Fiction: "Interrogation"

The guards shuffled, nervous, idling standing diligent watch over the prisoner's door - flanking it on either side. The Stormwind Elite guards stood at the ready, buried in the deepest recesses of Stormwind city... and they were bored.

"Listen, so," the first guard spoke, breaking the long silence, "The captive... would you?"

"Would I what?" the second responded, sighing, knowing the answer.

"C'mon, man. A blood elf. You know what I'm talking about," the first chuckles, "It's them ears, man. They bounce when you-"

A clearing throat interrupts the conversation, and from the shadows ahead, a warlock approached, escorted by another guard - the Captain himself, who's frown wore heavy. "We don't have time for idle chatter when we're fighting a war against Hellscream's Horde, boys. If you've time to talk, you've had time to watch the prisoner."

The Captain gestured, parting the two guards, and raising his keyring, opening the door, revealing a darkened room, with lights upon the blood elf inside - she slumped in her chair, and her eyes narrowed as she stared out, details hard to make out as she cursed in tongues, the warlock chuckling - she was tiny compared to the guards, and the robes she wore hid everything about her figure, as her voice broke the silence, stern and condescending. 

"If you could hear the things she was saying about your mothers, you'd be red in the face."

The Captain cleared his throat, "The warlock is on loan from the Stormwind military - Sergeant Hale here will be-"

"I will be interrogating the prisoner," she says, taking the keys from the Captain, as she stepped into the threshold of the doorway. She paused, turning back, and pulling the hood back a bit, revealing cold blue eyes, and a comma of black hair that fell in front of a smooth face, as she pointed forth - and from the shadows, a stomp - a second. A third. The Doomguard marched forth from the shadows, and the warlock laughed, "This is Enrico; he will be my... Guardian, shall we say. He'll stand post with the guards outside the doorway, to ... keep you all honest. Now. Do be good for him, won't you?"

The warlock grabbed the door handle, closing it behind her, and securing it as well as she could... the doomguard moving into position and crossing his arms before his chest as he glowered down at the guards and the Captain. 

One of the guards raised a hand, idly, and his voice quivered as hey spoke, "H-hello... Enrico."

"Bonjour," bellowed the demon, in tongues unknowable.

- - - -

The warlock reached into her sleeve, pulling out a number of candles, and setting them upon the floor, in a circle about the elf - and as she placed one, moved to set the next, a quick twitch of her finger set the candle alight with green flames, until she moved and circled all the way about the elf.

"I've always enjoyed a little mood lighting, myself," she joked, reaching up to her hood. "The Ashen Verdict robes, with its hood, made quite an imposing appearance, but you, certainly, are beyond such simple intimidation. Instead, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"

She pulled the hood back, letting it rest behind her head - and shaking her head, the ebon locks fell about her face, until her hands reached - tying it back into a simple, single pony tail. Her face was cute - surprisingly. And the elf could only growl her anger, muttering a curse about being interrogated by a child.

The elf spat at the woman's feet, cursing in Thalassian, "I'll die before I answer to your insolence! I fight for the Horde!"

"Oh, but you didn't always," the woman responded in kind, her own tongue returning the elves' language, as she moves in close. "Do you remember your races' part of the Lordaeron alliance? I was regaled by stories of your race, about how masterfully you all drew your bows and arrows - turning every troll, orc, and ogre into a pin cushion of arrows." She reaches down, pulling the elves' chained hand up forcefully, and leaning in close to her wrist, "Look at this. This is the musculature of a master archer. You aren't just some toy the Horde plays with. You're important. But in this cage, you're mine. Lucky for you, I love elves."

The green flames danced and the light shone bright upon the elf, her long blonde hair hanging in a mess about her face. The warlock reaches out, brushing the blonde strands back behind the elves' long ear, and she smiles, "Listen, I'm not going to hurt you. But I need you to tell me what Hellscream is planning next. Where is the next Horde offensive?"

The elf laughs, and spits in the warlock's face, her grin wide, her eyes narrow, "I'll never betray the Horde! And you'll never make me speak!"

Hale reaches up to her cheek, and with a single gloved finger, wipes the spittle from her face, smearing it upon the elves' forehead, gloved palm pushing the woman's head back. The elf growled and reared her head about to bite, but the warlock could only sigh, "I said I am not going to hurt you. I never said I don't have ways to make you beg for mercy and talk. I really wished we could talk, and open a dialogue, really friendly like."

The Warlock moved, and walked about slowly, and the elf struggled in her chains, pulling at each arm roughly, distrustful, and struggling to escape. The gloved hands fell gently upon the elven shoulders, holding the lithe woman down into the chair she was chained in, and she leans close. Her hair brushes against the long elven ear as she whispers, "It's okay. You're afraid. Fear," she pauses, and speaks rapidly in a demonic tongue, before slipping as easily back into Thalassian, "Is healthy. Look ahead, little one, what do you see? What are you afraid of?"

The green flames danced and sputtered, and the elf stiffened in her seat, staring ahead into the murky darkness beyond the candle light; she shook her head, slow, muttering just below the range of hearing, and quivering slowly. Shadows before them shook and danced, and the warlock sighed, shaking her head. She never knew what people feared the most, but most of them had been infinitely more vocal than this - Hale was bored, and she slumped upon the elf's shoulders, leaning close and looking ahead to the murky depths as the spell began to wear off, the elf shaking and quivering hard and violently in her seat, panting heavily as sweat beaded on her forehead.

"Are you still here with me? Good," her hands reach in front of the elf, and she slowly peels one glove off, then the other, her bare hands working and rubbing the elves' shoulders up to her neck as she leans in close, her voice firm, a whisper. "Tell me what Hellscream's next offensive is."

The elf shuddered and shook, her head slowly shaking in defiance as her voice whispered, "Never."

Her fingers wrenched into skin, and the warlock nodded, "The coils of death are terrifying, aren't they?"

The green flames stoked and burned hotter, and as Hale looked out into the blackness, and she thought shaped were forming before her. She smiled, as the reaction was visceral, as the bead of sweat turned thick, turned cold, the woman in her hands writing and squirming away, as if something was coming at her in the darkness, and physically pulling back - retreating from the shape. The black mass of shadows seemed to reach out towards the elf, and she struggled to move away, backing into the warlock's chest, as she waved her bare hands forward the shadows dissipating into a fine miasma, before she lowers her hands, cradling the elf against her.

"I told you, I'm here. There's a lot to be afraid of, but not while I'm here, little one," she says, Hale's smile turning wry, "I'm here, and I'll be here, and I'll keep you safe from that what's hiding in the shadows."

"I-It was-! It was coming for me, and it was going to-"

"Shh," Hale interrupted, "I know it was. And I made it go away, didn't I? It's all gone. All of it. Now, little one, all you have to do... is talk to me. Do you want to talk to me? I'll listen, you know. I'll even ask questions. But if you don't answer, they'll come back... you'll be all alone in the dark and everything will come back for you."

The warlock leaned close, her lips to the elves' ears. Her breath hot, her words dripping with maliciousness. "It's not the dark that's scary, you know. It's what's hiding in it."

- - - - -

The door opened slowly, and the warlock stepped out, as the Doomguard moved aside slowly, the warlock replacing her gloves and adjusting the hood obscuring her face. Behind her, a single candle remained lit with a green flame, and she spoke tersely, her words directed at the Captain, "She knew nothing. Wandered too far south from her guard post. High ranking, yes, but most of what she knows is the defense of Silvermoon City," she moved forward, the Doomguard following close behind as she returned the way she had arrived, pausing to look back. "Move her to a better lit cell. That candle will burn out in about an hour. Do it before that, please."

"She told you everything, then?" the Captain asked, "We spoke with her for DAYS before she would even say a single word!"

"I... love elves," she responds quietly, turning to leave, her slippered feet quiet upon the stone ground.

Left behind, the Doomguard bows forward, arm sweeping in front of himself as he speaks in that hellish tongue, "Bonne journée."

 

Fiction: "A quick meeting"

In a darkened corner, of a twisting alleyway, of an ignored side street of Stormwind City, the building stood, plain and unadorned except for a simple flag hung in the window - blue and white trim, a golden compass in the center.

The rains fell, hard, and the cobblestone stood fast against the clanking of Obsidium plate boots... and as the rainfall continued upon the cold steel, freezing slightly about the man, the simple building remained closed - the doorway wider, taller. And a simple sign, printed in plain common: "Knock."

The visitor laughs, before pushing, slamming the large door open, as he pushes in, the rainslick armor frosting over as he enters the building, leaving the door open. Inside the main room, bookcases stood tall, yet half empty - the walls were covered, plastered in various maps of Azeroth in a number of different stages of completion, varying in detail and size, of areas all over the world... and domineering the room, the number of desks in the middle, and the draenei woman sitting at them. She moved, her head low, her horns tilted forth. She shuffles about papers, and stops speaking abruptly, without a pause to look up towards the man. Silently, she continues poring over document after document, before the man breaks the silence, clearing his throat rough.

"You didn't knock," she states, calmly. "It's a simple instruction. If you cannot follow it, I will not help you."

Rain water runs fast, the sounds of it splashing from the rooftop upon the stone streets echoing, and the man raises one gloved hand, shaking frost and water from it, before sarcastically cracking his gloved hand against the door, one rap of his gauntlet against wood. The woman raises her head, eyes raised and locking onto the man - her eyes shone bright, yet, wrong. And when her eyes met his, she sighed slightly. "I'd hoped I'd fallen out of interest of the Ebon Blade after I refused to enlist in the Alliance army."

"Then you know why I'm here," the man spoke, his voice quivering with an unearthly reverb, "Rumor has it there's a little group about here that spends it's time chasing dragons... and I figure, if these stories are true, then the rag tag little band of misfits ought be plying their craft where it really matters - the island of Tol Barad needs skilled warriors defending it."

The woman pauses, her face unmoving as she watches him speak. He shakes his head, and continues to speak, "You're wasting the talents of good men and women, dragging them along on your little hunts. And for what? Because you can't face an enemy that stands eye to eye with you? Because you've become a coward? Visper Almaasy, what do you offer the world? Before, you were something, you were a force to be reckoned with, but now? You waste your unlife with your little maps and pictures, and silly little hunts. What do you get for it?"

"Sometimes, I get to wear armor. I like armor," she says, her tone flat, her speech controlled. None of the unholy energies that scar the death knight's voice echo, though her attention wanes, and she returns to the papers before her, "I shall pass."

He crosses the room, and his gloved hand smashes the papers out from her hands, before throwing everything off of the table - at his full height, he stands above the woman, his eyes narrowing, as he locks his gaze with hers, "You'll get every single one of your little fools killed, and for what? A bit of honor? And what happens when you've finished, left standing alone while every one else who put their false trust into you has died, Almaasy? WHAT WILL YOU HAVE THEN?"

The woman finally looks up from her papers, her face still stone solid, her eyes unmoving, except for the flash - the hint - of a twitch. Her voice strains, and she struggles to hide her own touch of death in her voice, "You'll say whatever you wish about me. You can. And you have. And you will. But you will not speak ill of-"

"Or what, Almaasy?" he grins, "Don't tell me The Butcher went soft..."

The draenei exhales, turning to another batch of papers, before the death knight continued, his laughter harsh, "I suppose that's why you never finished Shadowmourne. I hope your laziness isn't catching up to the rest of your people," he stopped to laugh again, leaning forward on the table, closing the distance between himself and Visper, slapping the other batch of papers from her hand.

"You could stop anything I'm doing here but you won't - you won't go to war with the Horde, because you've lost your taste for it. Why do you even continue to exist?" 

She turned, and her hand shot up from the table, grasping the man's jaw. Her face remained emotionless, unreadable. He pulls back, frantic, but her grip tightens and she pulls him back to the table, pushing back her chair and raising to her full height, towering over the man. Her hand clenches tighter and harder, cracking ice and growing wet with the rain water falling upon it...

Her voice cracks, and the hint of unholy energy was shattered, unable to feign otherwise, as she speaks, "Say anything. Anything you want. You can say whatever you want about me. I will not be upset - no, really," she says, her grip tightening, as if to say otherwise. The death knight struggles, trying to skitter away.

"I know the idea of a death knight who doesn't want to go to war is odd," she continues, "But I do not intend to waste my unlife on old hatreds - instead, I am going to defend - it is like you do. Only instead of standing at a safe point and screaming at my allies for not performing to my standards, I am going to stand shoulder to shoulder with them."

She releases him and raises, crossing her arms in front of her, breaking her stern countenance for a sneer, "How is it, you say, in common? Get out of here, you nerd." 

He staggers back, grimacing, and growling.

"And close the door when you leave. I do enjoy having the living here once in a while," she says, pointing to the doorway, before settling back into her seat, crossing her legs as she watches him leave, abrupt - unflinching as he slams the door hard enough to knock papers and maps free from the walls...

Death Knight 301: Or, "Cataclysmicly Unholy Specs"

A little over three weeks ago, a little thing came out for World of Warcraft.

Maybe you heard of it? I guess there's some kind of dragon, too.

Oh, hey, I guess I heard a thing about that.

Part and parcel of the new expansion, in addition to Ol' DW's toothy grin as he ganks low level characters just trying to earn an honest copper, is a new "end game" - a lot of changes in the game play mechanics for Unholy Death Knights, and today, we're going to talk about how you can be good - if your group mates don't find your rotten, twisted visage of undeath handsome, well, they can at least find you handy.

As a disclaimer, you'll want to note that this is current as of December 30th, 2010 - everything is subject to change, ever, forever; it may not be like it used to be, and you'll never have Will of the Necropolis to give you a zombie 1-Up ever again. Ever.

Dungeon Runner's Handbook: Stormwind Stockades, Redux

There are a lot of emotional posts on the internet about 4.0.3a, the end of "Old Azeroth" and missing the sights and sounds of the world knowing that when the servers came back up today, the world would be alien, and new, and the joy of exploration would sink in again.

Other people have wrote those blogs, and they've wrote them better than I could.

For me, 4.0.3a brought us "remastered" versions of old dungeons, old favorites.

But one, you see, one stood the challenge of all challenges in front of me.

The enemy of enemies; the original "Feeds On Your Tears" encounter.

Fecal Matter has suddenly exeunt a state of philosophical rendering.

So I Heard You Like Role Play

Death Knight 101, or, "Snack and the Contractual Obligation"

Full disclosure! I do not main a Discipline Priest in World of Warcraft. I main what I feel is the stylistic opposite of that, an Unholy Death Knight.

I don't play better than any one else. I play successfully, but that's only because I'm 1/10th of a raid team that is currently 8/12 hard modes in Icecrown Citadel - my efforts are a viable contribution to the whole. I take talent choices that seem "useless" to the outside viewer. Looking and comparing my talent build to the "accepted best" I've made some silly choices too!

However, a lot of guides I see that talk about playing a Death Knight haven't quite been brought up to date for low level Death Knights just yet, so I'm going to give a once over here, talk about some of the basic ideas behind playing an Unholy Death Knight.

Pretty Much Just...

"OMG BLIZZARD WTF MOAR LIEK REHASH OF THE BORING AMIRITE I AM SO RITE LOLOLOLO xD"

No.

No, because no.