The Lament of Farmhand Geist – Ghouls don’t cry

“I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.”
– Walt Whitman, Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand


‘Retrieved Incident Report: Naxxramas Security detail 02567. Unknown time and date (source material partially destroyed). Retrieved by Recon Team Alpha Charlie, Argent Crusade, with support from Wintergarde Garrison, 7 Legion (engineering detail), investigations completed at the fall of Naxxramas (Northrend). Report signed off: Shuanna of the Exodar etc etc, time and date: Classified.

Breach in middle section secured. Containment area still active. Intruders tracked and neutralised. Extra rations of meat met with cheers. Chief Administrator requires bones for further experiments. Residual morphic memories detected – suggested method of disposal: Burning. This order is hereby cancelled as request by [inelligible scrawled letters]-uzad. Experiment to resurrect Cat (animal) deemed more important than Geist Alpha (creature). Chief Engineer complaint overruled (Ch. Eng. body to be repurposed at convenient time).’

This is the first recollection we have of me. All of us. I like to read those few lines, jotted down on cheap paper (because the Argent Crusade thought the pen wasn’t mightier than the sword). I think this is our … my … for I am legion … This is my birth certificate. More or less.

I know the words by heart (a shriveled lump of dead tissue that once belonged to a dwarf named Hamadin; it tries to throb but it won’t but morphic muscle memory is stubborn; they filled my chest with body debris and coarse wood shavings). But it doesn’t matter if I can recite the words to anyone who asks for them. On long lonely nights I lay there in bed and read that piece of paper. I don’t know how Master got hold of it. Perhaps her sister was a good sport?

It has been a lot of lonely nights lately. I’ve been tossing and turning, trying to sleep. Now … Scourge never sleep. As such. We rather – power down. It’s like flipping the switch of a machine – we are machines, more or less – and some of us close our eyes. Others don’t. I close my eye, you know. Bonny K and Bonny M, well, they can’t close their eyes because they are skeletal constructs but anyway! We … sleep. Even an undead servant need to wind down, you know. Get som shut-eye. Charge up, that sort of thing. Most of us that am what I am likes this rest. Oh, especially Tink, she loves to sleep and relax. just like Alan the Ghoul.


Ah, yes, perhaps I should tell you a bit of what it means to run a farm? don’t worry, it won’t take long. I will tell you in a minute what happened when Master came back. Hang out with me (as we Scourge like to joke with those who’s been lynched before we raise them).

Alan loves to tend the flowers. The Songbells, to be precise. He’s very good at it too! He keeps the birds away through his smell alone. He keeps the virmen at bay through, well, let’s say … ingenious inventiveness. Ask him what a virghoul is, I dare you!

In his own way – ghouls have a very rough and simple language not many understand – he’s told me exactly why I have to wake him up. He likes to sneak back behind the shed and … power down. you want to know why?
It’s the songbells. They … sing. The wind flows through their tiny stems and bulbs, gently shaking the fruits, and they sing. A faint, eerie sound as of tiny slivers of glass clinking. When you harvest a songbell the concentrated mote of harmony inside makes this beutiful sound, like tapping your nail on a crystal glass, very fast. Emma, my ears, like that sound. She used to be a … wassisname … ah! A hearthsinger. In Stratholme. She sang with a good friend of hers. Until He came …

(My ears don’t like to think about that.)

So the flowers makes him sleepy but he loves them. He feels … harmonious. So Alan sleeps on duty. He used to love to sleep. He’s told me he spent more time in the Wintergard brig than on look-out for Naxx. You know, some people are just like that. He was unhappy, and tired. The first years as a ghoul he spent most of his time wailing. Because, you know.

Ghouls don’t cry.

Creator, who also created Alan once the lazy peon was caught and killed (it wasn’t hard, he was afraid of death back then and still is), well – Creator was going to “repurpose” Alan. But then someone did an administrative error in the depths of Naxx and Alan ended up in “84th Inf Regt”. He was shipped off to Borean Tundra to turn mammoths and bugs. That’s how Master found him; a lowly ghoul, sleeping when he wasn’t wailing, on duty not far from the entrance to Ahn’Kahet. Master saved him, she did. Master saved us all. Gerard and “the bonny twins”, Alan and Ogrash and Fart and Stinker … all of us.

We help out around the farm now. But no one but me dares to speak to the living.

Did I tell you about my hair? Oh yes! Yes I did! It’s not actual hair. It’s a whig. A blonde whig (Tess remembers heir blonde hair; it used to turn her lovers crazy, when she lived in Eversong). So my hair is blonde. It’s a nice whig. Long strands of golden hair, spun from yak hair (not real humanoid hair!). Gina, though she pretends to dislike me, made the whig herself. Then she told me that “fashion” had changed. So one day she brought a pair of scissors and once I stopped screaming she “bobbed” my hair. I don’t know what that means. But it’s pretty.

I … love my hair. It’s … I don’t know. It’s me. I may be smelly (if I forget my mogu perfume). I may be stiff and coarse – but I. Am. Alive. Like I said, some time ago: “Life. Such as it is. Is the mogu alive, yet the do not draw breath? Is Master alive, yet she has no heartbeat? Am I alive, yet I am many?”.

Hair. Is life.

But enough of that (as the pandaren say). Let me tell you about Master. just a moment, I need to wake Alan up. Again. Prod you, ghoul! Get back to work – but don’t work too hard! Remember, Alan, you are free now. You don’t have to be afraid no more. The songbells keeps you company, friend.

(“Muuuraaaah! He-aaa! Haaa… rmony!?”)

Yes, Alan. Be safe.

(“Eeeah! Aaaurggghhh!” Mhr-haaah!”)

Ghouls are not that bad once you get to know them. Honestly!

Master’s been busy for weeks and months lately. Master’s been sad, and angry, and cruel. At one point we started to think that Master was like … Him.

But the Bad Orc far away is in prison now. There are no more battles to be ought. Master have drunk her filling of blood. But she’s been very busy even though no one has any need of an Alliance death knight no more. Bad earth talkers, Dark Shamans, caused a lot of trouble with Haohan and others not long ago. A kinfolk of Master, a draenei male, and a night elf, helped to sort it out. Mercenaries and adventurers and soldiers going home has attacked farmers and each one. So our good friend Mudmug and some other pandaren fellows asked Master if she could kill some orcs. Because it’s tuskfaces with no manners that’s usually cause a stir.

So she did.

She let our farm before daybreak and didn’t return until the wee hour of dawn. Weeks on end. I was very worried. She didn’t as much as look at the flower beds, we had to keep them tended and harvested without her help! Sometimes she was angry and tired, sometimes covered in blood. She hit us, once and again. Me and Alan and even Hossie (a hozen that was shunned by his hill-dwelling brothers and found his way to our farm, hungry and scared since there was a good silver for grabbing hozen heads; it was a daily quest for many brave hero to kill hozen,who really were just hungry – but anyway!). She never changed out of her armor. She just sat there, by a table for a while, staring at nothing. Sometimes she gently touched her locket, the one with two portraits … and sometimes she mumbled “I’m sorry, Menea, I will find you, I will find you, I am so sorry … “

She didn’t even play with Dog.

Dog was sad and afraid. We were all afraid. Alan couldn’t even sleep. As if the songbells had stopped chiming, so too were our life – such as it is for a redeemed Scourge – withering. She hit us, all of us, so many times.

Master called me a monster.

Master reminded me of that time when she had just found me. One night she brought a bundle with her – this was in Zul’Drak when we were helping trolls to survive. I was curious (because that’s how geists are!) so I ripped the bundle open and …

No, I’m not telling you what happened. Even Scourge know what pain is.

Master was “under pressure”, as Gina called it. “It’s like when harvest is in full swing,” she said one day as she combed my hair (uhm, my whig). “Sometimes you don’t have time to be polite and friendly. Sometimes people do things they regret, and you either forgive and let it be gone, Tim. Or the Sha will get you.”

Pehaps how to learn to forgive is what life is all about?

One night Master threw me out of the house, yelling in a drunken voice that “you sleep with the pigs, bitch!”. Then she broke my bed (it’s a nice bed, Mudmug fixed it up the next day while whiping away tears but it is a nice bed). I was terrified. Angry. But most of all sad. My skin crawled (my skin always crawl when I get nervous; then my arms start shaking – it’s residual memory interlapse, as my Creator called it).

Master came back one day, not long ago. A few days ago. She had been busy – so people said – on an isle that time forgot (I don’t know what it means and I don’t want to know what it means!).

This is how it happened:

Thunder rolled in from the north. The weather of the Valley has taken a turn for the worse since some year ago, there’ a lot of thunder going on even though Lei Shen – my Masters sisters helped defeat him – is no more. I have never liked thunder. It reminds me of fire – one of the things the Scourge fear more than Him.

I heard the footfalls on soggy ground outside long before she opened the door. A wind swept through the house as she did. When Master is away I keep a frostfire burning in the fireplace. Master don’t like that, but we are afraid of orange fire and blue fire won’t burn us the way the red-and-golden flames might do. I wasn’t asleep – I only pretended. I hid hal my eye under the whig, curling up under the blanket that Nice Li Li gave me (it has unicorns on it!). I peeked out thorugh strands of golden hair. Master was a shadow against the doorway, her swords drawn. She never enters a room without her weapons drawn.

Then her dead-light eyes stared at me.

We lived in fear then. I was sure she would throw me out, hur me, maybe even rip my head off. Alan whimpered and hugged a tiny little virmen he had rescued a few days earlier from drowning in the pond and the virmen squeeked with terror. It’s not afraid of Alan, it loves Alan. But it is afraid of Master.

Then Master closed the door. Then Mastes sheathed her swords. Then she sat down by the table with a sigh and then she waited for quite some time and then she said:
“I’m dead, inside and out.”

Tiny virmen snuck away from Alan and very carefully, trembling so hard its whiskers almost fell off, snuck up to the calf of Masters leg and whispered: “I have carrot, mother?” Alan very carefully shuffled out of his corner and with a scared smile placed a teracotta urn filled with moist soil and a tiny, green but gently singing, Songbell on the table in front of Master. Champs – you got to hand it to Champs, he never fails to entertain! – removed his helmet and in a skeletal wheese told a dirty poem about a hedgehog and a knob.

I just trembled.

Master sat there for quite some time. Eventually she stood up, strapped off her armor and put it in the wardrobe. She didn’t loose her swords, of course. She closed the wardrobe doors and then stared at them, for a long time, then whispered “I’m home, mommy’s home again.”

Then she went outside. We heard her splash around in the pond. I snuck up to a window and watched her standing there, in the golden light of dawn, naked, rubbing her cold body down with pumice and the sharpened leaves of Spiders Root. Caked dirt and blood, old vomit and still glowing green sludge – it fell from her skin. I don’t know where she had been, what she had fought, and I don’t care.


Master is home again. She dressed in a blue overall. She cut her hair short using a sickle she had sharpened on a piece of stone. As daybreak came and Halfhill started to wake up with the sounds of goats and market-goers, she walked up the stairs to the porch and gave all of us a long, hard, dead look. Then, I don’t know how I could have missed it, she placed her hand on a bundle she had placed on a small wooden table right next to the door.

“I brought you a present, Tim,” Master Said. “I have been … angry. My sister says one should ask for forgiveness, because the Light forgives.” Master sighed, fingering her locket. “Maybe I don’t believe in the Light no more, but the Light still believes in me.”

Alan glanced at me. Tiny virmen twitched and found a piece of carrot. Champs hissed, he always feels uncomfortable if something can’t be hit with a sword (he has no brain, just an empty skull, cut him some slack, okay?).

I slithered out of bed. Fear kept me close to the floor. As I came close to the table close to the door I shot a glance at Master. I was certain she would hit me. It was as of old, right then, at that moment. Just a slave to someone more fortunate.

Master knelt down. My whig had gone askew as I moved. She corrected it. Then she smiled – one of those … living smiles.

I very carefully opened the bundle of coarse linen cloth she had placed on the table by the door. i took great care not to puncture the cloth with my saronite talons (nails, it’s called nails, even though they are quite long – and sharp). I grabbed the cloth and the hemp string … I pulled. As my trembling hands, part of me still sure Master would flog me, carefully removed the cloth and looked at the contents of the bundle, Master said:

“I’m not going away anymore, not for a long time. I was a fool to think I could go back and change what has been done. My home is here now, Draenor is gone. I am so sorry, Tim. I am so sorry …”

I opened the bundle. It was a dress. A pink dress. I looked at Master. Then I said, with a voice bereft of breath but it didn’t matter because at that very moment I ceased to be a geist – and became Alive:
“Master brought me a dress!”

Alan did his best to draw a picture of me, a bit later, as I jumped with joy across the fields and Dog chased me, barking like mad. Here it is


It wasn’t until late that night I knew things will change, when I heard Master whisper to herself, as she sharpened her swords with slow and gentle strokes:
“All those stones the dragon asked for better be worth it.” She glanced at me, over her shoulder, smiling as my hands carefully stroked the pink silk dress: “We’re going home, geist. In a month or two …

We’re going home, at long last.”

– – – – –

Credit for Geist in a Dress-image goes entirely to commenter Razwick92, in the WoW Insider Queue, 20140829 . I asked for an image of a geist in a pink dress and I got it – in short time and all that. But I’m happy, so all is good!

In fact, this entire story depended on that very image – of a geist, in a dress. Isn’t it funny how your brain works? This story had been festering within me, I lacked an image to let it go – but no more!

Thanks, Raz!)

When worlds collide – How I met my paladin


“This is an image. It’s believed to catch your attention.”

(Inspired by a breakfast topic on WoW Insider.)

“Right, Shu,”
“Shuanna. My name is Shuanna. Only Vass calls me Shu. And the dead one.”
“Yeah, so anyway! Welcome to Earth! Let me show you how some of us enjoy ourselves! This is how we play World of Warcraft. You ready?”
“Ok, this button here … ‘§’, wi… ok, you just hit the keyboard with your mace.”
“Ok, uh … Right!”

*replace keyboard*

“You see that drawing on the brightly lit painting in front of you? The painting is called a ‘screen’ or ‘monitor’. It’s hooked up to this machine here, wic… oh, allright, you just dropped a holy hammer of light from out of nowhere on my computer, babe. Ouw!”


“I thought you never would wake up.”
“That mace of yours really, I mean it really hurts! Now I feel sorry for all those murlocs and ordon …”
“Where’s my aspirins. Oh God, I’m bleeding from my ears. That can’t be good! Shu, call 911!”
“No! Don’t call nine one one. On that … magical device. There. Press those buttons. Please, I think you cracked my skull. I can feel my brain throbbing. It hurts …”

“I didn’t hit you that hard … just, you know, a normal one. We call it a white hit.”
“I’m … going … to … fa…”


“Whoa. What the hell was that!?”
“I healed you.”
“But … What about ER? Bandages? All the stuff?”
“Eh. Light protect you.”
“So, uh … This healing thing, does it also come with a hard-on? Ouw!”
“Stop looking at my boobs, nitwit!”
“You should be.”
“They’re just, I mean … I’m a guy and … well allright, I am a feminist a–”
“What’s that?”
“Fem… inist?”
“Oh, uh, it basically means that some people think of females as people. Other don’t.”
“Like people who stare at my breasts.”
“Yeah, exa– what? No! Ouw!”
“Oh hey, this is fun! What’s in this little yellow square. Why’d you call it ‘boring’. Oh. Ooh! Uhm … Oh.”
“Never mind that.”
“So this is how you … earthlings … procreate?”
“Uh … not exactly.”
“Contrary to popular belief, you can’t get pregnant from a facia… Oh now I’ve done it!”
“Done what?”
“It’s on the internet now! Everyone will know!”
“Know what? That you’re a fem… inist?”
“Not quite.”
“I don’t understand this world.”
“None of us do, Shu. That’s why we kill each other because of how we look, or what we believe in.”
“I’m confused. And you don’t even have murlocs.”
“So, uh, anyway! Stop looking through my porn, you rascally paladin!”
“Oh, but this is … oh, I never done that!”
“Well there was this blood elf who asked me once in Dalaran but I had had a heavy meal of beans a few hours earlier a–”
“Oh God … ”
“Oh nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Tauren don’t mind a bit of gas, you know.”
“Ok, you know what? I’m very uncomfortable with this topic right now, so why don’t we stick to teaaching you how to play World of Warcraft, allright?”


“Oh my, you got a lot of these moving pictures in this … folder.”
“Sorry. just curious!”
“Bad draenei!”
“Well it appears you have a thing for bad girls, mr righteousness.”
“I … uh … Anyway!”
“Oops, looks like I beat up Garrosh.”
“Wait what!?”
“Uh-huh. Oh, isn’t that sweet. He gave me a token or his gloves!”
“But … that … I … wait, was that on heroic?”
“Not sure. What does 25 HC mean?”
“Oh God … ”
“Right, Im not sure who this ‘God’ is you’re praying to everytime I do something you thought I couldn’t do, so what is this … God?”
“It’s … uh … something that we humans have been fighting over for the last 3000 years.”
“Is it an old god?”
“No … not exactly. It’s just. You know. God. you know?”
“You don’t sound very smart now, I’m just saying.”
“I have an intellect of 119, thank you very much!”
“Yet you insist on staring at my breasts.”
“They’re ni– ouw!”
“Should I press this symbol?”
“And this line? The one? Two times?”
“Hi, this is Shuanna of the Exodar, Kingslayer, Firelord, Flame Warden and … excuse me? No, I do not know what ‘Russia’ is? Why do you … my accent? It’s a perfectly fine draenei – hello? Hello? Huh.”
“What ..? My head … You maced me, Shu … Help … ”
“I think they … what was that you said before … ah. They hung up on me.”
“Oh God.”
“Need a light?”


*Mental note: Don’t ever let a paladin sift through your folders!*

Losing my words


“This screenshot is here because, well, why not?”

This is a non-WoW related post. It is also a fair bit personal. In a way it could be interpreted as what happens to a draenei who end up on a different world, with a different language. But most of all it’s closer to a farmer, who once in the 19th century emigrated from Duvemåla Socken to a country far, far away.

You ready? Here we go!

I’m swedish, born and bred in what some people of the world call “paradise”. I grew up talking swedish. I learned how to read and write in swedish. I published a novel in swedish. I’ve been talking and reading and writing swedish for at least 44 years (I’m 45, btw). A year ago, give or take, I had the opportunity to be the translator of Joe Devers “Lone Wolf”-series, from english to swedish, a complete restart of the Lone Wolf-brand for a predominantly swedish market, for the first time since the late 1980’s. Needless to say I jumped on this opportunity.

I’ve been reading english on one monitor and writing swedish in another monitor for more than a year now. There’s a lot of Lone Wolf-material to be translated. At first I didn’t even think about it – but this is probably something that has been … growing on me. For years.

I’m starting to loose my native language.

Case in point: I’m doing this rather personal blog post in english, a language that should be foreign to me. But it isn’t. In fact, I have an easier time writing this than I have working on a personal project, a novel, in swedish.

I love words. I’m in love with the word. I have always been. When other kids tried their hardest to be a part of the soccer team (or the thug squad), I was deep in thought figuring out Tolkien, le Guin, Lovecraft and Strindberg. When other students tried their hardest passing the math test, I ditched class and hung out at the library (yeah, that wasn’t smart but insanely fun). I started writing “creatively” when I was seven. Writing kept me alive, in a very real sense, all through a teen chased by bullies and later on – through a terrible time of suicidal depression.

Writing keeps me alive.

But here’s the thing: Up until now I have never ever experienced this feeling of … lostness. I have lost my native language. Words that once came to me like flies to a heap of dung (well okay, I’ve never been great with metaphors) now are … lost. Or at the very least reluctant.

Swedish words, that is.

More often than not as I write I find myself writing a word in english, before I delete it and then write the same word – in swedish. Sometimes. not always, I actually have to try to remember what the word is – even though I know it, in my mind, in my very bones.

My bones talk english.

This is what scares me. I have never ever set foot in either Great Britain or the US, or any other english speaking country, yet english feels more native to me than my native language. Have I lived in a virtual english-speaking world so long that I have become an involontary immigrant to one or more countries I have never visited outside the internet?

Truth be told, I believe that is so. I’m losing my roots. My language. I’m starting to feel like Wilhelm Mobergs character Karl Oskar Nilsson, från Duvemåla Socken, who in the 1850’s emigrated to Amerika och såsmåningom changed his name to Charles Nelson. A man who didn’t “lade in veden”, but “puttade in veden” (as his wife Kristina put it).

The section above is exactly like my brain functions, right now. I’m glancing at, and listening to the lines of, an american movie on one monitor as I write this. I’m flipping over to a text in swedish (a daily newspaper) from time to time. The news article is about a certain right wing party in Sweden. In another tab another article, this one in US english, is open – that one is about the things going on in Ferguson.

Here I am, not knowing what language I should interpret the information in. At times I have to stop and look up am english word, what it means in  swedish, a word that I know the meaning of – because I … well, not actually forgot … but hesitate … What does it mean in swedish? Some five years ago I woul have done the exact same thing for an english word.

This … worries me. In a sense. Yet, in some strange way, it also comforts me. Because while I might loose one language, I’m gaining a new one – and maybe I can fuse the two together because one can never truly loose the native language.

But I am a little bit worried. Here’s a fun fact, by the way: I did write that as “lil'”. I guess I’ve listened to too many americans. I am worried for my words. It’s not nationalism – I am not the nationalistic kind. It’s more of … well … heritage. Honor. In a very metaphysical way it feels as if I’m letting my parents down. They taught me to speak, think and read in their native language. Yet here I am – a digital immigrant. I’m a man who in a sense does exactly what Charles O Nelson, near Kitchisaga Lake in Minnesota, a man born in Duvemåla Socken, Sverige, once did.

I’m losing my native words.

To save a life

“You’re not gonna die on me now, blue!”

The most amazing thing in all of her long, long life, was this. The one thing she hated most saved her life. The Light moves in mysterious ways.

“You’re not ordered to die, bitch!”

He pushed. Hand firm on her breasts, pushing, pushing, pounding with fists when the pushing wasn’t enough. Spit and saliva hung like tendons from his lower lip, allready half frozen in the cold, cold Icecrown wind. Undead everywhere around them. Screaming gryphons closing in. Talons. Dead meat raining down. Smoke in her eyes. Maraad screaming about securing the EZ.

“You little maggot, you’re no paladin, you’re a useless piece of fucking scum! I should let the maggots take care of you!”


“Come o-ooon, baby!”


“Please? Don’t die on me now. Please, oh Light! Hear this one prayer! Forgive me my trespasses and the misdeeds of my people! Save! This! ONE!!!”


“Come on! Don’t die on me now, draenei. Not after what we’ve been through.”


“you saved me, you did! So don’t you go and die on me now you c… Live, damnit!”


“Bitch, one breath! All I’m asking! One fucking breath!”


“She’s a goner, mate,” another voice, a human voice. A tired voice, used to seeing death. “Let her go, others need you.”


She heard them, but couldn’t move. The poison was running and burning in her veins, paralyzing her. Fragments of fleeting imagery through her brain; the fall of Karabor, her first kiss, the burden of guilt as they left Draenor, sex in Dalaran, a drunken brawl back to back with Ramash the Redeemed, the wall of death closing in … a darkness, as a fog, rolling down from the frozen Throne, blanketing her, blanketing them all. Even Fordring. The voice:

“You thought you could defeat me? You though you cought cheat me? Behold now, the eternity of you being!”

Then …

She couldn’t remember Then. From that moment of coming darkness to this moment of green fists pounding her chest, ripping her shirt open and showing her breasts to whoever was watching, everything was blank. not black, not white, not even grey. Just blank – an absolute nothingness.

At that moment, she knew there was no Light. She had fallen. Perhaps the Lich King had won, after all.

“Wait … “

This small, viscious voice. Harsh and hoarse as if spoken through a throat that had not used words for many, many years.

“Let me near … her.”

Slipping away into nothingness, she was barely aware of what happened. She heard a hoarse snicker. She heard someone mutter “monster”. She heard Ramash roar with rage – then slam both of his fist into her chest, screaming ancient orcish curses and prayers. But she wouldn’t live.

“Her soul … is still … here.”

That voice.

“She’s still alive. Ah, yes, I can taste … her will. She’s clinging, like a spider to a wall. Aaww, how sweet.”

Those careful fingertips on her naked face, as the legs of a centipede.

“There’s still hope. But for what price?”

Those hands caressing her breast. That faint, gasping snicker through pursed lips, cracked with the thirst for what she was clinging to – life.

“Let me have … I mean let me save her … “

Another voice:

“You’ll own her, you will, I know your rituals, warlock!”

The first voice:

“Tell me, lord … What would you ask of death?”

“I should cut you down right now!”

“Oh, really? And who would save your precious kingslayer then, lord … Fordring?” A snicker, cold as deaths embrace, echoing as the voice of darkness. “This crying orc, infatuated with that wich he can never have? This draenei vindicator, lost in his own eternal pride? These … humans ..? They are scared of their own shadows after what they’ve been through! Who, I pray, would save her now, but someone who has cheated death? Perhaps we should call for a death knight, would you like that, lord … Fordring?”

“Then do what you must!”

So she did.

The Big Sleep – or head canon boost to 90


Sometime later after Chromie scared the light out of Ravennah, she ran into a goblin peddling his rocket taxi services in Light Hope Chapel. For reasons that soon will become clear he talked her into a “great deal, the deal of your lifetime, dollface!”.

Yeah, uh, why don’t we let Rave tell it – in her own, charming way.

– – – – –
That [foul eredar word], that dirtbag, that panhandling damned [foul eredar word]! Oooh I should have listened to sis I should, Zavvie that is, she kinda ran into a gobbo in Booty Bay once. Forcefed him with a treasure map too she did. Green little devils, all of ’em. Yeah ok, that’s not fair. Soem of ’em are devils.

The rest is damned mother-[foul eredar word].

There’s no bloody houses in Silithus! Just bugs, and dust, and more bugs, and scorpions, and more dust, and more bugs. Oh, and cultust … cultists. Ran into a few of ’em, they tried telling me the end was night or something … nigh. Yeah, that the word.

So I ended them. Damned loudmouthed [foul eredar word]. Sure learned something now, din’t I? Never trust a gobbo, honey. Once they stopped staring at your ass they’ll sell you the moon. Or parts of it.

The elves were cool though. And the tauren were friendly. Copule’o dwarves too, and some crazy human in a cave was pretty kind to me. So, uh … yeah, ok. Aight, ‘s like this ok:

No fucking (that’s a human word, I think it has wassaword Urk used when he tried deepfried worm meat ah, spice) houses in Silithus. Din’t even know where the bloody place was. Had to ask my way from Gadgetzan and it was like, well, like this kinda:

“I want to go to Silithus.”
“Nah you want, dollfa– aaauwww!”
“Sweet broken valves! You killed him!”
“Shoun’t call me dollface shoun’t he not.”
“Uuuh … ”
“Ok, you just killed him a little bit.”
“Uuh … Who am i?”
“Brixx, Brixx.”

I kinda laughed there and said something like “that [foul eredar word] is punched out!”. That din’t go down well lemme tell ya. So the next day when they let me out of the cell – not sure what their problem is – I asked around again. Everybody was very nice. Go figure. Ah aight, dey not like my sis, y’know. Sis Vassie that is. Something about her running aorund Booty Bay beating up people just so some pirates would like her or something. Insane in the membrane, if you ask me.

So anyway, it kinda went better tho. I got like ten gallons of water n’ then they just pointed west and told me to get the hell out of Gadge. So I did. Funny thing tho, way out west there’s this giant hole in the world! Un’Goro, funny name eh? I tried finding a way down but eventually I had t odo some pretty impressive climbing. Then dodging. A lot of dodging! Oh man! Deres dinos down there! Huge ones! n’ nasty flowers too!

Kinda ran into a worgen n’ a tauren down there. They showed me a … camp. Or village. Marshal something. Got a gnome to guide me to a road up to Silithus. Good thing that crater-hole was full of streams, allthough I did kinda feel funky from drinking it.

But there’s still no damned houses in Silithus! No beach, no restraurant, no nothing! If I ever find that damned gobbo he’s in for a helluva suprise. Anyway, I was kinda broke when I got there so I picked up some cash work. I never knew elves paid good solid silver for human heads, but hey – it’s a big world. Now, I know elves are cool and all but y’kno’, I wonder what the hell they’re doin’ with all those buf saliva glands I grabbed?



Eventually a human kinda grabbed hold of me and told me I should really do my bit “for the Alliance”. So they ported me to Blasted Lands. Aight, I’m no porting person ok? So I kinda ended up sprawled on the floor, puking. Was in no shape to do much y’kno’. So this innkeeper or quartermaster or something helped me up, handed me a drink and …


Last thing I remember before the room stopped spinning was someone sayin’ “sweet crystals, never seen anyone down eight Nethergarde Bitter in less than an hour!”

When I woke up I had this strange feelin’ that I had the experience of a lifetime. Like I was 90*.

– – – – –
*: Ravennah is parked at level 60, she’ll remain there until I have a pre-order, then it’s boost time. While I do enjoy leveling it has become a fair bit tedious lately. Bring on the Iron Horde – a foulmouthed monk is ready to kick some ass.

Oh blasted, I need to snag the “Brawler” title. It would suit her just fine.

A funny thing happened on the way to Lights Hope


So the story of Ravennah somehow got stuck in my mind. Now I can’t shake the idea of a dyslectic draenei who never got the hang of How To Behave. But you know what?

Ravennah is a smart girl. She just don’t know it yet.

Urk does.

– – – – – –

“Dear Dairy.

Sos been couple ostrange weeks, yakno.”

Ravennah raised her eyebrows, hopeful. However, Urk Gazbag had a troubled look. They sat on an old log not far from the tower, bathed in the ever present light from the holy font on top of the tower, listening to the closeby calls of plaguehounds hunting, and a long way away – the screaming ghouls of Plaguewood. As horrible as it was, the hill was a haven of solace and calm.

Urk sighed. Ravennah swallowed, hard, allready nervous. It was one thing facing off against an undead, no problem there. Just kick them hard between the legs, ram an elbow in the neck and split their rotting skull with the main hand sword before thrusting upwards with the offhand.

Writing was harder than fighting.

He held the diary in one hand, a cheap notebook she’d bought from a traveling worgen saleswoman. With his other hand he first scratched his head, then very carefully placed his index finger on a line and followed it, mouthing out words in soto voce. Then he sighed, gave Ravennah a tired look and sighed again, shaking his shoulders. He gave her the diary back.

“I’m considered to be a smart orc by some people,” he said. “I picked up reading like, well, like nothing, really. But honest to the Light, girl, you got me.”
“Whatcha mean – got ya?”
“Oh dear … ” He chuckled, raised his hand and waved, calling out a sharp “Carlin!”

Carlin Redpath, tempered by an untold number of battles, twitched and was halfway trhough pulling his sword when he stopped himself. Instead he sauntered over, shield on back. There had been trouble around the tower for quite some time, even though the Scourge was more or less defeated. Redpath was always on his guard. He was also a gentle man, given the right circumstances or the right company. He did have a hard time getting used to a dragon, shaped like a gnome, of course. Compared to Chromie, an illiterate draenei was almost … normal.

“Yes, Urk?”
“Girl’s gone done it again she has.” Urk chuckled and punched Ravennah gently on the shoulder. “It’s her spelling, you see. Can you sort this out? Give him your diary, girl.”
“I wish you’d stop with that ‘girl’ stuff, greenie,” she said, a bit grumpy, and handed Carlin Redpath her diary. “It’s demuning it is.”
“Demeaning,” Carlin said, flipping the diary open. Then he scratched his head, gave her a short glance and smiled. “Well I can see the problem right there, soldier. You write the way you talk. That won’t do.”
“See, it’s a trick to spelling, you understand. You must always use more letters than needed.”
“Dat’s stupid!”
“And not very effective, I agree, but you know what? What if I … hang on.” He pulled out a small notebook from one of his pockets, a pen from another and then jotted down some quick words. Then he tore the page from the book and handed it to Ravennah with her diary.
“Read it,” he said. “Read it out loud, if you please.”

So she did … she tried … but honest to the Light she couldn’t understand a word of it!
“Daer … suldur! Red dis ot alood or ye be a green cabb’ge you are!” She looked up at him. “Whathefuck?”
“Darrowshire dialect,” he said. “It took me years to forget it but I can still do it, if I have to. Na dats sa’ spellun innit?”
“See? Dem blu gurls all noting dey not, innit so Urk? Wankers allofem!”
“I … ” Urk scratched his head. “Uhm … Loktar?”

There was a giggle somewhere behind them. A small giggle. They all turned. A gnome looked back at them with big, blue eyes. Then she giggled again.

“Chromie, yus wan try to teeesh da gurl soemthun?” Redpath said. He could barely control himself, the last words turned into a big grin. Then he burst out laughing, a bellow of a laugh that undoubdtedly was heard all the way to Maris Stead. Some gargoyle or another screeched in reply, as if defying the one thing that the Eastern Plaguelands had lacked for so many years: Laughter.

“My my, I’m probably one of the mightiest creatures anyone of you have ever seen and … You want me to teach a draenei to read and write? Ooh, Kairoz won’t stop laughing like ever if I tell him!”
“Give her a hand, will you? As pleasant this has been, I’m supposed to be on my way to Lights Hope,” Redpath said. “Meetings and meetings and more meetings. It appears that’s what war is all about these days.” He smiled, put a gentle hand on Ravennahs shoulder and nodded. “I do believe I might run into a relative of yours, girl. Come by, if you can. I’m sure m’lady Shuanna would love to meet you.”
“Ya not kno’ ma sis’ very well then,” Ravennah said. She lowevered her eyes, half ashamed, half angry. “Ain’t no love lostb etween us y’kno.”
“Well that’s something we have to remedy then … ” Redpath paused for a moment, then added in a thick Darrowshire drawl: “Innit?”

Ravennah smiled, she couldn’t help it. Hearing one of the greatest heroes of the plaguelands talk like a backwater farmer was just too much.
“I might come by then, sah!” she said and gave him a nod.
“Good!” With that word he mounted his horse, turned it around and, just before he left them, looked at them all and said: “the Light have mercy on you all!”

She flipped trough the pages of her diary and tried to figure out what they all meant. The words seemed perfectly fine to her. Well, okay, dairy was probably not quite right. She wasn’t tauren after all. But other than that … and then one spelling error after another started to come through. The mass of letters was nothing but a jumble to her eyes. It gave her a headache just trying to sort it out. She focused, pushed the headache back, but instead she started to panic, stress out. A few minutes later she was so nervous she couldn’t hold the book in her hands. She dropped it on the ground – then gave them all a terrified look.

“Sorry, din’t mean to! Jus’ ‘appened it did ‘onestly!”
“Amazing,” Urk said. He couldn’t help himself, he put a strong arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a long, strong but comforting hug.
“Well that’s something you don’t see every day,” Chromie said and laughed. “Orcs and draenei hugging. There might be hope for our worlds still, don’t you think?”
“I’m stupid,” Ravennah said and relucantly slipped out of Urks hug. “Soz but that’o it is, it is. Sis’ told me always, n’ guards in da Exodar. There’s always one and I’m the one, y’kno.”
“True, there is always one, ” Chromie said. “But you are not the one, my young draenei.”
“I’m pretty sure Urk is the one.”
“Hey!” Urk scoffed. “I’m not that dumb, allright!?” Then he looked horrified. “I, oh shit I’m sorry Rave I didn’t mean it like … Yeah Chromie’s right. I am the one. The one with a big foot in my mouth.”
“Yeah well,” Ravennah smiled. It was impossible not to. “I might not be dat good at talkin’, but yakonw wha’ they say, no?”
“I do not,” Chromie said. “What do ‘they’ say?”
“Sum people talk da talk but can’t walk da walk,” Ravennah said. Then, in a split second, her fist shot out and froze half an inch from Urks suprised face. “I jus’ walk da walk.”
“You also know your punchlines,” Chromie said. She raised a hand. “Tell me, draenei … Have you ever seen a ghost?”

Chromie snapped her fingers.

The Monk That the Light Forgot


“Ok, there was a bit of misunderstaning at the bank … ” Yeah, it sure was.

A couple of weeks ago I started thinking about monks. Again. After all, if I can get a rogues rotation right a monk shouldn’t be that hard. I’ve done my monking around earlier – on Kittyanna, who since has returned to her shamanistic roots. As it happens quite often I couldn’t think of a good name. So the monk was put on hold. But lo! There was a monk once … and now she’s back.

Meet Ravennah, Exodars worst nightmare, an incorrectible storm of trouble and terrible spelling. It goes something like this … in her own words:

– – – – –


Whooping ay, as a dwarf I shared teh same dishwashing spot with used to say. Or was it ass? Ah aight, ass – whooping ass, ‘s what’t’was. Anyhoe (yeah that was another dwarf) … Ok, so … Lessee … Yeah! Goes like this aight:

I kinda ended up in a bit of trouble. That’s what happens when people let me go free, y’know. Sis’ Shu once said I’m the worst nightmare of our people. I think she was kiddin’ but I’m not sure. So, uh, yeah, I got word of how you could like store stuff in the Stormwind bank aight. So I went there. Though I muss’ave done something wrong ’cause the next thing I know the lady in black is screaming and then there’s a ton of guards. Well, two anyway.

“You’re going to the Stockade you are!” one of’em said. ‘n the other one said “Nah, that’s one of them popular blues, Kip. Sarge’ll ‘ave our asses if we throw her in with the ruffians. Gonna start another riot fo’sure.”

So instead I somehow ended up under guard in a room in the castle. ‘causse no one like knew what to do. But I guess I was lucky or somethin’, ’cause Maraad was around. Funny, huh? He’s kinda always around when someone’s about to grab me ba ma ear and go “You are bad and you should feel bad!”.

So I heard bits n’ pieces of what was said, aight. Goes like this aight:
“She did WHAT!?” said Maraad.
“She tried to rob the bank, Maraad,” a human said. I think it was a king or something.
“Throw her in the Stockade then!” Marry said (he hates it when I call him that, tee-hee!).
“I don’t think that would be wise,” the human said. The nthis young’un human also said:
“Some of our fellwo citizens are … not polite, when seeing a draenei. Perhaps we should give her something else to do?”

So I ended up with “community service”. 8 months of it. Scrubbing floors in the castle. Scurbbing pots n’ pans. Scrubbing blood and pue off the streets on sunday morning. I was the only draenei doing it. People kinda started calling me “pothead”, ’cause whenever someone saw me I usually was head down in a pot, scrubbing the bottom of it. Or something.


Then one day one of the big dudes, Master Chef of the castle and all, came around and said to me “Grab your gear, you’re off to boot camp, lil’ miss Sunshine”. So I was. Now, it wasn’t a camp made of boots (I thought so and thought it would be a really weird place aight, but it wasn’t ‘caause it was more like a military compound run by a draenei and a human paladin).

They kinda shaped me up, they did. Spent a lot of time standing on a box with my thumb in ma mouth. Yeah, it’s called “disciplinary action”. They used to flog people like me but someone thought it would be a bad idea to flog a sis of one of the war heroes. Thanks a lot, I guess, sis’ Shu.

So Naanae and Lucas Severing ran this camp. Oh my they sure knew how to get the fool out of me! Six months of it; I dare say I got in such damned fine shape people walked into lamp post when I swaggered down the street. I had a hard time remembering all the stuff about the Light and stuff. But I knew how to fight (that’s why I spent so much time on the “shame box”). I fought my way to freedom. Yeah, fucking poetic and all.

Nope, they din’t clean my mouth up. That one’s ne’er gonna be clean, ok? Good!

I’m free! And I have no fucking clue what to do now. Guess I’ll go down to Elwynn and beat teh shit out of a bandit.

I hear the magi… st… ireta … magistrate! I hear he pays good coins for it. This time I also know not to bring unsheathed weapons into the bank ..

All that remains are the poems

“These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.”

– Wilfred Owen, ‘Mental Cases’


My intent was to write a heroic blogpost about the legendary cloak obtained on my beloved but troubled paladin Shuanna. The cloak became mine – but it is really hers – a few days ago. Due to various reasons I never found the words. Let’s blame the heat. Never mind that I cried once her wings sprouted blue and white. It’s just pixels after all. Surely it is.

There’s something more important happening today than a cloak of glowy pixels. Today, one hundred years ago, the world ended. This blogpost, part of #blaugust and inspired by Alt:Ernative Chat therefor starts in Westfall. Actually, it starts before Westfall … the progenitor first blinks the heroic eyes in a dimly lit barrack of Valliance Keep.

“This man is about to die.”

(“And when the summons in our ears was shrill
unshaken in our trust we rose, and then
flung but a backward glance, and care-free still
went strongly forth to do the work of men”

-W.N Hodgson, ‘the Call’)

Have you seen them? Most players rarely do. But before you’re heading out onto the beach, stick around a bit at the bunkbeds on ground floor. There’s a few scripted NPC’s there who’s quite interesting. Some are gung-ho tendershoes. Others are … well, scared. With the cold logic of fear and boredom. You see them go into the fortress in civilian clothes. You see them walk out in uniform.

The sense of elation those first weeks of 1914, when gallant knights on horseback charged machine gun nests and heavy artillery … the heroism quickly turned to dust and mud. Much like the campaign in Northrend it bogged down in a war of attrition. The civilians turned soldiers became trapped in a living hell of a multitude of problems; obsolete strategies, incompetent officers, sheer stupidity – and a militaristic imperialism that eventually doomed us all.

WoWScrnShot_030814_151122“at some disputed barricade,”

“I have a rendevouz with Death
at some disputed barricade,
when spring comes back with rustling shade
and apple-blossom fills the air –
I have a rendevouz with Death
when spring brings back blue days and fair.”
– Alan Seeger, killed in action, 1916

John McCrae, Alan Seeger, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and many others who lived in trenches for all those long, long years in wich life was a split second and death an eternity, didn’t know. Kipling didn’t know. No one knew. I dare say, not even Adolf Hitler knew. He still had a full moustache, you know. I seem to remember that Mr Mulliner, a creation of P.G Wodehouse, once stated (paraphrase) “Can’t trust a man with a moustache like that. Either you shave it completely off or you keep it.”

Over time, the heroic poems of 1914 took on a new edge. Two of the most prolific writers, Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen, both met at Craiglockhart War Hospital at wich both were treated for “neurasthenia”, or what is now commonly known as either “shell schock” or PTSD.


“Shell schock”

“-Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
-Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.”
-Wilfred Owen, killed in action, 1918

In the end, as we remember those who have fallen one hundred years later, and all that remains are the poems. The names of tombstones tell us nothing. It was the war to end all wars – yet the names tell us nothing. The voices that can tell us what really happened are dying out. Soon they too will be forgotten. Siegfried Sassoons question – “have you forgotten yet?” will soon be obsolete.

But the past is just the same,— and War’s a bloody game….
Have you forgotten yet?…
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you’ll never forget.
Siegfried Sassoon, ‘Aftermath’

Perhaps World War I can be summed up in less than twenty words. Rudyard Kipling, who lost his son in 1915, wrote by the end of the war:

“If any question why we died,
tell them, because our fathers lied.”

Have you forgotten yet?