Category: MMORPG

My skill at tailoring reached a new point when I was taught how to stitch up a roll of carpet that doubles as both a sleeping mat for those cold Northern nights and a mount upon which to ride the winds.

Amusingly, neither my Wyvern nor my carpet seem able to handle the extreme chill offered by the air in the north. I had thought this because Drogus was not only cowardly but also lazy. I’m finding now that it’s more of an environmental issue and will require some special arrangements.

That being said, the trainer I was talking to suggested I might be able to stitch up a faster carpet option when I’ve learned more. Something he call the ‘Magnificent Flying Carpet’. As though a flying carpet was rather mundane and everyone could have one and that only a faster option was truly remarkable.

I eagerly look for a way to get off the ground. More things have tried to kill me in the last three days than all of my time in the Outlands. I think even Kael’thas wasn’t that angry with me as those trolls I fought of yesterday were. And let it be known, I don’t mind trolls. They at least smell nicer than the occasional Forsaken I cross paths with.

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My old master was nothing if not insightful. For instance, he always chided me on my devotion to Arcane. He said it would bite me one day. It did.

He also said that some day, I’d find need to burn foes that Arcane couldn’t subdue. I did.

And the last thing I ever heard him say, “Telinthos, you are a great student. Someday a powerful mage, perhaps even a member of the Kirin Tor. But the greatest of people learn flexibility, else they bend and snap like so much poorly forged steel.”

I realize now, after many years, that he was right. I am a great mage. But more to the point, that Fire and Frost offer subtle advantages I cannot find in the comforting tingle of Arcane.

That being said, I spent many hours with a trainer in the Undercity. Relearning that which I had forgotten about Fire and Frost. How to burn and freeze, how to deflect and absorb.

Amusingly, the price on training seems to go up when they think you’re made of gold.

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My old master used to chide me on my single-minded focus to Arcane Magic. He would often point out that every force had a counter-force. Every school of magic had opponents who were immune and that diversity would save my life someday.

Since we didn’t have a clear document regarding which forces I might encounter in the world that would be so resistant, I mocked him and called him a fool.

Flash forward some years. I’m skulking about in the Dragonblight, a region of snowy hell and unpleasant winds. Skulking, as I didn’t feel like blasting any of the renegade mages nearby. And in Dragonblight as this was where a representative of the Kirin’Tor told me to go. That’s where I encountered the manifestation of my Pride and Hubris.

With a great deal of ego, I sized up my opponent, mustered my energies and let him have it in the face. It blinked at me. Muttered something about my impending doom and proceeded to tear at my very being.

Yes. I panicked. But while I mocked my teachers, I never failed to study what was put in front of me and learn a thing or two. Let it be known that while I am a master at the Arcane, I can still throw a mean fireball.

I hope to never experience that ever again. But at least now I have a measure of understanding what those Fire Mages were blabbering about after a foray into Blackrock Spire.

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I woke early this morning, groggy and confused. Well, to be frank, it wasn’t this morning. But I was groggy.

For the record, when a lovely huntress offers you a pint of something she calls “Kungaloosh”, you should turn her down. You’re likely to wake up on a ship crossing the ocean to parts unknown.

That being said, I could have told you with a straight face that I used to be a Gnome. Indeed, the Taunka I told this to snorted in amusement before handing me another drink that threatened to sear the flesh from my lips before I passed out again.

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A later recollection inspired me to visit my bank vault. I seem to remember stockpiling booze from a magic hat for rainy days. And my days are looking more and more dour as time moved on.

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I should warn my readers that while the wilderness is dangerous, the city can be equally hazardous. I speak of the Auction House.

The goblin masters have made it increasingly easy to connect buyers with sellers, to grease the economic wheels and rob you of your hard-earned gold faster than ever before.

I strongly suggest you cut a deal whenever possible. Find yourself a willing buyer, someone who’ll happily take your merchandise via mail. It saves both of you the agony of walking past vendors hawking wares you know you could use, in fact need.

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I must commend that little goblin on his bravery. Under better circumstances I would have smote him where he stood. But as I’m in need of some coin and a hot meal I’m forced to run all manner of errands and deliveries.

And here’s where someone’s bound to ask “But you can conjure food right?”. Consider my position. I can conjure all the tasty, clean, fresh water I could care to ever drink. But hot meals are not in my repertoire. How many mages have you seen manifesting Roast Pork? None. Exactly zero. I’ve got the fanciest prison rations you’ll ever find. Sweetbread, pumpernickel, the occasional croiscant. But no meat. No pork, side of lamb, wolf haunch or kodo steak.

So I need some coin. And to that end, I’ll be putting my hands in places I’d rather keep them out of..

Mark my words. I’ll go back some day and give that goblin a piece of my mind.

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I came to, awakening slowly, in an inn in Silvermoon. My mouth tasted of drinking and revelry.

And more bile than I care to ever experience.

It should be known that I am a mage of no small power, that any force capable of rendering me unconscious or, as it seems, forgetful of a nights’ events is a great force indeed. And so it was, that I found myself groggy, disoriented and strangely a lot taller than I had previously remembered.

Second on my list of problems, was the city itself. Silvermoon is a beautiful city full of majestic spires and elegantly carved doorways, well manicured lawns with the occasional wild bird flitting about.

My last memories were not of this city. But of another, vast and underground. A city carved of the very rock with harsh edges and an air thick with roar of commerce and the din of a large smithy.

You could ask me if such a place actually existed and I could tell you of at least a half dozen locales i’d personally visited. The problem lay where I’d last found myself before succumbing to the seductive warmth of a strong drink.

It was at this point I gave up. Memory is often released by experiences, sights or smells. So my better strategy was to take a walk and see if someone remembered me.

I found a familiar face outside. My hawkstrider Azkari chirped a friendly acknowledgement as I approached, kneeling slightly as I mounted. This was the first familiar thing I’d found since waking up. Already my day was starting to look up.

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