Give it away, now

Facebook has been in the news a bit lately, and my spotty lurking has proven heartbreaking and humorous lately. Yes, found out some dear friends are in the process of divorces and separation (yes, I said friends, as in more than one friend in different marriages). It’s not funny, but the dark humor comes from finding out on Facebook. I have been an inattentive real life friend of late. There was some really sad news, too, but this is not my place to share that. Regardless, it will involve me trying to help this person with a boon. There are moments–many–where I question the existence of a just and wise all-powerful being. The good guys need to win a bit more, sir. Or ma’am. Or borg. Whatever.

Just sayin’.
Okay, what is my point? I don’t know. I have no point, really. Keeping watch on friends in real life and friends in Azeroth is interesting, and to my friends just remember, if I ever do need to regroup and go under a rock in Tanaris, I’m not hiding in the sand to get away from you. I’m hiding to get away from me.
In any case–one of my gifts to you all is I am a good listener, or try to be. If you need to share something, just know it goes in the vault, and that’s that. I won’t post it on Facebook. 

Evil woman.

Lock up your sons and husbands, ladies, Kélda is out there. (Just kidding. She’s harmless.)

I mean really – what kind of warlock becomes a miner and engineer? 
A sexy one who wants sunglasses, I suppose:
Kélda did get a few silvers on her leveling journey:

Jarel was not one of her trophies, however. 

Someday I will understand what these spells are doing, but for now – shiny pretty.
In other news:
Zep realized once again she never has gold. I mean, really!? There are pirate hats!!
Postscript: This is Gallywix:


POI: Odysseus was smart.

You know how sometimes, just maybe on occasion, I get a tiny bit grumbly? Well – you know I always bounce back with a good story, too! (It’s at the end, so keep reading.)

Not feeling so hot today, but whatever it is will be fine, so don’t worry about me, I’m fine, really – anyway, but made an executive decision to stay home.


What’s missing in this photo, hmm? Could it be….?

Oh beautiful Ceniza. You really are fun, you tricky little mage.

Took a couple of tries to get through LFRs today, and thank you to Turk for trying to help stack the odds to get that helm piece, but alas, still sporting a 378 model on my noggin.

But, as I have come to expect, Señor’s Potions of Illusions have a kick to them that cannot be duplicated. He is truly a masterful alchemist.

Hanging out in Theramore:

And during the first half of LFR:

(This makes me want to be a Draenei turned NE turned Draenei back to NE)

But then the best part was the final DW fight in LFR, and I looked over at the damage meters and said to myself, “Da-AMMM! A mage doing 80K!” And my next thought is, “Please don’t be a fire mage, please don’t be a fire mage…” and OH SNAP – it is. “Oh, well, then, she must be in full epic heroic gear with no grass stains or missing buttons like mine…surely!” And no, her gear is a bit better, but she’s well, just awesome:

Did you ever meet that really pretty, popular girl in high school, and you just wanted to hate her, but you couldn’t, because she was so warm and immediately nice and friendly? The one who makes everyone feel welcome? That is Penelope. I whispered her, letting her know how much I admired her mad skills, and if she felt someone was “watching” her it would be me checking her out on the armory. I was just about to ask her if she didn’t mind, to roll on the dagger in case it dropped, and if she didn’t want it, and before I could ask she told me she did, and would give it to me! *The crowd goes wild*

So, cheers to new friends, and to my current friends (you’re not old, people, you’re “established.”) I need all of you to have fun with, And besides, Señor, I need a power torrent! Please?!?!

The title of this post, for you smarticus folks, is a reference to Odysseus’ ever-faithful wife, Penelope, who fought off suitors and such while she waited for his raggedy-ass for twenty years. Good to see this Penelope is not waiting around!

Drabble: Seduction

Steadfast, man…chaining the beast…

Jarel paid Kélda no heed. She was a witch, and not to be trusted. He knew her kind. It pained him to stay in this evil, empty place, knowing the warlocks cavorted down below.  Gods knew what they did in their shadows. His imagination…stirred him. He must resist. Daily, almost hourly, she ran past him, stopping once to try to seduce him, but he would not be swayed. His loyalties to the King were tenuous at best, and this witch would not push him further into darkness. Humans are so limited in their vision. He has his demons to consider.

RTMT: Just like in real life.

Today’s Random Tuesday Morning Thought is brought to you by Real Life Industries, because when you play hard, you should work hard!

Last week, PRI’s The World had a brilliant series on class, caste, and social structures.  (This is one link to  a chat on PRI – you’ll have to find the series yourself. Sorry.)

It made me think of the (tired) adage, the “American Dream” phenomenon, (as in how it doesn’t exist, or paradoxically exists in nearly every culture), and how with the economies of the real world folding, shuffling, and polarizing each us of further apart. The RNGs must have a field day with this, playing gods to our little pixels, deciding whose fate or paths are pre-determined on our way to end-game nirvana. 
I could write a bit more, but at this point, I think I’ll let you dear readers do your own pondering and musings, at your own leisure. 
But, before I go, wait. Are you sitting down? Last night I got a very sweet in-game leader letter from the raid letter leader of that misbegotten PUG. True story. I wrote back, also apologizing for my mistakes, and hoped we could try again sometime. 
That took real class.

Lock and roll.

Once again some things converged.

This past week, I finished Terry Pratchett’s Wee Free Men.  Aside from having this overwhelming, ‘where have you been all my life’ feeling about Terry Pratchett, there is a repeated term the Nac Macs use, “kelda.” Using my lofty powers of context clues, I figured out it must mean a witch, or queen. Or Witch Queen.

It is an absolutely, completely, charming book. My paperback copy is now chock-full of annotations and highlight quotes (Kindle was left at home).

So, being the clever witch I am, thought I would make a character named Kelda. Not that there aren’t already 32 million Terry Pratchett fans out there, it was somewhat original, right?

Silly witch. Literary references are for smart players. There are 219 Keldas listed in the armory. But see, I know how to make funny typography, and made a Kélda. There are three of us.

And then, I met this Kelda:

Damn. Probably should have rolled another priest. Not quite sure why Kelda was slumming it in an LFR, but hey, even shadow priests need valor points, too, I suppose.

On a completely different note, Momo’s coming along fine. Waiting to get done with her heirlooms so she can hand them over to Kélda. While in Utgarde (still laugh over friend’s comment that every time Ingvar dies, an angel gets her wings) she noticed some things:

Vykruls have cool tats, and:

Their furnishings are pretty fun, too. And damn, that stew looks good!

Was lamenting to Guarf that I wish “Matty” could get some tats. She would love nothing more than to go native with the Vykruls. He commented that in his opinion, that should have been the next race. Agreed. Maybe not replacing worgens or pandas, but it sure would have been cool. As Guarf would say, “Just sayin’.”

Defense! Defense! GOOOOO RANDOM!

Every day I’m shufflin’

Well, damn.

This is getting personal.

I have a confession: I have domestic help. It’s one of those luxuries that I justify because if I didn’t very, very bad things would happen. I am the oldest of three girls, and by a few years, and as is natural, I was the one who was taught and expected to clean, and have done so forever, it seems; and, in the attrition of cleanliness wars, I surrendered to a professional. (It should be noted that my sisters are both very cluttered and messy, but we love them anyway.)

The woman who cleans my place rocks. She is quirky and awesome, but her best, superlative personality trait is she does not judge. Really. It reminds me of this scene from The Simpsons where Marge wins cleaning services and preemptively hears voices in her head, “UNCLEAN! Curly-whirly!” She really doesn’t care if my junk drawers are junk drawers, and once in a while I’ll have her de-clutter an area. She did hide my sake bottle behind some to-go mugs, which I thought was odd, but made me realize again, no one truly knows us, or what or who we are. No matter how intimately familiar she is with my can openers and rings in the bathtub – she doesn’t really know me.

But I used to be very neat – and it nearly killed me. There was one moment, years ago, when I spilled laundry soap and it damn near broke me. I just couldn’t keep up with the levels of perfection I felt were ascribed to me–those voices, that damn dialogue, we all hear from time to time, that says, “You’re not clean enough, good enough, skinny enough, or not worthy.”

And I stopped.

My mom would come to visit, and do that frowny-face look, but over time I got over it, or so I thought. My job and personal life spawned clutter like breeding trolls. Always one more book to read, one more list to make, one more plate to wash. My creative escape is writing, and my blog was meant to be fun and free. Yes, I like good design, and have tried to keep up with putting stories and theme songs, etc. on their own pages, but the blogroll was meant like a stack of magazines and newspapers, meant to be perused at random, interest and will. I guess I kind of figured that folks knew most of those blogs, and if they weren’t familiar, they could click if they wanted. But the roll isn’t for them– just like the blog, it’s for me. It’s my stack as I’m getting my mental toenails done.

Over the years I have managed to silence most of those judgmental voices. I do what I can, when I can, but admittedly things of late have overwhelmed me. Big time. So when Navi doesn’t like how I keep, or rather unkempt, my blogroll is, that puts a real voice on it. Not just some made up phantom. I know her intentions are grand and sweet, but I just can’t do it. I am not going to make three or four different blogrolls to organize by topic. Not going to happen. For one, that would be hypocritical of me — I can’t put myself in a category. What is this blog? Neo-jazz fusion British punk post-invasion grunge? Something like that.

I had never heard of OCD before, and then was helping a sister of a friend move. She was a hoarder long before I had heard of that, too. I remember she had mounds of stuff in her apartment, and the task was monumental. She got fixated on one tiny object of hers, and was seemingly paralyzed to put it in a damn box and start taking her sh*t to the truck. It was a transformative moment. I saw the crazy, in other words. Now I stare at my own mounds of clutter and feel transfixed, deer-in-headlights.

Maybe I should get my mom to come visit again soon, and pretend I’m that girl again who was scared when she looked behind the bathroom door and saw I didn’t sweep.

Navi – make you a deal. And no, you don’t have to clean out my underwear drawer. If you come to the US we are finding my sake bottle and doing some partying. The dust bunnies will dance with us, and I promise you will not catch any diseases from my toilets. I actually enjoy the big purge, and am in no danger of becoming a hoarder. In fact, I tend to slash-and-burn clutter and stuff. If this blog becomes too much of a pain, then I’ll just take a match to it. (Why do you think I leveled a fire mage?) But hear this clearly, my very sweet friend – you didn’t tell me anything I wasn’t already feeling and sensing. My real life mental and physical clutter must be tended to, and now. I’m not going to clean up the blog this afternoon, but finish capping out Valor Points, and then clean up a bit. I’ll be like Zooey Deschanel and tell Siri to remind me tomorrow, because today, we dance!

Theme song: LMFAO

Fashion Police: Mogjacking Lock

“Mog shot”

This may be a problem. I will blame Navi.

First I tried this: Nah…too purple

My dear friend has a warlock who’s been on the benches for a while, and it’s time to get him in mog-shape.

But what is one to do when the warlock is a bit more “let’s go fishing” versus “MAWHAHAHAHAH?” 

He is also generally very loyal and dedicated to the Alliance, so having emblamatic equipment of duty and honor to the Blue & Gold makes sense to me, too.

I also wanted to get away from robes. Male characters do not really mind the time-honored tradition of robes, but given the mog option of having your pants and zipping them, too, helps. (Not that there’s anything wrong with kilts and going commando, mind you.)

Warlock ready for fishing duty, sir!

Drabble: The Front

Letter from the Front:

In the end, it was hand to hand.  The archers, arrowless, stuck
daggers where they could.  I with my broadsword, and the shield I took
from my brother, hacked and poked and blocked. My comrades and I
fought, and bled, and died, while the enemy, seemingly numberless, did
the same.  They pushed us back, but they paid and paid, a gallon of
blood for every inch.  Finally, it seemed even the frenzied horde had
its limit.  They fell back, and we regained our losses, making a crude
replacement for the broken gates.

And came the morning, we buried our dead.

(This is from a cherished guest writer, Guarf.)

Tiny Story Time: The Leaving

Just one more time.

Just one more time.

The choices sat down on her lap and looked up expectantly, waiting for her to see them, acknowledge them, and send them to their tasks.

They smelled of dust and neglect; pungent, pissy choices.

Her vows no longer pulled her to her future, but bound her to her past.

If she saw him one more time…

Zep did not live far from the outpost where Scout Knowles stood watch. He was only a few leagues away from Dalaran, the nearly forgotten city in the sky, where only a squirrel or friendly Orc or two remained. Her vows grew in the cathedral was in Stormwind, the human world, where like her sister, she never seemed to quite fit. Why Exodar didn’t have holy training in the ways of the light of her people, another option instead of priesthood, she would forever question. There had to be another path besides this constrictive human one.

One more time. She told Mrs. Whitworth to stay behind, please. The cat grumbled, but obliged.

She turned into a shadow, to remain unseen by his vigilant eyes. What would be worse? To have him see her, or not? To have him see her and want her, to move, to abandon duty, or to not recognize her? Or the worse terror of all: to see her, and choose to stay. To remain outside of his watch, the pots and fumes of a war keeping his interest were old wars and past battles. He guarded the post like a holy relic. She was just a girl, after all.

Why the hell was he still guarding this small incursion? There were new battles, more important ones. Her sister had commented a strange, conspiratorial thought the other day: Stormwind had been destroyed, yes, but it seemed all too selective. None of the commerce areas were affected, such as the banks and the auction houses—odd. Only the seared talon marks on the gates of the city, and a few fallen monuments. Did the dragon have a pre-arranged deal with the powers that be? To only kill, enslave, and knock down a few bricks, but leave the money seats alone? In musical chairs of war, the gold always knows when the music is about to stop. And yet, here was her love, still alone on the watch. Seemed like misplaced allegiances to her.

Zep hid behind a tree; Knowle’s mare shifted her weight just enough to block her view of him. That damn jealous horse. To outsmart the beast, she perched on the exposed beam of the storage shack, hidden from view. A rogue flew in, and spotted her, but did not give her away, flying away after his task was completed.

Knowles seemed agitated. Zep sucked in her small breath.


He held the back of her head, his hand covering her skull, and kissed her.

And he kissed kissed kissed her.



Lips like tiny embraces on your face, holding you as close as they can, closer than love, a step over the bridge, a step into the fire, a step into the sea, once kissed, once and once again, you are marked. You drown, you surrender, you are gone, bubbles in the water and the salt in the sea, burning infernos and extinguished sparks all at once.

Knowles shifted his weight, and looked down at the ground, his eyes away from the horizon.

A storm giant boomed past, the grounding thunder steps in time with her heartbeat.
The scout watched the giant trod past, seeing him thousands of times, the behemoth was old news now, but still captured his attention.

She came down from her roost, and hid.

The priest slumped in the corner of the long-neglected shed, next to crates of dangerous ammunitions, dangerous in their potential, ignorant of treaties, and squelched explosions. 

The aggressive cobwebs roped high wires from one podium to another, the only entertainment the musty shack hosted.

She prayed. “Velen, please – give me the power to move. To go. And the power to not return again.”

Zep felt the dusty place inside, the place where the moment shushed and boxed. If she reached out and touched him, it would only confuse him, break him even. He was only mortal after all.

The splinters, the crack of pine, and a sound of bagpipes off somewhere: this was a human place, of simple duties and singular purpose.

A sparrow raced to its nest.

She dissolved, amethyst, indigo, and gold.

And Scout Knowles kept the line.