The Lament of Farmhand Geist: The time when Geist almost died


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Hello, friends. It’s me again, Tim. The Geist. Lamenting in the night. I will never forget what happened the day Master brought me home – home to her home, that is. The thing I just told you about?

That’s how it happened. That’s how I scared my Master into never ever again dare to talk to Master. Why … Master even hid behind a curtain, when Master and me came by. Did you know she grew up in Embari?

I certainly did not!

It’s all for the better, you know. Things would be complicated if you got to know your younger self. Especially when you’re old enough to be dead. Master told me that, a bit later, as the peons worked hard to bring our home into order. Our … garrison. Our home. My home … because it’s my Masters home. Though it’s not my real home. Master tried to set me free and that didn’t work. So, friends:

Let me tell you about the time I almost died.

I told you about how we left Halfhill,

I’m sure. Oh yesss … Yesss … I’m ssure … and please forgive my hissing. It’s safer that way. These last few weeks on my masters homeworld has taught me a valuable lessson: Sometimes it’s better to be a Monster. I will tell you why in just a moment, but first – How I Died.

I am Scourge. You need to keep this in mind. I was created in Naxxramas by one or another of Kel’Thuzads minions. I have my “birth certificate”.

In a way my home is in Dragonblight. But honestly – my “father” was not Kel. My Creator was Arthas. So you see my home is in Icecrown. Now … that’s not true at all, of course. My Scourge home is in Icecrown. but my Home is in Teldrassil, and Elwynn, and Dun Morogh, and Durotar, and Mulgore (a joint in my elbow is tauren), and Lordaeron … I am a person of many persons.

I am Legion.

Bringing me home is troublesome. Master would have to dismantle me. Master on’t want to dismantle me. Truly, I don’t want that either – because that would be, well … Death.

A not so funny fact about us Scourge: We don’t want to die. Nothing wants to die. Remember that, next time you go out killing brigand gnolls for the linen cloth.

We spent some time in Stormwind. We decided to play it sae. The Alliance might be in an alliance of conveniance with the Knights of the Ebon Blade, that doesn’t mean we’re welcome to their turf. So Master hid me in a cellar. It’s easy enough to blend into the crowd as a more than usual pale and cold draenei. It’s something completely different if a geist trails behind you, especially one who has never seen a spice market (the smells drove my nose insane!).

People of Stormwind – and yes, their king has said that we stand as one – tend to … flee. Simple as that. Flee – an throw bananas. Funny that. The pandaren of Halfhill was more welcoming to a geist than humans. But that’s how things are, I guess. I once ventured out on the street and the city guard came running. I yelled “Hands up don’t shoot!” but they didn’t listen. A few hundred stitchessorted me out (later on, Master had words with the guards; I don’t think they’ll be able to walk properly ever again).

When Master had some free time from important things like meeting the king or whatnot, she brooded. She just sat there, staring at the wall. I spied on her, I’m sure she knew but she said nothing about it. Every once so often she would come down into the cellar of the Slaughtered Lamb (an inn our adopted human, Sharenne, told us about; “The Lamb can keep a secret”). Then Master would just stared at me. In silence. It was quite unnerving, to tell you the truth, Then oen day, after a few weeks, she said:

“I’m gonna set you free, Tim.”
“But I am free,” I said.
“No, you’re not.” she sighed. “Look, you’re not competent enough to understand what freedom is. You were created to be a slave – you are a slave!”

“But … “I said, but she turned her back on me and left. That made me fear her. She had always listened to me. Well, most of the time. I was afraid. I dared not speak. She told me to get ready for a trip and so I did. What else could I do? I was alone in a city that despised me. If I was to survive … well then!

We traveled in silence. We didn’t speak to each other. Not a single word for weeks on end. I trailed behind her wherever she went and then, weeks later, we stood on a cliff overlooking Icecrown and Master said:

“Go, geist. Go. Those things down there … They’re your people. Go home. I don’t need you anymore.”
“Master don’t … need me?” I said.
“I don’t. Things have changed. Look, it’s complicated, but … I can’t have you around no more. I’m married to the frost. There’s no room for a geist where frost is present.”
“But ..!”
“Go! Take a hike! Fuck off, monster!”

Masters angry words didn’t scare me. It’s simple, it is: Love is simple. If you love someone, you don’t abandon them. So, I honestly don’t know where I got the courage, but I said:

“You don’t love me?”
“I can’t love,” Master said.

I shouldn’t have said the thing I said, but I said it. I said:

“You love Menea.”

For a few seconds her eyes pierced me with a hateful glance. I thought she would use the bullwhip, like that time in Zul’Drak. Instead she sighed and looked out across the frozen wastes and mumbled:

“This is the kingdom of the Scourge, only the dead may enter.”

I dared not say it but I did. I covered in fear in front of her and whispered:

“You are not dead, Master. You are just not alive. Just as us. As me.” I shot a glance across Icecrown, I heard the howling of ghouls out there, all of them praising their new master. The cold, burning, secret master … because there must always be a lich king. “Zavannah, lissen!” I used Masters name. I never do that unless it’s something very important. “Those … things! They’re not my people. They are … automatons.” I stared at her. “You, Master.” I stood up and grabbed her by her collar. “You made me who I am!” I stared my single eye into Masters deadwhite shine. “YOU GAVE ME A LIFE!!!”

My shriek echoed across the mountains. It shook the snow off forgotten peaks. It broke the spell of some Scourge but without a master they soon became confused. Like wild animals in panic those wretched creatures died in a battle they could not win, surrounded by mindless undead listening to a call of a master who just wanted balance.

Master asked me a simple question:
“You are free, geist. Why do you insist on following me?”
I said: “Because I am free!”
“Then go and be free!”

“I will go with you … ” I smiled, even though it didn’t show through my leather mask. “Zavvie.”

So Master just sighed and shrugged, raising her hands halfway in a ‘what can you do, eh?’-gesture. Then we were off, going home. To Draenor and the garrison (I have made a friend there, a cat … catman … yes; anyway, I will tell you about Leo some other time).

Oh … you wonder how I almost died? Why, that’s simple, friends:

Without freedom – you are already dead.

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The Lament of Farmhand Geist: The great escape

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The screams of the dying vanguard was still ringing in our ears. I remember this: We clamored for a foothold, all of us. Struggling up across a muddy slope, one by one reaching the ridge. Then Shuanna fell back, slipping on mud and loose rocks. She struggled for foothold on that slippery slope when a green hand shot out from the mist and grabbed her wrist. She didn’t have time to protest. One second her feet was slipping on raw, red Draenor mud. The next second she flew upwards as an orc grunted deeply. Then she landed on her knees in front of him. He let go of her wrist and took a step back, looking down on her with a faint smile.

“Almost lost you there, friend,” he said, his eyes still glowing with embers of elemental fire. She looked into his eyes as she stood up. She didn’t sheathe her mace. It was quite a tense moment, you know. Then she said:

“I will never be your friend, orc!”

It is rare to see such hatred in draenei eyes … and that’s when I said (in my hoarse voice; I truly think I saved an orc that day): “Archenon poros, shaman.”

I wonder why some of the freed slaves started to laugh. Well, giggle. You see, all of the above – that’s how I remember it all. They laughed. Even Shuanna laughed, though she didn’t take her burning, angry eyes off Thrall.

Then we were off. She told Vassie later on – who told Master – that she cared not to remember what happened next. I understand. I’m immune to panic, it’s not a thing with us redeemed Scourge. Not much anyway. For the living, well …

The frantic flight through the scattered lines of the Iron Horde, in disarray as their portal fell, was a smattering of screams and explosions. I leaped on the back of an orc with a maddening laugh and tore his face to shreds with sharpened saronite. I saved a woman, I think. She scurried off, badly beaten but still alive.

Master slammed someone out of the way of a wagon full of explosives. Kitty crushed the head of a female orc moments before she broke the jaw on another, furious that they had deprived her of her elemental connections; in that moment Kitty the Shaman became Kitty the Warrior, a terrible storm of steel and rage. Or so she said anyway. Before it happened.

I saw Shuanna call down judgement in brilliant light on one monster after another and yet her brilliance was nothing compared to that of the other draenei hero, Maraad (that the name I’m thinking off? Why … yes … it is …).

I saw Vassie – oh, I never grow tired of watching her (don’t tell!). Back to back with Sharenne, the adopted human, the demon tamer. They were hurting orcs with words of shadow and chaos bolts. I saw our shaman, Savenna, throw the very elemental force that Kitty had lost. Strange that. I don’t know how. Nobody does, I think.

Somewhere in that chaos I even caught a glimpse of the Black Sheep (Master calls Rave that when Master’s angry). Ravennah – dancing around with daggers. It looked terribly dangerous. No one had time to ask her why she was, well, sort of elf like.

Yet … Yet! Death comes in many shapes. Yet, when I watched Master walk, almost casually, through trongs of Iron Horde, they all fell.

They all fell!

For every life taken, Master smiled. For every scream, for every festering wound, I heard her breath deeper, and deeper, and deeper. As she cut down an orc, gutting him from the waist to the chin in a single backhand swing, she moaned. I do believe that killing orcs by the bundle is as close to an orgasm a death knight will ever get. But what do I know? I’m just a geist. I look at the naked pictures in that book that Vassie carries around and all I can think of is … well … what body parts would be useful should I ever dare to use the knowledge I … but never mind.

I have never seen Master so calm, so alive, so happy. She smiled. She grinned. Eventually she killed while laughing, panting, moaning. She went out of her way killing things, backtracking through the throng of fleeing slaves. Not until the wizard, Kadghar, yelled “Get back here, you!”, she came to her senses and made a ‘tactical withdrawal’. I dare say, without Master and me by her side many draenei would have died that day. But we saved them – we saved them all!

Ah yes, we saved them … and you know what? On that forsaken morn’ by the iron docks of Tanaan on an alien yet familiar world, we were vengeance. We were retribution. We were justice. We were Death.

The Exodar Sisters were death. They scared me more than even dread Arthas could ever scare. These … peaceful beings, these happy believers. But then they were remorseless. This was the moment of retribution! Of vengance! They sped through the battlefield and they were covered in orc blood! I had never seen draenei like that … never.

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“REMEMBER KARABOR!!!” Vasannah shrieked. It was beyond a battle cry. It was as close to a banshee any living can ever get. I know now what Karabor is – what it means. But then I didn’t, and the rage in her eyes… the glee, as a fat orc exploded like a bomb from a single word of death. Such power!

Draenei. Are. Death! How glorious they are! How glorious WE are!

Yes … Much later a very nice girl, her name is Ariannah, told me I was just as much draenei as anyone. Of course, she had a bird on her head so maybe she was crazy.

This I remember:

As Master raced towards the hijacked Iron Horde warship someone grabbed her hand. A child we thought (but I knew better; but who listens to a geist, eh?). I imagine the touch was soft but firm from fear. Master glanced sideways, as I did because what Maste does I do. We saw not a child. We saw the terrified face of a young woman (she might have been scared of me but I think she was more scared of the orcs). Moments later we were aboard the hijacked ship and that’s when Master realised who the woman was.

As did I. But I didn’t tell. Geist know how to keep a secret. We take our secrets to the grave …

“Help me, friend,” the woman said. “Please don¨t let me die. Not here. Please?”
“You’re already dead,” Master said, yanked her younger self onboard and then let go of herself. “You just don’t know it yet.” She gave the woman a long, hard look. “You don’t know me, you never will. Go, sing praise. Forget about me. Trust me, you’ll be happier that way.”
“You … so cold?”
“I’m dead.” Master sighed. I could tell she really didn’t want to do it but there was no other way to shake this newfound friend off her back. “Geist! Over here! Stat!”

Ah … yess …. Yes! Of course I came. I came. Because I am free. Master has set me free (let me tell you that story). I laughed as I skittered across the deck going “Mmmaaah Aaah raaahaaa!“. I do believe I thought it prudent to be as scary as I could. I’m not to bad at being scary, you know.

I scared Master, such as she once were. Master, such as she once were, scurried off with a terrified look on her face, covering in fear close to Maraad. You know what?

Master was rather cute when she was full of life.

The Experiment (How a race change really works)

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(I deleted the monk, Ravenna, the other day. I have tried and failed. Monk is my most hated class. Instead I went for the next best leather thing; Rogue. Now … see, here’s my problem: There are no draenei rogues. So I had to create a ‘draenei in spirit’ rogue. That’s when I thought of … mogu technology. I mean – someone must have found all that stuff in Throne of Thunder, right? And puti t to use? Likely with an acoutrement of green smoke.

If you ever wondered what happens when you decide on a race change – or, for that matter, class change – this might give some insight. You see, in spirit, Ravennah the night elf rogue is still a draenei.

She just don’t look draenei.

This story contains a gnome, a goblin and a mysterious human.

You have been warned.)

– – – – – –

“This thing on!?” Echoing across the frozen plain. “Right, it is! Goblin titan artifact repurposing unit assisting Gnomeregan Engineers fiftysecond reg Tee! No one ever say Speeds don’t get the contract, amiriite, right!? Yeah, so! Tee I Subject: Zero! Zero! One! Dash! Nine! Six! Five! Fo– seriously, you gnomes need all these numbers!? You do? Huh. Four! Eight! Nine! Nine! Ravennah, be a doll and … Enter the Blast Chamber!”

Ravennah heard it loud and clear but she didn’t move. For almost two minutes everyone was quiet. Spaz Fizzlefuse was silent. The junior engineers were quiet. Even the poisonous blobs were quiet.

Echoing across the frozen plain. A voice. There was a high-pitched but polite gnomeadding: “Please?” The voice was somewhat frantic and nervous. “I know you volonteered and we can’t ask you to move your behind any fast–”
(“Mighty fine ass to it is,” the goblin interjected)
“–er but … Well yes, absolutely. You know, Speeds, I’ve often wondered what it would be like to, you know, get some. With one of those. I’m prone to probing the behind of certain subjects of my … anyway!”

Ravennah decided not to get angry. There was other things on her mind. Most of all the eighteen feet wide black hole in the plain, a hole from which a thick stream of green smoke was rising. The hole was surrounded by heavy metal blast plates set up in some sort of pattern that probably was important. How she didn’t know.

“Ya like I mean like absolutely like totally sure this like be safe, guys!?” she screamed, just to be certain that the ‘researchers’ in their blast chamber across the frozen fields of New Tinkertown would hear her. “I mean it’s like green smoke’n’all ya kno’!?”

“Yeah, dollface!” the voice exploded across the fields. “Safe as a paladin in a house of lewd ladies!”
“Is that a metaphor for sexual pleasures?” the pitched voice said, the tone being honest and extremely curious. “Mind telling me where to find this lovely locale? Are there draenei there? I wasn’t asked to storm the portal, oh no, they didn’t think I would be of much use you see, and I mean just because my cousin Millhouse got … Well,… never mind. Let’s focus, shall we!?”
“Right doll!” the goblin echoed across the plain. “It’s safe! There’s a horny gnome in my booth so get a move on or you’re fired!”
“We can’t fire her. She volonteered and I don’t think we will find anyone stupid e- I mea–”
“IT GETS IN THE MACHINE OR ELSE IT WON’T GET PAID!!!” a human voice exploded through a bullhorn across the desolation of a poisonous field. “Please!” Then, as if the speaker forgot the bullhorn, there was a short and angry “damned blueskins, always talking ba– is this thing still on?”

“Yeah,” the goblin said. “Oh now you’ve done it! She’ll go all vindicator on us!”

But, alas, she didn’t.

There was another tense pause. Minutes dragged by. Important things kept happening on screens and strange apparatuses. Speedy Paddlefeet didn’t konw what any of it meant. He just swallowed hard and whiped his brow. The test subject was currently not moving on the other side of the lake. He waited, but nothing happened. So he leaned back fast, covering the mouthpeace of the bullhorn with the palm of his hand and whispered to himself:
“Come o-ooon, girl!”

“I wish she would turn around … ” Sizzle the gnome said in a sort of far away, dreamy tone. His eyes had glazed over, as if he was lost in a daydream. “Dat ass … ”

On the other side of the field of death, Ravennah tried to convince herself to go forth. After all – wasn’t this an adventure? She had longed for a good adventure! Stacking boxes of supplies for heroes set out on a supposed suicide mission had, in fact, been pretty boring. So when a goblin showed up in Goldshire (she went there for drinks and ‘recreation’) and offered her a deal of a lifetime she jumped on it. Without thought.

Now, well … Now she knew what he wanted.

In the blast chamber, Speedy started to sweat even though it was below freezing and he wore nothing but a knitted linen vest and leather hot pants (those kept his important parts warm; it was a goblin thing). He pleaded with her, silently in his own mind. Go! Go!

She had to move! Everything depended on her moving, going down the tunnel they had bored with the help of dark iron tunnelers that Speedy also had ‘aquired’ (don’t ask how). Engineer Sizzlefuse – a gnome, despite his goblinesque name – was in charge, sure. But it was Speedy, the Booty Bay goblin trader, who had “aquired” the prototype. Suffice to say he had ‘come across it’ somewhere in or around Halls of Origination. Of course he didn’t tell the test subject! He was a very smart goblin!

On the other side of the frozen, toxic lake, Ravennah sighed. This was indeed a really bad idea … She didn’t mind the cold (even though she wore nothing but her underwear). She did mind that bit about not getting paid. She had been promised two thousand gold upon completion of a ‘simple but intriguing experiment’. That was a lot of money – especially for someone who didn’t want to write a letter to a sister, once again. A letter starting with a ‘Dear Shu, I am writing in hope of you being able to extend a small sum of money to me … “. There had been a lot of those letters. The latest reply had been short. A single syllable word on a very cheap postcard from Pandaria: NO.

She had never been any good with money. Desperation and defiance – that was probably the main reason she was here. A single step was all that stood between her and a large some of money. So she took a deep breath …

She trod on something. It went ‘Squish’. Next thing she knew she was covered in foul green sludge. It itched. It smelled bad. She stumbled forward, tripping on a piece of ancient debris – and went head first down the hole with a short and suprised scream.

Then there were smoke.

She didn’t know how long she was unconscious. The one thing she did know was a worried goblin voice muttering “Oh now you’ve done it!”. Then a frantic gnome voice wheezing “What happens in Gnomer stays in Gnomer!”.

She emerged from the smoke. Slowly, every step a calculated movement, as if she had been transformed into something else, something that was still unused to walking. Then there was another voice. It was her voice. It said:

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!!?”

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There was a pause. Then Speedy said, as he gently started to back up against a wall: “Will there be blood?”

“Count on it,” Ravennah said.

Clueless in Stormwind (Backbone of the Army)

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“This is an image of a slightly quirky draenei monk.”

 

“We need a mage.”
“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins took a few steps back, placed his hands on his hips and looked up at the towering pile of wooden boxes. “We need a mage, kid. Now where’s our port-a-mage?”
“Blinky?” Ravennah snickered. “Over there, under the furs. Poor girl’s overworked.”
“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded. “Better get that mage functional. Be a doll and wake the gnome, will ya?”

Heroes depend on functioning logistics. This is a truth some people don’t like to think about. It’s easier – and more fun – to think of the bundle of rage storming the ramparts than the sad truth of so many failed heroics. Someone might have forgotten to check the straps to the armor on some unknown warrior who never got further than the enemy vanguard because his leplates fell off. Perhaps someone died in a field hospital because someone forgot to pack the priest on call a handful of sandwiches. A hungry priest don’t heal. So, while a frantic army did its best to stem the iron storm not far from the Dark Portal, Ravennah looked up at the tower of boxes and said:

“How the … I mean, seriously? Sarge? Two thousand boxes? Who the fu… I mean, who be like, y’kno’, su-uure, no problem, aight?”
“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded, stroked his square chin and blew hard through his walruss moustache. “That’s magework allright. Snap a finger and viola! The front got’s it … ” He flipped through some papers. “Huh. Lucky charms.”
“Ain’t gettin’ paid to carry two thou boxes I’m not,” Ravennah said and hickuped. “‘sides, I should prolly not carry nothin’. Dem’s rum rassions we got fo’ lunsh … lucn… early dinner, dey really hit the spot.”

“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded, slowly lighting a corn pipe, puffing it with a slow, somber look at the tower of boxes. “Wonder why they need a million lucky charms, though. You know, kid, I never understood why we imported those. Sure, the pandaren probably wanted to get rid of ’em but y’know. I hear they paid forty gold per ten charms too or somethin’. Bad business, that is. My ol’ man should’a paid twenty, tops.”
“Guess we need all the luck we can find,” Ravennah said. She sighed and shuddered. Bad news had been streaming in through the gates of Stormwind as fast as mercenary regiments and regular grunts had been streaming out. People were boarding up their shops and houses. Again.

“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins puffed his pipe, squinting at her through the smoke and nodded. “Bad one, this one. Seen a few, you know. This is a bad one, for sure.” He nodded, digging out a tiny lump of earwax from his left ear and wiping it off on his shirt. “Still, not as bad as the Scourge War. Slightly worse than the Dragon War and only barely better than the latest war.”
“You sure seen somethin’ ‘aven’t ya?”
“Ye-eep.” He chuckled. “But I’m just a kid compared to you, kid. You’re decades older than me, ain’tcha?”
“Draenei don’t think ’bout age,” Ravennah said. She sighed, walked over to the sleeping mage but didn’t wake the gnome. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

There’s two kinds of people. Those who won’t rest until they fall flat on their face from fatigue – and those who conserve their strength, who takes their time. Those, who abide. Blinky was one of the former. Fear, fervor and a dash of panic had kept her going almost two days straight until she just toppled over and fell asleep before she even hit the ground. She didn’t wake up, not even when sergeant Rawlins dropped a bunch of wolf furs on her. They were supposed to go to the front, of course, but sergeant Rawlins figured that the grunts at the front wouldn’t have time to sleep. They would get their furs, soon enough, but sometimes a well rested mage is more important than furs for the front.

Sergeant Rawlins was one of the latter, one of those who conserved his energy and worked slow but relentless. That as one of the reasons he had ‘misplaced’ the requisition order for one million charms and instead sent 2 million blunderbuss shells to the front (his habit of ‘misplacing’ useless items was the reason he was still a sergeant; anyone else would have had his own office by now but sergeant Rawlins only had an assistant – of sorts). No doubt shells were more effective than charms.

As for Ravennah, she was lucky enough to stay behind the frontlines as sergeant Rawlins assistant (of sorts). How she ended up in Stormwind – and how she ended up as an assistant logistics sort of assistant – was a bit sketchy. She clearly remembered having passed out on a pile of sacks from too many Nethergard Bitter but she couldn’t quite remember when. Undoubtedly someone must have either ported her to Stormwind or – wich in a sense was even worse – gotten her there in some other way. She had a vague memory of cold hands and someone grumbling angry eredar curses.

“Oh light!” She dropped a box of lucky charms. The box split, a stream of tinplated wooden coins stamped with pandaren symbols spilled out on the ground. “Zavvie!”
“Huh?” Sergeant Rawlins looked up from his paperwork. “Wassthat?”
“My sister!” Ravennah sat down on a box filled with bodybags. For some reason it seemed fitting. “My dead sister. Well, she’s unlivin’, death knight ya kno’kay? She like got me outta Nethergard! Before! Y’kno’, before all the shit hit the fan. Or portal. Eh, whateva’, ya’kno like?”

“Huh.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded. Then he smiled. “Oh, one of them.” He put his clipboard away and lit his pipe. “Huh.” Sergent Rawlins sucked his pipe and sat back against a pile of sack of beans. “Well I know how that goes.”
“Uh-huh. So’she kinda got me out yeh an’ I kinda, uh … I dunno. Y’kno?”
“Ye-eep.” Sergeant Rawlins nodded. “Been there, done that. Me, a dwarf got out. But not ffrom Nethergarde, some other stinkhole. Bad one, that one. but not as bad as … well, never mind.”
“Dunno where she at now tho’.”
“Guess that’s the one over there, glaring at you then.” Sergeant Rawlins pointed at a death knight hidden in the shade of an oak some feet away. “Go get your break, kid. Take some time off. You’ve been working like a gnoll to get his candle back.”

“Oh … ” Ravennah took a deep breath and, very slowly, stood up, turning around. Then she raised her hand and managed a weak, embarassed wave and said: “Hi, sis.”
“Don’t you hi me, you little … ” Zavannah scoffed. “Have you any idea what I’ve been through just to keep you out of the Stockade!? Again, I might add!”
“Oh. Uh. Sorry?”
“You’re damned lucky you barely know how to hold a sword. Or else you’d be on the frontline like any other poor sucker. Come on, let’s go. We’re late allready.”
“Fo’ wut?”
“For. What.”
“Yeh I kno’. Sorry.”
“Light … ” Zavannah sighed. “Why do you insist talking like … like that? You’re a smart girl, a bit daft perhaps but that’s something different.”
“Eh.” Ravennah just waved her hand a bit. It usually worked. People rarely had the patience for more than that.
“Get on with it,” Zavannah said. She turned around and started walking. She didn’t want Ravennah to see her smile.
“Where we goin’?” Ravennah said as she hurried after her sister.
“The palace,” Zavannah said and turned an angry frown upon her sister. “The king wants to see you.”
“I’m in trouble again, ain’t I?”
“I’m quite sure you are more aware of what you might have done than anyone else,” Zavannah said.

That was the problem, of course. Ravennah was perfectly clueless.

Zed, the talking raptor

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“Greetingssss … “

Ssssss …. *coughing throaty sound*

I will try to keep my hiss..sss… ing to a bare minimum. Ah, there we are! Hello, humans. My name is Zederecatorix the Bloodthirsty. Zed, for short. Now, it may come as a suprise to some of you that I am a talking raptor. There’s a perfectly simple reason for it. I’m sure you will understand. My partner – some would call it love interest – was a bit suprised one night many moons ago when I said “thank you, kind lady” ass she dropped a fresh carcass in front of me and, so to speak, ruffled my feathers. No doubt you will be as suprised as she. The reason I can speak to you is simple:

A wizard did it.

I have often wondered why the kingdoms and realms of Azeroth don’t keep their wizards in a tight leash. There’s “mysterious mages” roaming here, “rogue wizards” roaming there – and there’s a notorious ghost of a wizard hiding in Karazhan. Yet no one bats an eyelid at this obvious threat to the very fabric of nature and reality. There’s mages and wizards of all kinds, too! Why, my partner has a sister who is a wizard, I mean a mage. Yes, some people can get very upset if you call them the wrong thing.

My partners sister turned me into a cat!

I got better.

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“Sure been to some crazy places, right … Ass?”

It happened not long after my partner had found me. Honestly, I was feeling rather peckish at the time. There’s not much to eat but scorpions and rats and the occasional orc in Durotar, you know. So when this young lady with horns turned up I decided it was time for some “exotic snacks”. Then I stared into those brilliant eyes and … well, you know. Raptors do have certain needs. I figured it would be a lot easier i I let het catch my dinner. I’m smart like that, see.

So a couple of nights later I was dozing a bit away rom her campfire. She had gone of into the dark – this was in Ashenvale. I suppose I should have accompanied her but, well … To be perfectly honest: I’m a bit lazy. I had just picked my teeth clean. There had been a particulary stubborn splinter of an orc femur stuck between my teeth. It was all part of the job, you see: Us raptors have a simple creed, once we have found someone who will fetch us dinner:

To protect and be served.

Yep, that’s me. So she dumped this deer in front of me, skinned a bit of it and cut out a good chunk of meat she grilled for herself. I can’t ever get used to people not eating raw foods. It can’t be healthy, rubbing salt and herbs on meat and then destroying it with fire. I took a bite out of the deer, chewed carefully, and said:
“Thank you, kind lady.”

I swear, she jumped three feet into the air! But she took it in stride, I have to hand it to her. Once the initial pleasantries was done away with we talked about this and that for a long time. If I were less raptor than I am I suppose I would have ended up kissing her. But, yeah you know, I let her ruffle my feathers instead.

It’s a very intimate thing among raptors. She should be honored I don’t bite her hand off. Allthough … it would be a rather stupid thing to do, no? Biting the hand that feeds you? That’s something the primitives of Un’Goro do. I don’t like that kind of raptors.

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“May I call you Ass? I’m going to call you Ass.”

Oh, we have had some wonderful adventures, me and my partner. She told me her name is Cassanna. I call her Ass (she doesn’t like it but I mean, come on! Check out that … Yeah, anyway!) I told her my complete name. She insists on calling me Zed. We are a team, Ass and me. I’m honestly grateful she crossed my path. If not I would either have ended up with a stone arrow inside me or worse – getting tamed by an orc.

I have seen the world thanks to Ass. Kalimdor and Eastern Kingdoms, Outland – arrakoa taste like chicken – and Northrend – and Pandaria. Of all the places we have been to I enjoy Pandaria the most. The cuisine is excellent. I never cared much for goat before. The goats of Dun Morogh are rather tough and tasteless (I guess that’s why the dearves boil their meat in beer). Other goats are just as bad. but Pandaria goats …

Excuse me if I salivate.

Fatty goatsteak. That sure put some meat on my bones! I dare say, I was twice the size when we eventually returned to a long stint of frugal living back on mainland Kalimdor. Memories of mushan ribs, goat, of saurok flesh and an occasional pandaren – that sustained me though all those dusty nights in Silithus, culling the bugs. All those night elves had to offer was cured ham. I’m not that picky with food, mind you, so I ate it, but if I have to eat another ham I’ll disembowel the next person I see. I guess Ass knew what would happen. So we relocated to Witnerspring eventually. Yeah, like that was a vacation … I mean, come on! I’m a cold blooded raptor!

I don’t like snow.

Still, someone has to pay for my upkeep I guess. If Ass needs to hunt bears in Freezerville, I’m right beside her … well, okay, five steps behind her.

The view is excellent from there.

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“Assssss… oh, ssssorry!”

Diary of a warlock

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From the diary of Sharenne the Warlock (born Gawry):

I wrote a letter to you the other day, father, a letter I never mailed. Besides, where would it be delivered to? There’s no “place of residence” for you anymore, is there – “dad”? Instead I burned it. I watched the flames eat my words – eat, as it were, my hate. It’s not that I am evil, wich I am not. It’s not that I want to hurt you (wich I want but won’t). It’s not that I wish revenge for all those time you hurt me – and more than that. It’s simpler than that. You see, father:

I want you to cry.

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Pain won’t matter. Words like, oh I don’t know, like “Do you see me now!? I AM somebody!” – that won’t matter either. You don’t care about that, do you? Sure you don’t. You cared more about yourself and your own needs than you ever cared about me. Pain is not revenge. I could kill you, I could snap my fingers and watch as Metaril, “my” Void Lord (we have an understanding), tore you limb from limb. Or I could afflict you with terrible curses, excrutiating pain, boils and venom, haunts of impending doom. I could set you on fire with the twitch of an eyelash. I could watch you burn. I could hear you scream. I could exterminate you. But no, father.

I want you to cry.

You see, the whelp grew up. Yes, the “bitch” you never fed. The “brat” one you never told a bedtime story to. The “slut” you hurt in ways I couldn’t imagine, back then. You showed me the meaning of True Power – and what I had to do to get it … It won’t matter to you. You wouldn’t understand, you wouldn’t care. While you were busy drinking with your buddies I destroyed such unspeakable evil that it would even have your silly little ghouls of Duskwood run crying back to mommy. That doesn’t matter either, I know that. Of course I know. You taught me a good deal about evil. I could call forth that ancient evil, if I wanted to. I could watch as it turned your flesh into green goo. I could listen as your soul was slow roasted over fel fire. I could destroy the very essence of your being, have it raised anew and then destroyed again. It’s within my power … something you so often told me I would never have. You called me worthless one time to many, old man. Wich is why, father …

I want you to cry.

You did one thing right in your wretched life. You sent me to cousin Gawens family in Lakeshire. Of course, you made damned sure I wouldn’t forget you first. I know that. I still bear the scars, both inside and out. If nothing else you taught me what men expect – ah, yes. I have the greatest power of all: To deny them what they want. I guess I was the only woman who didn’t have the courage to tell you to go fuck yourself. It’s hard to be ten, you know. But i grew. In years, in power, in knowledge. “Uncle” Valence taught me a great deal – things a kid shouldn’t know, of course, but that doesn’t matter now. I summoned imps while kids were busy splashing around in the lake. I read books of ancient power while kids were busy chasing each other, trying to get laid. “Uncle” did what you were supposed to do. He protected me from evil, he fed me, he read me bedtime stories, he loved me. He … forged me. That is why, father …

I want you to cry.

But I won’t. It’s too late or revenge. It’s not even worth it. You’re a miserable waste of life, you can’t even remember me. You didn’t recognize me the other day, did you? Sure you didn’t. I look upon you now and I see nothing but a pathetic collection of bones, covered by skin. You’re nothing. No pity, no remorse. You are not even worthy of my hate. So you know, father:

I want you to cry.

But I won’t make you cry. That would be to give you to much. I will deny you the satisfaction of knowing that your daughter is alive, and well, and more powerful than you could possibly imagine. Instead … I will go back to Darkshire. Instead … I will burn down your house. I will watch the flames engulf that grey cottage I once called “home”. I will set Metaril on them; I will watch as his strong blue arms of shadow rips asunder the very thing you took great pride in: The house you built, once when you were young and good and in love. I will watch as it turns to soot, the place where you drove my mother into an early grave. The house where you hurt me. The house where you taught me a valuable lesson about life: Sometimes the greatets evil isn’t a monster. Then I will spread salt upon the earth. Let nothing ever grow there, again. So you know now, father. I will get my revenge. One of these days, as the news of the fate of your rotten house slowly sinks in, as I stand on the other side of the canal, watching you beg for scraps of food, for a few coppers. One of these days I will get what I want:

I want you to cry.

I earned my wings (as people I roll with these days like to call it). I prevailed. You didn’t break me, you never will and I won’t let you. I have seen things you couldn’t possibly imagine: Ulduar in moonlight, the wailing banshees of Straholme, the secrets of Scholomance, the wonders of Pandaria and beyond. I have slain bandits and monsters, demons and Old Gods. I have killed men for less than what you asked me the other day as I walked past you; you dind’t know who I was. I have seen the magnificence of the world and despaired. I have felt pity, guilt – but most of all: Love. The very thing you did your best to destroy within me lived – and burned stronger than any flame I could ever conjure up.

I want you to die.

The Big Sleep – or head canon boost to 90

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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?

Yuck.

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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 …

whoa.

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

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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.”
“Wha’?”
“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?”
“Wha’?”
“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.”
“No?”
“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

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“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:

– – – – –

Heeeluuuu!!!

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.

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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 ..

Unholy

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A few weeks ago I had to get away from the grind for Titan Runestones and other things necessary for yet another legendary cloak (because, honestly, Vassannah can’t stop teasing Shuanna at family dinners; “Look, Shu! I’ve got wings! Tee-heee!”). So I dabbled a bit with a few diferent classes but no one made it past level 10. During this episode I took some time to read som old posts of mine. Suddenly, a name popped up.

Menea.

She’s not an Exodar Sister per se. She’s not “related” to the others, but she does have a part to play. What part? Time will tell (I’m sneaky; I’m planning out a backstory in advance!). Since I allready have a rather good death knight I decided to twist Menea another way. I’ve never managed to get a handle on Unholy. The only way for me to truly learn a class is to play it from the beginning. If time permits before the Iron Horde comes crashing down upon us I’m hoping she’ll get a cloak as well.

Here she is, the newborn. Say hello to my little friend!

Menea, the unholy Death Knight.

– – – – –

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“Do not seek death … ”
But there was other words too, burned into Meneas memory, unshakeable. Mrs Mary Lorena Dorrington, the redeemed Forsaken, an apothecary in the service of the Argent Dawn, wasn’t the only one who had spoken to her. Words, no other memories from the terrible moment to the … reawakening.

“Your will is not … your own. A vindicator, eh?.” There had been a scoff and a pause. Ah yes! She remember the cold stone floor, a chill seeping in through skin that felt too tight over muscles, a frost deep within her bones. All within that moment of a pause, no longer than a thoughtful breath. Then: “Rise!”

She did. She rose. There was a flicker of rebellion deep within her, but she wasn’t strong enough. Not then. She shambled forward. There was a faint memory of serving the Light, deep within her, but she would serve only darkness. She straightened up. There was a memory of a fleeting image, how she had stood tall on a wall of bloodied sandstone, keeping the tide of orcs back before she, too, had fled the sacred city.

“Menea, prove yourself!”

Someone handed her a sword. Someone clad her in armor. It was all very strange. She tried to speak but her tongue wouldn’t move.

“Useless piece of dead meat, go over there and kill the bitch!”

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So Menea did.

A machine of undeath. Bereft of mind, sanity, will. Methodical in the cleansing of Tyrs Hand, body upon body. Eventually she gained her voice – her new voice. Harsh, whispering. She wouldn’t talk above a whisper ever again.

The army of death swept across the land. She led the charge. Then … something …happened.

“Do you not remember the mountains of Argus?”

She didn’t. She cut off his head, mechanical in her motions, remorseless. But something happened. Why was there a sudden, but faint, flash of pain deep within her? At first she thought she had ripped a tendon. As time passed by and the pain didn’t go away, she became used to it. Like a thorn, ap inprick, deep within her heart.

As Ashbringer was raised in the air in the Battle of Lights Hope, the pain exploded. She succumbed. The machine broke down. She crawled on all fours, blinded with pain, hissing like a snake. For quite some time she was left for dead. But as the clean-up began and she was tossed into a pitch-filled pit about to be set ablaze …

She rose. The flicker of rebellion deep within her exploded. She hissed, as loud as she could, grabbing the first weapon she would find – a pickaxe. She shambled forward, screaming crusaders fled before her. Her steps began to find its stride. Thus, clad in a broken saronite armor, covered in pitch, she strode forward. Then she dropped her weapon and knelt in front of the most unlikely lord she could possibly imagine. Lord Fordring.

“Death.” she said. “I am Death.”
“No, child,” he replied. “You are a Knight!”
Someone handed her a blackened sword.
“Welcome to the Knights of the Ebon Blade.”

She might have laughed, she can’t remember. Undoubtedly she hissed. There was another battle afterwards, but everything became a blur once the Lich King left her mind. Did she meet a king? Perhaps. She found herself back in the Plaguelands eventually. Nothing more but a whimpering piece of unholy meat. Rotting. She sat down with her back against a tree not far from Darrowshire and decided to … wither.

Then she came. Mrs Mary Lorena Dorrington, the redeemed Forsaken, an apothecary in the service of the Argent Dawn.
“Do not seek death … ”
“I’m allreay dead.”
“We all are. Some people just don’t know it yet.”
“There is no hope.”
“There is always hope.”
“You’re dead too.”
“I like to think of it as an unforseen malady, thank you very much.”
“I am nothing without him.”
“Yes you are. Why do you keep clutching that locket?”

To wich Menea looked down on her hands. True enough, she held a khorium locket with an adamantite chain in her hands. Clutching it, like a trinket of good fortune. When she opened it there was a portrait of a young draenei, a woman.

“She’s dead too.”
“Who is she?”
“We joined the … we fought together. We … died. Together.”
“Then she must have a name.”
“Yesss … ”
“Well? Spit it out. I haven’t got all day!”
“Zavannah.”
“You were friends?”
“No … we were … more.”
“Then you should find her.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Ah, see, well. I do!”

Mrs Dorrington, Dorry to her friends, did. It was a complex ritual requiring many ingredients. Salts, powders, potions, elixirs, candles … Menea was charged with her first truly epic quest: Gather the materials. As Dorry said:
“It will take you through space and time, through life and death, through truth – and consequence. You might not like what you find about yourself.”

Oh, but she did. Once, upon returning to Lights Hope Chapel with yet another bag full of precious materials necessary for the seeking ritual, Dorry asked Menea a simple question:
“Why do you kill?”

Menea thought about it, for quite some time. Then she replied:
“I only kill to know I’m alive.”