Archive | January, 2009

Knives in the Dark…

28 Jan

Hey Folks – I picked this story Idea up from Too Many Annas and A Stab in the Dark’s Friday 500 project.  The idea was to write 500 words on getting mugged – and what happened to the mugger and the muggee.

Because I suck – I couldn’t stop at 500 words and wrote over a 1000.  But sometimes, when the spirits bring you a story – you can’t help but listen and tell the tale they give you.  It’s no Blood Covered Lion of Mountain Size – but I like it.

Orgrimmar – Night

Mago’oc crouched low in the wet, his sapphire skin greased almost black with roof tar and muck, his triumphant mane of green hair pulled tight to his skull and bound with raw hide. He was a predator amongst amongst predators, a lone wolf in a city that knew only the law of the pack and the strength of the clan.

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Mago’oc was a thief and a killer and an addict. His tongue dry, the last remnants of grave dust he’d chewed that morning were long gone.  His body ached for more, ached in a bone deep and desperate sort of way.  He missed the incredible clarity of purpose and movement it provided, missed the tang of the metal and fire that coursed through his veins when he chewed the gritty drug.

When the drug left him it left him scorched and hollow, a husk demanding to be filled again with purpose and light.  He burned for more. He burned right down to the ends of his tusks. A part of him, a small part not yet corrupted by the cheap, vat grown narcotic cursed the day he had first tasted a twist of stuff. Cursed the leering Forsaken who had offered it to him. Cursed the flowering sweetness that it lit for so brief a time in his blasted mind.

The rest of him hungered for more. But more came with a cost and coin was rare for a half starved addict squatting in an Orgrimmar gutter in the deepest twists of The Cleft of Shadow.

But want and hunger and need could drive a body to unlimited ends. This he knew. This he remembered from the old days.  Coin was but an breath away for one that could use a blade, could stomach the cold calculated butchery of hard knives in the darkness. He waited. His prey, his coin and his curse were but a moment away, moving purposefully toward him along the rain soaked cobbles.

Hooves, he realized dimly from the foul recess of his hiding place. His prey was hoofed. Tauren then. For a moment Mago’oc paused. He had fought with the massive warriors of Mulgore in the old days. Along side and against. They were mighty – even the least of them.

For that moment Mago’oc loosened his hold on the ruthless shiv he held in the darkness. There were easier marks, easier coin.

The sound of hooves rounding the corner and clattering to a stop mere inches away from him spiked the troll’s hunter instinct. He doubled his grip on the blade and with unblinking, blood shot eyes surveyed his prey.

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Tauren, a she-beast and young. For as much as the race could be called delicate, this one was. Slender, dappled buckskin with a reddish coat and long forward curved horns of ebony. Both were capped with leather bangles and the feathers of some great bird were tied with beads and bits of bone into the long braids of her mane. Cloaked and dressed for travel in leather and light mail, the she-beast raised her head and sniffed the night air like a wolf. Indeed, she wore a wolfs head helm and her eyes flickered from behind the mask. She looked right at Mago’oc.

Under the weight of that gaze something inside the troll quailed and fought to hide itself deeper into murky pit of black that his life had become. Another part grew hot with rage and before he realized it, Mago’oc found himself launching through the air in a spray of sewer water and malice.

He hit the she-tauren full in the chest and he felt her hooves lose purchase on the slick cobbles. He felt her start to go down and the lithe killer twisted to get a better grip on his prey; he needed leverage, leverage to use the knife.

Then his world exploded.

The rats that lived in the gutter quailed as the wolf masked she-tauren lit the Orgimmaran night with lightning pulled from the very air. Mago’oc’s body went rigid and the rats found themselves profiled in the ghastly blue luminescence that shot forth from his mouth and eyes.

Skychaser picked herself up from the slippery cobbles and called the storm again. The night screamed in a flash of crackling blue as she wound a shield of light around herself. The rats fled into the dark as the orbs of living lightning played in slow orbits around her body. Sky’ regarded the troll’s blasted form. By his tattoos she figured him to be Whitherbark Tribe.

A long way from home this one – in more ways than one.

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Her gladiator’s maces rested heavy on the war harness at her hips and seemed to drip fire into the damp dark.  She reached for one to finish the troll when something in the night wind spoke to the young Shaman.  She reached for the storm and the spirits of the night, took heed of their counsel and held her hand.

Mago’oc’s body shuddered once as the she-tauren passed by, her hoof beats pounding in time with the strained beating of his own heart.   His head turned and he breathed out a long gout of coppery smoke into the charged night air. For the first time in two long years, the small, desperate voice in his head found its tongue.

“Thank…you,” he gasped and with infinite care Mago’oc twisted until he could look up from the gutter and into the black and gray marble of sky that was a storm choked Kalimdor night. The poison was gone, burned free by the spirits the she-tauren had called into being inside his very body.  He had no thoughts left of the dust, no burning longing, no gnawing hate.

There was only peace. Peace and the rain and the taste of copper on his tongue.

Thank you.” He said to the night again and somewhere a lone wolf called.

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Real Shaman

28 Jan

Don’t dual weild…I suppose they do, but I’m still bitter.

Take this strapping fellow that Rain’ and Windpaw met in Silithus the other day.  That’s a shaman – lightning rod pauldrons, Doomulus Prime and all.  *Sniff* – so proud…

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Acheevmunts – Deficit

17 Jan

The Green Hills...Again....So – do you like achievements?  Really?  Are they a worthwhile addition to your WOW game play or are they a distraction?

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This is PvP?

15 Jan

hbss1Dramatis Personae – (names and levels changed to protect the ass-hats)

Zeb: Level 80  something Dwarf Hunter – With a  BIG GUN…
Turns Ons: Cheap Beer, Naked Mailbox Dancers in Ironforge, and pWning Noobs
Turn Offs: Fighting anyone within 40 levels of his own…

Clevis: Level 80 something Human Warrior…or maybe he’s a Night Elf…Hard to tell with that Helm
Turn Ons: Following Zeb Around, His new Icier Barbed Spear, Ornithology and Night Elf Transcendentalist Authors.
Turn Offs: Whatever Zeb doesn’t like, dying, His Helm…

Exterior: Hillsbrad area – just off the road from Tarren Mill –
Atmosphere: Early evening, insects are out, the sound of a Schlitz Malt Liquor can popping open

Zeb: eh – Clevis – wouldyalookit that…a whole flock o’ them Blood Elf noobies running for the ‘mill…

Clevis: Aye – I see ‘em – beeyootiful aren’t they – like a bunch of scarlet tanagers they are – all red and black and jumping around…

Zeb: …Tanagers? What’s Tanagers?

Clevis: Tanagers are birds, Zeb – brilliant little multi-colored birds from the family Thraupidae – I used to see them in STV all the time.

Zeb: (working the action on his rifle) Birds are they? Well I bet I can kill the lot of that shiny mess with one good multi-shot…

[Zeb guns the last of his long neck malt liquor down, belches, and promptly smashes the can against his helm]

Zeb: We gotta bet? The last of that gnomish brew in cans is calling to me and I’ll be having it if I can drop those three in one shot.

Clevis: [disapointed they’re not talking about birds – but game for a bet] – Sure thing Zeb – the last beer says you can’t drop em all before they get inside the mill.

Zeb: Right – Hey You Blood Elf Wussies! Run faster if you don’t want to feel the load o’ my mighty canon on your rounded backsides!

[Cut to the three harried level 20 Blood Elves furiously sprinting towards the safety of Tarren Mill.  They see the fallen bodies and scattered skeletons of dozens of their horde bretheren laying in pathetic piles. The bodies are a wreck of flesh and buckshot ruin.  The elves put their heads down and pile on the speed]

[Atmosphere] A Thunderous BOOM from Zeb’s rifle – flash of the multi-shot arcing out towards the three runners…

Zeb: HAW! Got em! Did you see tha’ Clevis? Like blasting a watermelon from thirty paces. That Blood Elf hunter din’ know what hit her! I’ll be havin the last of the canned ale I will.

Clevis: No – no you got the first two in one shot – but you dropped that Paladin with your autoshot right afterward. That’s two shots. The last beer is mine.

Zeb: Bah – fine – pigs-swill anyways [Fires off another shot] One of ‘em was twitching…

[Atmosphere] The sound of a beer tab being popped followed by rapid chugging – a very human burp – and the sound of a can being flattened against a broad forehead.]

Clevis: … ouch …

Zeb: Mind you put yer helm on ‘afore doing that next time

Clevis: right…

Okay – I agree – that was a cheap post.  Sorry – long day at work and not a lot of energy >_<  I’ll do better tomorrow.  Promise…

Flawless Arcanite Lust…

14 Jan

Flawless Arcanite LustOh Flawless Arcanite Rifle why do you tempt me so?  You’re a hopelessly outdated and morbidly expensive relic of Huntery hanging there in my auctioneer window.  There are GREENS that will destroy your crafted finery in but a handful of levels.

Yet I would still blow almost 1/3rd of my epic mount fund to possess you.  175G – 175!  That’s what they want for you.

Sure, you’re expensive to make – you need 10 – 10 Arcanite Bars just to start shaping your barrel and the hand-tooled, lugless bayonet.  The 2 Azerothian Diamonds?  I have no idea – but I’d bet they were ground down and make up the lens of the +10 scope your crafter has so thoughtfully added.

So why – why in your near unobtainable obscurity do you only do like 39 dps?  In 2005 – 2006 that was a reasonable – nay a highly respectable amount of damage.  But now? 175 Gold…

Really?

Yes, I understand that the market drives the need.  Your pattern is a rare drop off some fluttery critter in the Eastern Plaugelands and only the best materials and enchanted whatzits will find their way into your finely crafted breech.  But who – who lovely rifle will use you?

Such a great weapon model – so hard to obtain – so hard to craft – and comes with such a limited lifespan.  Ever get this way over something  you found in the auction house?  Every spend WAY too much money for it knowing as soon as you forked over the gold – you’d regret it?

Did I meantion it has a feather?

The Blood Colored Lion of Mountain Size

13 Jan

With apologies for possibly God-Modding the most famous WOW Hunter on the net…

Rainchaser stepped outside the inn and breathed deeply.  She loved Ratchet, loved the sea salt smell, the curried eggs she’d had for breakfast and the cool winds that blew in off the Merchant Coast.  She felt Windpaw pad up behind her and rub up against the back of her legs.

“It’s a beautiful morning isn’t it boy?” She said sleepily, reaching down to scratch his neck.  Windpaw didn’t reply, but Rain’ could tell from the stiffness of his body that something was wrong.  He was perfectly still, body pointer straight, looking back down the hill towards the docks.

Rain and Windpaw in Ratchet

Alliance – and an impressive one.  It was a dwarf – red bearded, burly and as stout as an iron wood stump.  Rain’ kept a calming hand on Windpaw’s flank as the newcomer and his companion beast moved through town and then up the short hill toward the inn.

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Handy Hunter / Gatherer Macro

12 Jan

LifebloodOne of the great things about patch 3.0 was the addition of skills like Lifeblood and Master of Anatomy.  These are simple abilities that gatherers (herbalists, skinners, miners) recieve as they level their professions.  Each of these new abilities  provide a unique benefit to the player.

Take Lifeblood, at max level, the spell will fire off a HOT that heals you for 1200 health over  5 seconds.  With a three minute cool-down the spell makes a handy little addition to any of your “WTF!” macros.

Ah – what’s an “WTF” macro? – these are panic buttons that I tend to use (and maybe over use) when one of my characters gets into a jam.   Things like the old “shift out of bear – slam a mongo healing potion – shift back to bear” macro that made the rounds for druid tanks not long back.

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