Friday, December 24, 2010

Single Black Dragon, Looking for Love

What's up, ladies.

I'm Victor Nefarius, Lord of Blackrock. Vic to my friends. How you doin'?

I used to be obsessed with my career. I was on my way to the top of Blackrock Mountain, and I had big plans. Lately, though, things have been quieter, and I have had more time to think about the things that are really important in my life.

Things like love.

I won't lie, back in my younger, headstrong days, I was a bit of a player. I was on top of the world, and I could have everything I wanted. Women meant nothing to me. Less than nothing.

I was too busy plotting against Ragnaros and breeding a super-race of chromatic dragons to realize how lonely I really was.

Every week, I threw a party on my specatcular terrace with forty of my closest friends, but even among that crowd of people, there was nobody who really understood me.

I made the mistake that all mortals make. Time does strange things to those who use it as a form of currency.

These days, life is quieter. The gatherings at my place are smaller and less frequent. My famous party trick, where I broke all the hunters' ranged weapons, stopped being funny a long time ago.

Now, I'd rather spend the a quiet evening at home instead of partying with Rend and the old crew in the Upper Spire. I'm looking for a woman who loves poetry, Indian food, whelp gauntlets, David Foster Wallace, and long walks in the Burning Steppes. And dogs. I hope you like dogs, because I've got a dog. Seriously, hanging out at my place is just like "Marley and Me," except a little different.

I'm ready to make a commitment, and I've got plenty of room if you want to move in here. But I'm not changing the decor. What can I say? I gotta be me.

If you're interested, drop me a line, and maybe we can get drinks sometime. As long as you're not a Republican. Or fat. The ball's in your court, Baby.

Let the games begin

Friday, December 17, 2010

Nobody likes Cho'Gall

Deathwing: Okay, this is the final meeting of the Twilight Club before we commence Operation: Cataclysm. I will now take attendance.

Cho’Gall: Do we really need to do the roll-call? There are only five of us here.

Deathwing: Cho’Gall, I keep telling you. This is my club, we’re going to do things my way. Don’t be a jerk about this.

Al’Akir: Seriously dude.

Deathwing: Okay, so, attendance. Lady Sinestra?

Sinestra: Here.

Deathwing: Al’Akir?

Al’Akir: Here.

Deathwing: Cho’Gall?

Cho’Gall: This is stupid.

Deathwing: You’re being really annoying.

Cho’Gall: No. This roll-call thing is annoying. You can just look around the room and see who is here. It’s a waste of time.

Deathwing: It’s a waste of time for you to argue about it, because I have decreed we are doing it, and I am Neltharion the Destroyer.

Cho’Gall: Aw, For C’Thun’s sake.

Deathwing: Just say that you’re here.

Cho’Gall: Fine. I’m here.

Deathwing: Okay, Ragnaros?



Deathwing: That was awesome, Rags. You’re the class clown, and we are BFF. You’re sitting with me at lunch today.

Ragnaros: TOO SOON!

Deathwing: Right. I meant later, at lunchtime.


Deathwing: Oh! You totally got me.

Sinestra: 11/10.

Al’Akir: I love you. You win the Internet.

Cho’Gall: I don’t see what’s so funny about it. He just said the thing he always says.

Deathwing: Dude.

Al’Akir: I want to punch you so bad right now.

Deathwing: I hate you so much right now, Cho’Gall. SO much. I’m just not even going to think about it anymore because it makes me angry. So back to attendance. I’m here. We’re all here.

Cho’Gall: Which is not new information for anyone.

Ragnaros: DUDE!

Cho’Gall: Just sayin’.

Deathwing: Okay. On to new business. I will be bursting out of Deepholm tomorrow to set loose my unquenchable, burning vengeance on Azeroth and all its mortal races. I’m super-excited. So let’s go over the itinerary. First, I am going to head for Teldrassil.

Cho’Gall: To wreck up Darnassus.

Deathwing: No. I’m not going to Darnassus. Nobody ever goes to Darnassus. I’m going to destroy Auberdine.

Cho’Gall: What is Auberdine? I’ve never even heard of that.

Deathwing: It’s only the biggest quest hub in Darkshore. Everybody loves it, and they’ll be so bummed out when they see what I’m gonna do. All the little Night-Elves and Dranei will get off their boats, and it will be gone, and they’ll be totally confused.

Cho’Gall: Darnassus and Exodar are right there. You’re not going to hit either of them?

Deathwing: It’s about pacing, you fat idiot. If I blow up a city immediately, I can’t sustain the drama or build momentum.

Cho’Gall: That makes no sense at all.

Al’Akir: Dude.


Deathwing: Anyway, from there, I’m gonna go to Barrens and cut that, like in half. And then I’m gonna go break open Uldum, because I heard that there’s cat people inside.

Cho’Gall: Wait, what about Orgrimmar? I thought we were burning Orgrimmar to the ground.

Deathwing: We have a schedule. It came down to a choice between Orgrimmar and cat people, and I chose the cat people. I get to do that, because it’s my club. 

Cho’Gall: The whole plan was to rain vengeance on the mortal races. Now we’re skipping Orgrimmar to go play with kitties?

Deathwing: Cho’Gall, I am super excited about the cat-people.

Sinestra: We all are. 

Deathwing: I swear to the Old Gods, if you ruin this for me, I will destroy you.

Cho’Gall: Unless you get distracted on the way by something shiny or cute.

Ragnaros: DUDE!

Al’Akir: Not cool.

Deathwing: Anyway, it would be a jerk move to go gank Orgrimmar while they’re mourning Cairne Bloodhoof.

Cho’Gall: Cairne Bloodhoof is dead? Did we kill him?

Deathwing: No. The Grimtotems weakened him with poison, and then Garrosh accidentally hacked him to death with an axe during a heated political discussion.

Cho’Gall: How do you accidentally kill someone with an axe?

Sinestra: That isn’t the issue.

Cho’Gall: I hate Garrosh. He’s always yelling and he wears ugly leather pants and has a tiny head.


Al’Akir: Garrosh Hellscream has more personality in his one tiny head than you’ve got in your two huge ones

Deathwing: Cho’Gall is just looking for attention, and I am not going to indulge him. I am going to rise above this negativity. After I am done at Uldum, I am going to go and break the dam between Loch Modan and Wetlands. And then I am going to Stormwind.

Cho’Gall: That’s what I’m talking about.

Deathwing: And I am gonna land on Stormwind, and I am gonna be like: RAAAWR! And everybody will be like: “Oh no!” And then I will fly away laughing at how busted they all are.

Cho’Gall: Wait, you’re going to Stormwind, and you’re not going to destroy it or kill 

Deathwing: If I kill everybody, there won’t be anyone left to see how awesome I am.

Cho’Gall: I don’t even…

Deathwing: Dude.

Cho’Gall: No. This plan was supposed to be the best thing ever, and what you’re actually doing sounds totally lame.

Deathwing: Dude!

Sinestra: Not cool, Cho’Gall.

Al’Akir: We’ve been working for months planning this.

Deathwing: I hate you so much. I hate how fat you are, and I hate your stupid face.


Deathwing: If I had to choose, I’d say I hate the face with the dopey mustache the most.


Deathwing: But the stupid faces don’t even encompass the reason I hate him. There’s also the fatness. He’s so fat.


Cho’Gall: Well, what about Sinestra with her gross scars?

Al’Akir: Dude!

Deathwing: Dude!

Ragnaros: DUDE!

Sinestra: I thought you liked me! How could you say that?


Cho’Gall: What just happened?

Al’Akir: Not cool.


Deathwing: You just have to ruin everything, don’t you?

Cho'Gall: Well, at least one of us in the world-destroying club should, don't you think?

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Sayge foresees the future of Varian Wrynn

"Damn, I'm sexy."
Anduin Wrynn: Whatup, yo? Check my new model.

Varian Wrynn: Wow, you got big.

Anduin Wrynn: Yeah, I did. 

Varian Wrynn: You were the same size for, like, six years. I was beginning to think you had that Gary Coleman disease. 

Anduin Wrynn: Nope. Just a late bloomer. But now, I’m a teenager, apparently. And I am ready to get bizz-ay. Where do they keep the teenage girls around here?

Varian Wrynn: There are no other teenagers in World of Warcraft. You have a unique character model, and you’re the only one. There are no women, either.

Anduin Wrynn: I see girls around here all the time.

Varian Wrynn: They’re all dudes. 

Anduin Wrynn: What? Really?

Varian Wrynn: Trust me. I learned this the hard way. You don’t want to be messing with any of them.

Anduin Wrynn: Well, if I am missing from my position in Stormwind Keep for about fifteen minutes at a time, three or four times a day, it’s not because I’ve been kidnapped by the Horde, so don’t come looking for me.

Varian Wrynn: When have I ever expressed concern or affection for you?

Anduin Wrynn: Yeah, you are a pretty terrible father. Thanks for abandoning me for four years to be raised by a dragon, by the way.

Varian Wrynn: Daddy has a lot on his plate.

Anduin Wrynn: What happened to my mother, anyway?

Varian Wrynn: Go to your room.



Sayge: He has grown strong.

Varian Wrynn: Yes, he’s all right.

Sayge: And yet, this development troubles you, does it not?

Varian Wrynn: I dunno. I don’t really do a lot of thinking.

Sayge: But you perceive the patterns of fate. Shortly after your return, Bolvar Fordragon met his destiny at the Wrath Gate. Muradin Bronzebeard was discovered alive in Northrend, and Magni subsequently turned into stone for some poorly-explained reason. Baine Bloodhoof appeared, and Cairne died in some kind of convoluted misunderstanding. Garrosh Hellscream showed up, and Thrall got bumped out of a job. And now, Anduin has a unique model. A successor is being groomed for you, King. This does not bode well.

Varian Wrynn: Yeah, but I am the most universally beloved character in all the Warcraft lore. What could possibly happen to me?


Alexstrasza: The efforts of the heroes have weakened Deathwing, but my powers alone cannot beat him.

Thrall: The Earth-Warder cannot withstand the might of the elements.

Velen: Well, in that case, why didn’t you do something about him twelve to eighteen months ago?

Thrall: I’ve had a lot of stuff going on. Shut up.

Malfurion Stormrage: I can probably stop him with my druidic magic.

Garrosh Hellscream: You don't get to be in the climactic battle, Elf. Nobody likes you. Anyway, I got this. Deathwing has a face. I’ve got an axe. I’m pretty sure I can make this work.

Alexstrasza: Silence! Only one thing can stop the rampaging Destroyer. His might, you see, comes from his chin. He can only be nullified by a counter-chin of equal mass. But both chins will be destroyed in the process.

Varian Wrynn: Uh-oh.

Sayge: Called that! Boo-Yah.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

I feel pressured to replace my epics with greens

Quest-giver: Thanks, Crawford the Magnificent, for killing all those rock elementals. My children are going to eat tonight.

Crawford: They're going to eat the rock elementals?

Quest-giver: Sure. Why not?

Crawford: Rock elementals are made of rocks.

Quest-giver: So?

Crawford: I'm just saying, if I had a kid, I would not feed it jagged shards of rock.

Quest-giver: Who are you to judge me?

Crawford: Look, man, I'm just saying.

Quest-giver: No. You're this guy who is just going to come down to where I live, parade around on your 310% speed epic flying mount, and tell me how I should be raising my kids. I have seven gold, and now I have to give it to you for killing the rock elementals.

Crawford: I didn't mean anything by it.

Quest-giver: Nobody ever means anything, but the things you say still hurt.

Crawford: Sorry, dude. 

Quest-giver: You don't know the circumstances. Everyone says, come to Deepholm, Quest-giver. You can't walk six feet without tripping over an elementium vein, they said. Then came the hotfix. 

Crawford: That's rough.

Quest-giver: I can't leave, because we'd take a bath on the house, the market being what it is. So, yeah. My kids eat rocks now. The rocks cut up their gums and they cry all night. But at least there will be plenty of rocks tonight, thanks to you, o illustrious hero of the Alliance.

Crawford: Look, I'm detecting some hostility here.

Quest-giver: Hostility? Heck no. I want to give you something. A present, as a sign of my bottomless gratitude. Here. Take this.

Item: Quest-Giver's Subprime Mantle of Financial Illiteracy
Binds when picked up
230 Stamina
153 Intellect (not that it's going to help you any)
Increases Your critical strike rating by 96
Increases your mastery rating by 104, but not in areas related to business.

Crawford: Uh, thanks.

Quest-giver: Put it on.

Crawford: Maybe I will later.

Quest-giver: Put it on now. I want to see how it looks on you.

Crawford: Well, it's just that the shoulders I'm wearing came from Icecrown Citadel.

Quest-giver: So? Out with the old, in with the new.

Crawford: I don't know.

Quest-giver: I see, so those shoulders came from a castle, and these came from a moron who lives in a giant hole in the ground and feeds his kids rocks.

Crawford: No, it's not that. It's just that I don't want to break my set bonus.

Quest-giver: The stats on these are really good.

Crawford: But the old ones have cool particle effects.

Quest-giver: You know, some people actually prefer to wear clothes that are not on fire all the time.

Crawford: These have my Sons of Hodir inscription on them.

Quest-giver: You're making this really awkward. My dignity is the last thing I've got here.

Crawford: Well, take back the shoulders, and then you will have those, too.

Quest-giver: No. Those are a gift. Put them on.

Crawford: Fine.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

A Minor NPC Has Big Dreams

A sad man, living a life of misery.
Nobody believes me when I tell them that, one day, I’m gonna be a major lore character.  My buddy Sraaz, the Ironforge Pie Vendor, thinks I’m downright insane.

“The game has thousands of quest-givers and vendors and named targets,” he always tells me.  “But there are only a few dozen raid bosses and even fewer characters with story roles.”

And maybe that’s true for most NPCs.  But I have the drive, the talent and the star quality to beat the odds.

“No, you don’t” says Sraaz.  “You’re a nerdy reference to Tolkien.  You’re a joke.”

“You start out as a joke,” I say.  “Then, you become a meme.  And then you become beloved.  And then you’re standing behind Rhonin in the cut-scene, nodding somberly about how grave the threat to the future of Azeroth is this time.”

That’s true, isn’t it? That’s how the red-shirt guy got up on the dais in the Ironforge throne room.

“You give out the quest where players have to run around collecting pieces of dragon poop,” Sraaz says.  “That’s your role in the game.  It’s not a position with upward mobility.”

“People love those quests,” I say.  “That’s why Blizz keeps putting them in.”

“In the follow-up quest, the players throw the poop at you,” he reminds me.

“So, I have an established conflict with them when I turn up again later as a raid boss.”

“Your name is Bladdergass the Brown,” Sraaz reminds me.

“I know.  I didn’t forget my name.  And If I did, it’s right above my head in big green letters.”

“Along with your title, Stenchmeister.”

“And Elling Trias was just the Master of Cheese before somebody tapped him to be involved in the S:I7 quest-line,” I say.  “And Nat Pagle was just a fishing trainer, before somebody decided it would be funny to use him as a red herring about the Ashbringer.”

Sraaz is shaking his head, but I’m on a roll now.

“Tirion Fordring started out as a regular quest-giver,” I say.  “Now his in-game model is twelve feet tall.  Bolvar Fordragon was just the guy standing around Stormwind Keep, until Blizz buffed him so he could kill the dragonkin that spawned during the Onyxia attunement quest.  Now, that dude is Lich King.”

“That’s your plan?”  Sraaz’s lips peel back off of clenched teeth.  A fat blue vein is throbbing on the right side of his head.  “You think you’re going to be Stenchmeister Bladdergass, the Lich King?”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Why not?”

“Why not?”

“I’ll tell you why not,” says Sraaz the pie vendor.  “For the last six years, I’ve been patrolling the halls of Ironforge, seven days a week.  I get about four hours off on Tuesday mornings, and, the last couple of years, it’s not even every Tuesday. In those six years of grueling labor, I have sold a total of fifty-three pies.”

“On this server?”



“Thirty-two of them sold on the same day to an RP guild that held an in-game pie-eating contest.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“It was not,” he says.  “It was the opposite of fun.  After that, those guys took a long, hard look at how they were spending their lives, and they did not like what they saw.”

“I can’t believe that you only sold fifty-three pies.”

"Nobody wants a pie in Ironforge.  And nobody is going to go looking for the vendor that patrols around randomly.  If people want to buy food for some reason, they buy it from the Innkeeper who is standing right next to them when they hearth into the city.”

“That is rough.”

“You don’t get health insurance when you sell only fifty pies in six years,” Sraaz says.  “And every time a Horde rogue sneaks into Ironforge, I get stabbed in the neck.”  He pulls down his shirt collar and shows me his throat, which is cris-crossed with fat, shiny scars.

“I put in papers for a transfer this expansion,” Sraaz says.  “I thought I could be a named elite in Throne of the Four Winds.  You know, pie in the sky.  They told me they like me where I am.  They said they like the holiday achievement where people have to kiss me on Valentine’s Day.”

“Well, it’s neat that you get an achievement,” I say.

“It’s just a cruel reminder that nobody really loves me,” Sraaz says.

“Well people will really love me,” I tell him.  “You’ll see.  I’m gonna be huge.”