Señor: Zeptepi looted the Coren Direbrew’s Bloodied Shanker today. Bet Chap could take him out. She’s going to keep in her bags for awhile, just in case someone messes with her.
|Someone’s Original Artwork for Which I Cannot Find the Reference|
Haven’t been playing Luperci much lately. Was kind of saving myself for tonight: a guildmate scheduled painless Zul runs, because still being in PUGs with those can hurt. Besides, I need loot redemption for those damned plate shoulders I passed on last time by mistake. (*Bangs head on desk, doesn’t see red Swingline stapler and it leaves a mark.*)
Postscript: Situation: Cranky dwarf with a chip on his shoulder over his brewing techniques feels slighted. Luperci goes in there everyday to have a chat. Does fine. No one has ever died. Until this morning. Druid dies immediately. Then everyone struggles – and the priest dies next. I barely hang on and have to use LOH on COREN DIREBREW.
|I don’t know. Beats the sh*t out of me.|
Apparently, this is an opportunity for the healer to criticize my tanking skills. “Tank didn’t have on righteous fury.” (I did. Didn’t I? Did the buff drop off the second I went in there? Second guessing and self-doubt: worse than bosses.) Crixa still has issues.
|That’s right nimrods and numbnuts: I saved the day. You’re welcome.|
Oh well. My shield is going to start to reflect back to you players. I honestly do not care if a DPS dies. It happens. You pull the baddies to you, think you can take them all on, and then wonder why you…can’t. There are some solid reasons why there are roles, delegated responsibilities. We don’t care if our DPS is highest–we are your shoulders to stand on and rock. Needed a little redemption after this, and sure enough, did great. Coren got that chipped knocked off of him in no time flat, no muss, no fuss.
|Comes with cup holders.|
|This is the only engraved invitation I have ever been in control of.|
It’s taken me months to earn an intermittent spot on the ten-man raid team: I am so grateful that the GM is understanding and tolerant of my real-life responsibilities, and when I can go, and there’s a spot open, I will go. There are veteran guild members who have been with the guild through much, and their tenure is secure and just.
But how do you explain that to a new guild member, one who thinks they may be, dare I say it, entitled to a spot? Who seek out an invitation, instead of just signing up and taking their chances, or even starting their own raid?
I was just in the process of drafting this post, when a young guild member quit. Took others by surprise, but not me. He had said several times statements such as “Guess I don’t get to go,” or “I didn’t get an invite I guess.”
The writing is on the wall in those occasions.
But sometimes you get what you need.
Tonight was a good night.
No competition for gear, and have amazing upgrades for shoulders and helm.
Now when I face my 16-to-17 hour day tomorrow, I will go virtually protected and with increased imaginary agility.
If only, if ONLY, real life ‘bosses’ came with the tiny skull icon hanging over their heads when you moused over their name plates, then we who play WoW would have a clear signal of “danger” and “look out, they will schedule that meeting and undermine your professionalism” sign. If only.
I consider my colleagues like a guild. We have the usual suspects, to be sure, but for the most part, all of us feel mutual respect for one another, and do everything we can to support each other, truly–we share our time, resources, and hearts.
But sometimes the bosses….are Bosses.
How to handle real life bosses? As stress relief, I will write an allegory. That’s what writers do (and we are all writers). We release those frustrations and maddening personalities and transform them into parables and metaphors. What’s a metaphor? To keep me from going crazy.
What will I do in real life? Shield myself with calm professionalism. Have my colleagues back me up. And go find King Wyrnn if necessary. I know he’s got my back. Besides, he has too many other things to worry about, like finding his son Prince Anduin a date for the prom.
Question: In your life, which WoW boss is most like your real life boss? Is it a Council of Asshats (pronounced ash-hawts) or a singular, vile Jabba-esque boss?
This is quite a loaded question.
To exist in the state of knowing someone’s name, their true identity, in WoW creates a dynamic that doesn’t exist in many other social media formats. (The levels of knowledge of my Facebook friends and family varies by the thinnest of social threads, to the deepest cords of blood and friendship. I have Facebook friends I have known since I was four years old, and some I wouldn’t know if they slapped me on the street.) In WoW, we are taking on the identity of a character at its outset; in every other media we are who we say we are.
The delusion of personal privacy is powerful: I know many young adults who think everything they do on the Internet is private, gone, vanished: quite the contrary. You have left your permanent stamp, and the harm you do or mischief you make can come back and bite you in the wireless fanny.
|Poor Yorick, I Real ID knew him well…|
We all know unmasking the hero weakens him. We know their vulnerabilities, Achille’s heels, and chinks in the dragonscales. If we find out personal details, it is truly a dual-edge: on the one side, we can help defend and support one another; on the other, we can cut, and deeply. But that is the nature of human relationships.
|Nacho! Summon your eagle powers!|
Whether or not you choose to become Real ID friends, consider those friendships carefully, with a skeptical and cautious eye. And it’s not so much because of the wolves in sheeps’ clothing, (which are dangerous predators), but the enjoyment of our time in play, too: when we are in Azeroth, we are enveloped in some degree of make-believe, whether we like to admit it or not. Knowing Real IDs can strip away the varnish and glamour somewhat, and once it’s scraped away is nearly impossible to repair.
To those of you who are my Real ID friends: I have no regrets. It is wonderful to be able to play cross realm, time zones, and factions. To those of you who are not, you’re not simply because I like the friendships we have as they are. You are my masked heroes in Azeroth, and I want you to keep your power.
I have tarried far too long writing and playing this fine, misty fall morning. But I need something to wash out the sour taste of ‘bleh.’ This is pure, uncut whining: sometimes this avocation is just not satisying. Ran a dungeon with guildmate, and I could tell his frustration when we died on the last fight of Shadowfang Keep. I didn’t dispell fast enough, or good enough, ran out of mana too soon, and couldn’t have dispelled if I wanted to. Boss was pulled before I had a chance to put out lightwell, make sure we were all buffed, packed, and ready to go. Needed to top off mana, and the impatience was palatable. Normally this particular guildmate is pretty easy going, but there was an edge today. Don’t really blame him: on guildchat, he has been grousing a bit about bad PUGs. I got put in the proverbial doghouse, I guess.
NowI love Shadowfang Keep, and wondered what it would be like to heal it. It is not fun. He was using his Death Knight as the tank, and there was another DK who kept fainting at the sight of blood, and an elemental shaman who graciously put out his mana totem for me, but I could tell got a bit frustrated with me at the end. I have not taken the time to figure out my healing add-ons and am still learning so much. But there is little patience in Azeroth for dorks and noobs, we all know this. What was simple enough in regular dungeons is not on Heroic mode, but since Catacylsm has been out for almost a year now, the expectations are that every level 85 character is an expert. Admittedly, my learning curve is somewhat softened by the fact that I do have a main, and know more than I did.
But sometimes I just don’t feel like it: I don’t feel like researching add-ons, or watching videos, or reading blogs, or blah blah blah.
On the bright side, I did manage enough to get the healing gloves, and that should help quite a bit. I need to be patience with myself first, in all things. And off I go to do some things I am exalted with: Laundry Baskets of Doom, Junk Drawers of Never Ending Absymal Depths, and slaying the Demonic Despots of Unpaid Bills.
Deals with the devil are seldom fair; no matter how balanced the scales, one of the parties will be shortchanged. Winners have their turn, and losers often go bare-chested after losing shirts, vulnerable to the elements and ridicule. But the underworld isn’t filled with merely one or two gleaned souls: the spirit dust of the ages reside eternally in the multitudes, having lost their bet, or broke a contract. Because the luck always favors the house.
Up from the dirt pit floor, sprung poisonhoney vines. Wrapped quickly, his entrapment was more than sufficient. These vines grew in one area, and required soulless druids to harvest them. Each thorn pierced flesh with slow-acting poison that diminished mental acuity to the point of a slobbering idiot. No antidote exists. Each barb had a thousand infinitesimally small needles that burred into the skin, irremovable and parasitic. Even when cut from the mother plant, the vine would seek a new host, growing tentacles around legs, groins, and breasts, caring not for gender or status, seeking, attaching and winding along the pathways of veins and arteries. The damage of the vines could be lessened with quickness of freedom. Micah knew for every second the vines bled him, poisoned him, it would mean another year off of his life. And he very much loved his own life.
The Boss gave him three full moons to complete this task. Simple enough.