I’m slightly bitter to the taste, aged 45, with an occasional writers itch and occasional writers block. It’s almost Yin and Yang. Professional writer from Sweden involved in one of Swedens leading brands of roleplaying games. Social liberal feminist and a constant underdog. Avid World of Warcraft player with too much imagination. Some people claim I’m funny.

Most people go “and you are?“.



One day last year my (now former) girlfriend mentioned to me during a walk that I should combine my writing experience with my World of Warcraft experience. It was a neat idea, but it ended up on the back burner. Six months later, or something, I started a blog about my World of Warcraft characters. It ended up on a back burner.

In fact, my back burner is of equal size as Molten Core. A vast place of  ”dead ideas”. This idea – the Exodar Sisters – have been ”burning” for a long time. In different forms. Alas, the Aspect of Bad ideas has broken free!

This is not a strategy guide.



How it all started:

I never found my bones.

Somewhere buried deep in the soil of the Northern Barrens the skeletal fragments of a warrior rest. Possibly, a few bones hide in the sunbleached grass and tangled growth of unamed ”clutter” plants. Gone from living tissue to playthings for hyena cubs, a cycle of life perhaps not even the Titans could quite fathom.

In a thousand years an archaeologist will dig them up and marvel at the visciousness and violence of bygone days in This Modern World of This Planet Called Azeroth. You know, much like we, in this Modern World of This Planet Called Earth, marvel at the remains of thousands upon thousands dead … that, wich we call ”history”.

History is, after all, truly countless bodies.

The remains in the Barrens are my very first bones. They are not a part of massive battles. They were not sacrificed to a crazy god. They are not the bones of a Hero, not even a Villain.

They are the bones of the Unamed Soldier.

These bones are, simply put, very ordinary. They belong to an orc, a female orc. See this tusk? Very short, but the female orc it belonged to was very aware of ”looks”. Now, what can we tell from a single tusk? Well …

Her name was Taramek. She said ”screw you!” to her trainer and wandered off on her own. She found a secret path near the Valley of Trials in Durotar, had a near death experience with an elite shark … and ended up, eaten by hyneas and battered by a giraffe, in Northern Barrens.

Do you see this femur? Once it was hers. Now, it’s gnawed and dirty and almost shattered. Back then, it was part of a life. Her life. Neither Taramek nor her Creator had any idea of her future. I guess she just wanted to be free. This femur … I’m not even sure if it dropped in this place. Maybe it was 200 yards south, or east. What I do know is that Taramek met her Maker by the foothills of Northern Barrens, a short distance northeast of Ratchet, near a big tree. Her ending will never be the Tale of Bars (or Bards). In fact, truth of the matter is this:

Without provocation, she attacked a peaceful 17 year old giraffe and made a hasty retreat being badly mangled by hooves. She Thunderclapped by mistake – and enraged a hyena, hiding in the tall grass but almost out of ”aggro” range. Thus, her final stand was against a snarling monster and a braying monstrosity. With a tall neck.

(Please don’t tell Vol’Jin that one of his orc warriors was killed by a giraffe. He’ll turn you into a newt!)

Tarameks death is not worth mentioning in the rigid orc society. Taramek wasn’t very strong. On a scale of 1-10 000, she had 12 in strength. Most likely she had a nervous twitch and quite possibly she coughed. At least I like to imagine that. Maybe she suffered from tuberculosis or some other ”medieaval” disease. Life in Durotar can’t be easy. The dust, the scarce food supplies. Crazy warlocks hiding in caves. The mortality rate of infants must be enormous.


Taramek was a warrior. It’s not unusual for newborn orcs to grow up to become warriors. Some of them even reach the great age – or level – of 85 or 90. Most, I believe, die in their infancy. Taramek died when she was 5.

She’s been haunting me ever since. One day, she was reborn … still an orc, only now with heirlooms and a private chauffeur. She still hangs out in Razor Hill but one day she will take revenge on that pesky giraffe.

And yet, somehow, I hear the thunderous voice of that Stone Giant in Blackrock Caverns – ”the cycle is complete!”. The cycle, as it is, is yet not completed – I still have to give birth to an orc warrior that will reach the distingusihed age of 85 or 90. But the cycle is far gone, so very far gone, since those trembling first steps of Taramek.

How was she born? Well, she was born is the usual way … Male orc meets Female Orc and Male Orc gives Female Orc a one hand axe adorned with blue ribbon after mumbling some embarassed comments while dragging his foot in a semicircle in front of him and hiding his hands behind the back, lowering his head in a charming way.

In my case, Taramek was born from sex. It is true. Warcrafters do have it. Sometimes they even level up while doing it. I had (safe) sex with a 40+ year old woman who shared my idea of ”just sex”. At an impasse in the carnal desires she logged on to her ”ready to raid” level 70 high-end Burning Crusade heroine. I remember being impressed that you could actually fly (while fonlding certain body parts of hers)!

She took me on fast run through Ogrimmar on her belf warlock and I marveled … Then she convinced me to roll a ”toon” myself, on her account as it were. I do believe I reached level 2 before more pressing matters had to be taken care of. The yearnings of flesh, as they are, can trump even World of Warcraft.

Once I had managed to create my very own account the days of single bachelor came to an end. I met a lot of fancy women through World of Warcraft. Unfortunately, most of them were made of pixels. Taramek, her bones will never be forgotten, was my first love.

But not my last.


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