with me.” and the woman walked forward, never letting go of my hand.
Soon we stopped before a large peach tree, its branches heavy with ripe fruit.  My lady picked one and, finally letting go of my hand, gave it a twist and it broke in half, looking as if it had been neatly sliced.  She smiled softly and showed me one of the halves, discarding the other half to the ground.  Where the pit should have been was a large red ruby.  I removed it from the peach and held the gem to the light. 
“How is this possible?”
“Do you see this in front of you? Have faith, my love. Believe. Come.”  And she took my hand again and led me to a whispering creek, where water flowed clean over a bed of small stones.  My lady knelt by the stream and put her hand in it, feeling in among the smooth pebbles and rocks that made the riverbed.  When she stood, her hand was closed.  She slowly opened her fingers and I saw that she held, still dripping wet, four small but perfect diamonds that caught the light and glowed. It took my breath away, lassie, and you know how long-winded I can be!
“They are beautiful.”
“Do you not believe what you can touch? And, they are perfect.  Come."  And she tossed the diamonds back into the stream and led me to an open meadow where the grass was thick and soft.
“Do you hear? Listen.”  And as she spoke, a group of birds began to sing.  The birds seemed to be on all sides, although I could not see them in the trees, and the song they sang was the beautiful music that all birds make, and yet it was not the same, because each voice fit with each other voice, sometimes joining in unison, sometimes drifting into a counter melody, and together it was an harmonious whole, like a grand symphony that man never wrote.
“Do you like this place?”
“This is where you live?”
“Yes.  And it is where we could live together, with each other to laugh with, look at, and touch."  As she spoke, a soft warm rain began to fall.
“Your clothes are getting wet.” I know, Miss Hooves-and-Tail, you are thinking I was being a bit pragmatic…
“So are yours.”  Looking at each other in the rain, the armor and cloth seemed to melt.  She then took both of my hands and said, “Lie down with me,” and she pulled me to the grass.
(Matty blushed a bit--sometimes, this Dwarf!)
After a time, *ahem*, the rain had stopped and the sun warmed us and dried the meadow.  My lady lifted her head from my chest and looked in my eyes.  “It could be like this forever, if you will come and live with me here.”  Her eyes were like the diamonds in the riverbed, and the small wrinkles of a smile played about her face. “This place is beautiful,” I said, “It is perfect. And so are you. You belong here. You are a part of this place, where the trees bear gems and the water runs over diamonds and the birds sing in harmony. But I am not . . . perfect.  I am not a part of this place.  I belong elsewhere, and that other place calls to me even now.”  I looked past her and saw that our clothes were tossed in a heap near the edge of the meadow and I noticed that the birds were singing again just as birds, oblivious to other nests and songs.
My lady rolled off me and sat up, holding her head in her hands.  After a time, she looked up and I saw that, while her eyes were red and swollen, no tears rolled down her cheeks.  “Then you must go.” But I was already dressed.
As I was walking back through the orchard, I stopped again at the stream.  I looked at it a moment, then knelt and put my hand in among the stones.  When I brought my hand up, all I could find were the ordinary brown pebbles that you find in any riverbed.  I looked at them briefly, and then walked on, tossing the pebbles in the brook.
When I came again to the peach tree, with the birds all the while singing their ordinary bird songs, I saw the two halves of fruit that my lady had twisted apart, and I remembered that I had put the ruby in my jacket picket.  Before I could pull it out, however, I heard the woman's voice. “It is just a peach stone.”
I turned, and saw my lady behind me, again in her lovely black dress.  But the lovely black dress was wrinkled, and her eyes were tired.
“Then it was all a lie.  None of this is real.”
“There was no lie. We make our own truths, Guarf. If I said that anything is possible if you believe, that you desired to, and so it is.  This is all real to me, and, for a moment, it was real to you as well.  I wanted you to be my truth. But nothing is what it seems if you examine it too closely, and tear it apart. If you dismantle a butterfly you will have nothing but dust and broken wings.”
While she was talking, she had moved toward me until she was standing directly in front of me. Slowly, she reached up and touched my face with the back of her fingers.  “You broke it, my love.” And as she reached up to kiss me, the orchard and the woman were gone.
I looked at the green hills in the distance, and I knew that I would never find an orchard there again, no matter how long I searched.  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the peach pit and held it up to the sun, half-hoping, half-fearing that it would turn to a ruby in my hand.
“And that, of course, is what set me on the road to being a paladin,” he said summarily, as if his abrupt ending would grant Matty the epiphany of insight she seemed to need.  Well, he was used to hammering morality into others. She would understand.
Guarf took another swig from his mug, and lit a new pipe.  Mat shook her head, confused. “What? Why did that...I'm afraid I don't understand.”
“Belief, Matty, belief.  What are paladins if not champions of belief, and faith?  I am learning, every day, to believe, to walk in the Light, but that's just the start, I hope.  One day, I hope, I might learn to believe enough.”  Guarf stared at the fire, and took another drink.
“But Guarf, the peach pit?”
"Yes, lass?”
“Do you still have it? Was it really a ruby?” she asked naively.
“Well, Matty, it’s a peach pit now.” Guarf stared at the fire another moment, then stood up quickly. “But enough of the past, I'm for another drink! You? Of course you are! Bloody tall draenei, must be thirsty all the time, what with the liquid sinking to your hooves.” Guarf's voice faded as he plodded to the kitchen, muttering about her drinking habits.
Her tummy full of ale, and her heart a bit scratchy, planted like a ruby peach pit in her chest. The spring peepers quieted down. Maybe they had found their frog-wife loves. She was fast asleep before he returned with their full mugs. He sighed. He saw the welts in her shoulder blades where angel’s wings should be. He crouched down next to her, reached in his pocket (oh, how utilizing and useful paladins are!) and put a small dollop of gnomish self-warming almond-butter cream on her back. That would do the trick. By morning, he hoped, her pain would be gone. Then he shook out one of his mother’s handmade woolen blankets, covering her completely. She let out a soft, bottomless breath. Mat dreamed of wisps and rings of pipe smoke, whisky, and chimney dust. And in a dream-shaded corner of her soul, a little frog with rubies for eyes told her to hush. Otherwise, she was safe in her sleep.

(Written by Mataoka, and story-within-story by Guarf.)
Chapter 2

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Story time.

Writer's Note: Am playing around with some story writing, independently and collaboratively. Here's an excerpt. Not quite sure where it's headed yet...nod to Guarf for lending me a story-within-story, his name, and creativity:


Guarf’s Tale
Blackberry Winter
-1-

The evening hour was past its prime. Vain, vernal northern light exited the stage protesting. Spring peepers boasted amorously to their larger, less-interested ladyloves. Pink-grey mist of the spring’s night drugged the clover, punctuated by orange cabin fires and hearthstones. Travelers and vagabonds moved down the silt path quietly. The peepers’ cacophonous croaking drowned out all other thoughts and inner meditations. One amphibious amante sat under a bush and loudly, profoundly, exclaimed his intentions to any female frog that might be within a two-kilometer distance. Early spring lavender-green frosted the pots and planters. Smaller worlds behind the veil shifted unseen.
Inside the unassuming hovel, Mataoka bent over a bit-too-small woodblock, mincing sungrass herbs for the evening’s spring roasted lamb. This was not her choice. She wanted to be sitting in the over-sized stuff chintz chair by the hearth, one hoof curled under her leggings, with her head rested against the chair’s headrest, but the chef of the house had put her to work. She held the blade carefully so as not to cut her own fingers. Draenei blood does not make Shattrath lamb taste better, contrary to goblin lore. She suppressed the urge to take out her mace and pound the delicate grass to smithereens.
“Please, Guarf, tell me you won’t burn it like you did last time?”
“Burn? No, my dear…not burnt. Flame kissed!” said Guarf, in his own kitchen, completely in control.
“Guarf, it was inedible. Confess, sir, last spring you were utterly and hopelessly sapped by that widow-woman next door, hanging her dwarven-sized bloomers on the wash line…that would distract anyone!” laughed Mat. “Did you ever get in those knickers, my friend? Never mind…please don’t answer that!”
“Aye, lassie, you must admit: getting in Widow Shannon’s knickers is enough of a defense for any red-blooded male! She’s got a backside like an iron kettle.” He then muttered something about stirring the widow’s pot, which Matty chose to ignore.
The spring lamb was basted, browning, and made her mouth water. Guarf, without the protection of hot pads, took the clay roaster out of the oven in his well-calloused hands, placing it on the counter. She was deeply hungry, as if she hadn’t eaten in months. A profound, saturated hunger. With one smooth swipe of the butcher knife, he swept the minced sungrass in the pan, throwing the herb like confetti over the lamb.
When he cooked, he seemed to need by divine right, almost a do-or-die quest, to dirty every dish, pot, pan, and cup in the house. Their living arrangement was based on Mat’s being able to stay there as long as she needed (she was habitually homeless), in exchange for her doing the dishes if he cooked. Normally, he was an excellent cook, with the one exception of the Widow Shannon’s backside distraction, so she didn’t mind being the sous-chef. Her duties did not include laundry or cleaning. She wondered if subconsciously he created such a performance and abuse of resources because she refused to keep house. The bewitched critters of Azeroth stopped short of scrubbing chamber pots while Matty sang, or dusting ancient tomes of lore with their squirrelly tales. They were no help. She skipped gingerly across piles of dirty linens, danced around leggings and sheets piled on floors, and barreled through the stacks of books, books, and more books. Perhaps Guarf’s attraction to the Widow Shannon had more to do with her washboard room skills than her bedroom skills. (So far the buxom widow had shown no interest in giving him, or his linens, a scrub-down!)
However, he took meticulous care of his weapons and armor, and had only spoken sharply to Matty once, when she had accidentally knocked over a row of axes ready for grinding. Her big hooves and tail sometimes made her a bit clumsy. 
(To be continued)

Dinner time.




Read this creative writing prompt a few weeks ago, and I'm paraphrasing: "You are in the grocery store. Which character, from what novel, would you least like to see there?"

Well, duh. Dr. Hannibal Lecter. (Or would that be the BEST place to see him?!)

But let's take this one step into Azeroth: "What would your toon's grocery store cart contain?"

Peeking into the shopping and eating habits of my fellow friends around Stormwind, there would be quite a variety. In a gnome's basket, carelessly tossed would be plenty of blueberries, Skittles, and peanuts in the shells. (They get a little fidgety, those gnomes, and need food like peanuts to shell and sunflower seeds to crack.) Warlocks never step foot in common grocery stores, but visit vineyards for the deepest, reddest Cabernets and Burgundies. Priests, in shadow form, will walk five miles in the rain for pralines'n'cream Mexican vanilla ice cream. In healing form, priests drink cold Dr. Pepper and eat Slim-Jims. (I have this on good authority.) Mages...depending upon their mood, will never pass up hot coffee with sugar, no cream. Keeps them edgy and sweet. Human paladins will walk over their shields for s'mores, so don't be surprised to see Jiffy Puff marshmallows, Hershey chocolate bars and graham crackers. Those items will be hidden under artichokes, apples, and organic juices. (They put on a good front with eating healthy, but those marshmallows are there...) Druids eat way too many stoner foods: Doritos, Nutella, and Twister red licorice. Hunters are more concerned that their pets aren't drinking out of the toilets than their own nutrition. Dwarfs are around back putting the beer keg in their trunks. Death Knights are found lurking around the butcher, looking for as much bloody red meat as they can afford. And shamans? When weather and elements are constantly barraging one's horns, a shot of tequila will help. Otherwise, lots of sake, sushi, and cocktail shrimp. Shamans are suckers for seafood. Oddly, they also buy huge containers of honey from warehouse stores, too, and wonder why. Who needs that much honey?*

*Mat has drunk over 430 honeymint teas. That explains it.


These are just a handful, a serving size, of eating and drinking achievements. These are as easy to do as keeping a Twinkie fresh:

Cataclysmically Delicious: http://www.wowhead.com/achievement=5753/cataclysmically-delicious
Drown Your Sorrows: http://www.wowhead.com/achievement=5754/drown-your-sorrows
Happy Hour Somewhere: http://www.wowhead.com/achievement=1833/its-happy-hour-somewhere
Second that Emotion: http://www.wowhead.com/achievement=1780/second-that-emotion


Theme song: Everybody Eats When They Come to My House: Cab Calloway

Monday, May 16, 2011

"Never too late to have a happy childhood."

I think that quote should be credited to one of my favorite writers, Tom Robbins, of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and Still Life with Woodpecker fame. (Princess Leigh Cherie is still the red-haired, unchallenged princess of all time, with a pack of Camels and musings on the moon.)

Had a fabulous time in ICC yesterday. Two tiny thorns: first, I got a little tired and grumpy, and opened my mouth.

Vent group: Why isn't there more DPS on the slimes? (Crimminy-jim-jam, don't know how many times a day I hear that!)

Well, being a DPS'er, and trying to get to the slimes, the slimes have a trampoline effect and would bounce me back.

After about the third or thirtieth time of this, and Vent chat, yelling "More DPS on SLIMES!" I said, "I'm trying, but it keeps bouncing me back!"

"Yes, they do that." (Comic-book Guy voice in tone.)

Okay. (This may be more about leadership: one calm healer explained the green slimes versus orange slimes in her sweet Druid-healer voice.)

The other small splinter was hearing grown men talk about "back in my day" perspective. And this wasn't an historical perspective, to help understand nuances of game play. This was, "How can anyone NOT have been in ICC before?" (This, for a change, was actually not directed at me.) There was a lot of talk about weapons, and gear, and, "Oh, see?! Of course that's dropping now!" -- hence the quote about happy childhoods. Sometimes a little dungeon or raid redemption is just what you need, better and cheaper than therapy.

So, the new 4.2 patch must really have their panties in a scourge-twist:

I recognize that players who have been living part-time in Azeroth for years claim ownership, and like unwelcome immigrants, we newer players are checked at the border for proper documentation and validity. But consider, good sirs, that first of all, like the United States, and most nations, this virtual world is a business. Business is made stronger by innovation and drawing in new consumers, new labor, and skills. You may not like or appreciate the new and diverse populations arriving on your Stormwind or Booty Bay shores, but we are here nonetheless.

And trust me, my friends, none of that "I had to walk five miles to school in the snow" garbage got in the way of my fun, or my bucket-full of achievements.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Noise.

I don't know how brains work: no one knows. That's the great paradox: our brains are researching our brains.

Well, I shouldn't say I don't know anything. Scientists of all stripes and polka-dots have been studying how the brain works since we took a bite out of that metaphorical apple and 'discovered' metacognition. In the goopy or edgy, murky or clear corners of our brains, exist electrochemistry, synapsis, and micro-second pinging and ponging, It's no wonder we need sleep in order to survive, as well as play.

Brains are better than computers. (Or so our brains tell us until our robot overlords tell us otherwise.) And our brains send lightening-fast signals to coordinate a multitude of input and output. I recognize that those who are under the age of, say, 30 or 35, consider themselves to be masterful multitaskers, and perhaps this is true. I still say just as you can't be in two places at once, your cognitive functions can't occupy the same space at the same time either: for example, if you are reading a book and listening to music with words, your brain is toggling between the two language centers.

And those who believe that multitasking is a myth, or misunderstood, like to trot out this cautionary tale: there was a story about a teenage girl who fell through a manhole cover while texting on the phone:
Check out this story in Wired. Her parents sued.
Her parents sued?!
What I believe, based on what I have read, is that our brains toggle. The best analogy is our neuro-pathways are simultaneously functioning, but what we are focused on at any given spark of brain power is like a light switch: it's either on or off. Age, diet, exercise, gender (yes, gender), and other organic cognitive factors influence our individual capacities for the speed of toggling; it's not a binary function, per se. It's more of a wall of buttons and voodoo that is on or off. And don't even get me started about the lizard brain: perhaps our basest wiring is still pulling all the strings.

If you want to find scientific studies that support or disprove the existence or efficacy of multitasking, you will find a plethora of information. Here are just a few:

Think you're multitasking? Think Again. NPR
Multitasking Brain: Divide and Conquer: NPR
Video Games Boost Brain Power: NPR

I wouldn't trade my real life for anything. We all have busy lives and distractions. So, in the virtual world, if I step in fire or poison, it may not be solely because I'm the worst player ever who can't control the pixelized edges of my hooves. WoW is much less forgiving than the real world in some ways. Understand if I die by fire virtually, the dog may have needed to go out, a friend may have called, the toilet was backing up, the UPS man was at the door, the television was left on, and dinner is burning. All at the same time. There is so much noise during play on occasion. Getting used to Vent, I'm listening for direction from a guild master, or debate over the fiscal policies of U.S. debt-ratios with China, or reading Trade Chat, or tells and whispers from friends, all the while the dog is at my feet doing the potty-dance (I have the world's most annoying dog. Got to win at something!) GTFO is yelling at me, flashing at me, DBM is glaring warnings that would put the US Homeland Security Dept. to shame, and heaven help me if I get a text or check Twitter.

Sometimes I just need to be, well: quiet. If I am in a dungeon, I'm too busy trying to remember what to do with what boss when, or what add, and check Recount, and listen, and make sure I'm well-fed and blades sharp. And, here's the crazy thing: every time I do a dungeon I've done ten times over, I learn something new. And the dog needs to go out. And the dog needs to come in. And I need to cleanse. Check my buffs. Check my debuffs. Number 9 WIND SHEAR DORK! NOW! If I get a phone call during some intense game-thinking time, I can let it go to voice mail. My personality is such that I am social, and verbal, and feel tugged in many directions, though, so that I'm not doing any one thing well. There is no voice mail in Deadmines. (Vanessa Van Cleef is no man's secretary.)
Taking out the trash is a circus of brain juice.
So, if I seem quiet, don't take it personally, just as I don't take it personally if someone's playing, focusing, etc. on other things. (I know - I do talk a lot. But I do try, try, to read social cues, too.) Most likely, I am on overload, and the circuits are smoldering. If I don't answer back, just let it go. Don't push it.

Today's a busy day: Arthas was running late last time he and "Matty" had a date, so going to try to win him over. Also, going to try BoT this evening. That's going to require some synapsis to burn and dance. We'll see.  I'll go meditate on that one for awhile. While I watch TIVO'd Daily Shows and last night's SNL. (Hey! It's a new one! With a new episode by Robert Smigel!)

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Surreal world after all.


Mat...you're not in Kansas anymore...

Took this screen shot a few weeks ago -- just one of those moments when I stopped, and just looked. It's very Salvador Dali, isn't it? Wouldn't be surprised if there's a melting clock or scary egg around somewhere. (I'm not a big Dali fan, but his art is engaging, or at least memorable.)
Geopoliticus Child Watching the Birth of the New Man (1943/Dali)


There is a plenty of fan-based art out there, too. Today, for the first time in years, I started sketching an idea I had for a post--it's been a long time since I've broken out the vine charcoals and sketchpad, and I'm a bit rusty. DeviantArt is a great source for fan art, of all calibers. Perusing the artists' visions of draenei, I came across these two:

DiosaWoW: Draenei sitting in Bear Tree

Arsenal21: Draenei Female Paladin (professional Blizz artist)

This is sexy and beautiful: http://browse.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&q=draenei#/d2soxme
Some of the art is pretty awful, and seem even borders on velvet-Elvis-sad-clown-face bad, but hey, if it sparks some creativity, it can't be the worst thing in the world.


Go on, then...


Ogres' blood spawns new progeny relatively quickly. Mat worked long and hard to earn the most exalted  trust of the Broken, and earned her talbuk mounts...

...and they are just as beautiful as she imagined.

Muddy boots.

The Mayor is concerned over the disappearance of Sara Bellum...

Took my new landslide-enchanted weapon into a heroic today.

You know what would rock? (No pun intended.) If the day isn't quite all it should be, that, when the world is entered, your human failings would fall away.

And for the most part they do. Eh, just feeling a bit sensitive today, I guess. Today, I bore witness to those rare occasions (hahahaha!) when my job doesn't work. Should have left it across the return threshold.

Thanks, Isa, for going into the dungeon today, and for your perspective. Women tend to think it's all about them, that they have superpowers that supersede all pixels and pendejos*, and if we do anything less than perfection, we are less ourselves. I know plenty of men who are perfectionists, too, and it can be a bit debilitating. But you...

...you took this screen shot for me:

Now, that was a highlight, that Corla fight. No one made me stand in beams. (I offered, and did a fine beamy-job last time.) No one sassed me. The rest of the dungeon consisted of the warrior sending out brown-colored tells of recount. He and another mate spoke Spanish, but my ambassadorial charms did not seem to work on them. They were cowboys. Now Isa's (optimistic) perspective is that the warrior was throwing out recount data because he wanted us to see that he was one bad hombre. I took it more personally.

What makes a man, Mr. Lebowski?


LEBOWSKI
Funny–I can look back on a life of achievement, on challenges met, competitors bested, obstacles overcome. I’ve accomplished more than most men, and without the use of my legs. What?What makes a man, Mr. Lebowski?
DUDEDude.
LEBOWSKIHuh?
DUDEUh, I, I don’t know, sir.
LEBOWSKIIs it being prepared to do the right thing? Whatever the cost? Isn’t that that makes a man?
DUDEUmmm..sure. That and a pair of testicles.
LEBOWSKIYou’re joking. But perhaps you’re right.

Left the game, and looked at my brass plaques on the wall.

Was politely asked why I wasn't an elemental spec. Had a lot of reasons, and a longer back story than my friend wanted to listen to, however, the upshot is, I just don't like it.

And, perhaps it's just a curve on the universe, but Bubbles wrote this post, too: http://forthebubbles.wordpress.com/2011/05/06/your-optimal-isnt-mine/

*Sorry, mis amigos. I learned that word in The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao novel, other choice Spanish words. You both tried to keep me ignorant of that type of language, but cuss words cross all cultural barriers.