94th time is the charm…

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that was—a woman.

Navi must be my good-luck charm…no other explanation…

Women are pretty damn scary, but awesome.

Happy Halloween!

This is one of my all-time favorite images of Mataoka:

Of late, I am always a day late and dollar short. Literally. It’s Halloween, and I had to wait for payday to buy well, Paydays and pumpkins. But I decided yesterday I needed a well-earned mental health day, (it’s been a long, weird week–not bad, but…) and need to brew up some tricks and treats for myself. Patience, my pretties…patience.

These are some sweet witch images

I’d like to think the toads, etc. used in this spell are gulp frogs (right there with ya, Navi)

Witches’ Chant (from Macbeth)

1st Witch:
Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.*
2nd Witch:
Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d.
3rd Witch
Harpier cries:—’tis time! ’tis time!
1st Witch:
Round about the cauldron go:
In the poisoned entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Sweated venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first in the charmed pot.
Double,double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

2nd Witch:

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blindworm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing.
For charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double,double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and couldron bubble.

3rd Witch:

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witch’s mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d in the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat; and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,-
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For ingredients of our cauldron.
Double,double toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
2nd Witch:
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

*Gosh, hope that’s not Mrs. W!

We all know the Ash Witch is the most bad-ass witch of all time, but these are pretty good, too.


Oh Navimie – oh Navi — damn, that Tauren druid is one of the few persons on the planet who makes me speechless (I bet CD Rogue wishes he could learn her secrets)! This gift was my early morning surprise from Navi, who superlative generosity knows no limits:

It immediately reminded me of 1940-1950s Pin Up girls, and when I went to check out the artist’s site, that’s what she was thinking too!  Ah, if only my real-life, um…chest plate…was so…yeah.

Thank Navi, and thank you Carmen!


Too Sexy. Never.

*Personal story: my dad used to try to get my cubs to say “hubbahubba” to pretty waitresses. Good man. 🙂

Postscript: Saw this other version on the artist’s site, too:

RTMT: Never tell me the odds, kid.

Things could be worse. Could be this squirrel.

Today’s Random Tuesday Morning Thought is sponsored by Random Number Generator: “when you absolutely, positively have to have it: we won’t let you. ™” 

Driving young cub to school yesterday morning, he bravely, but resoundingly, told me my chances of getting the Horseman’s mount were slim to none. It involves real math. This conversation inspired him to consider taking Statistics, which I strongly encouraged because who knows what I might have become if a young Matty had taken stats and physics instead of art and, well, art? I could have been somebody: I could have been a contender. Or at least earned a comparable salary to my years of degrees. ANYWAY.


Okay. Back to math. (And why does British English call it ‘maths?’) Turns out, there is a big difference between decimals and percentages. Consider the only source of drop-rates I could find was from 2008, which provides a .5%. Now, if it were simply .5, that would be pretty damn good, because it would be 50%.  But it doesn’t say that, it says this:

I do not feel confident this early to share my math noob-ness. I used to be pretty damn good at it, until I got a gin-drinking Algebra teacher in 7th grade who reflected upon his life behind a newspaper while I sat bewildered. Hope he got it all worked out. But I can’t blame him – but I can blame the RNGs. For “fun,” (I really need to work on my definition of “fun”) I have been keeping this chart of my horseman runs:

So far I’ve gotten 3,456 candies, three troll masks, one Horseman helm (on my druid, ROCK ON MOMO!), a few sinister swords, and a few razor blades in the apples. To date, this is 77 times. By calculations, I should have gotten the horse 38.5 times. But alas, no: 3.85 times. But where is my pony? No where. Ponies don’t do math. Nothing to lose a head over, I suppose. Godmother has done a lovely job discussing rewards, and has thoroughly analyzed everything Azeroth. I can’t even get my calculator to work right or remember third grade math.
Here: let’s look at some pretty Draenei:

It’s okay, chicas. I won’t give up on you. You’ll get your pony.

Story Time: Green-Eyed Tom

The moon turned its face: she had business elsewhere to attend. Tom and the female (who had lost her name, somehow, skittering away due to growing, hypnotic incalescence. This heat cheated the first frost of its glory: no one noticed how cold gripped the vines, the clarity of bone fractured under the heart. 
There is more to say, more to confess. The pause, the gulp, when one swallows the truth, turns away, pretending. 

What scares us….

This may take a small serious curve.

I spent the large part of the weekend in Azeroth, and it was…good. Really good. It wasn’t so much the defeat of Blackwing Descent, but the enthusiasm of the group that kept me going. Few characters finally got some decent gear so that when they go into any situation they’ll do well (looking at you Luperci and Momokawa). Mataoka finished off Garrosh in LFR, and it was bittersweet. Watched my yearly viewing of Tim Burton’s Sleepy Hollow, spent time with CD Rogue in the real world, and spent time with best friends in the virtual. For a few hours, I was blissfully, delightfully in the rabbit hole. The tea the Mad Hatter served was honeyed and hot, the Chesire Cat purred, and even the Red Queen mellowed. But I came up short tonight, caught my breath: at some point this will be over. Things and circumstances may affect time spent in Azeroth, folks come and go, and all good things…well you know.

Afterwards, I watched TV with CD Rogue, Through the Wormhole, specifically the section on Lifelogging. The point was made about the fact we already do this, posts on social media, etc. It did not discuss the virtual game lives, which I still contend we have not dealt with, or are capable of managing. I don’t want a running stream of my virtual characters’ lives on top of my own, and yet I write this blog. Guarf teased me about not getting my work-work done (there is sits, in a pile). And now it’s time for sleep – I’ll see the layers of Azeroth on top of my life’s mind in dreams, and list-making.

I know good things come to an end, but not yet…not quite yet.

OLRG: The Defeat of Dark Dragon of Doom (Take 1)

Oh, my, Lord Victor Nefrian uses his sister to fight his fights!

Resounding success of the first night of the Old Ladies’ Raiding Guild venture to Blackwing Descent yesterday! Here is what an old lady like me should not be in charge of: getting everyone’s names from their battletags and blog links. If you would pretty please with sugar on top (and I’ll give you a piece of hard candy) let me know you were there with a link to your blog (if you have one). If I screwed up let me know; in the meantime, I’ll give it a shot:

Mataoka: me, yours truly
Rasiheil: Jstmel from MoMar
Cimmeria: Tome and see her link telling the tale here! 
Zelajhen: Imraith Dos Santos (one of my first readers, and very special place in my heart)
Taikuutta: ran with some of Big Bear’s ICC runs – just a great guy, even if he doesn’t have a blog.
Niremere: Prinnie from That Was An Accident (guess what? She’s just as funny in Vent as on her blog)
Kerick: Repgrind Awesomesauce
Breige: From Tiny WoW Guild
PlaidElf: Plenty of Paladins
Rasta: buddy from my two-man guild

Now this would be a mog challenge!

There was some discussion on Vent about who exactly, is Lord Victor Nefarius (could that name be any more obvious? HELLO! Bad Guy Over HERrreeeeRRREEEeee!). Turns out, Prinnie was right, he is not Deathwing but Son of Deathwing (more daddy issues) who uses his undead dragon sister Onyxia to do his dirty work for him.


Prinnie mentioned this morning that we never did see the upstairs of the place: just what DOES an evil, doomed dragon keep in his bathroom cupboards? Hemorrhoid cream? Laxatives? Expensive hair gels and enema bags? I’d love to snoop in those cabinets: admit it — you would too.

Anyway, we sliced through it in about an hour, and I finally got my Defender of a Shattered World title. The only wipe was badly planned lava jumping, but it got sorted out in no time.

Thanks for Jstmel for this suggestion of going through them in order:

Blackwing Descent (check)
Bastion of Twilight (note: slight schedule change to 3:00 PM Pacific Time Zone server due to family things)
Throne of the Four Winds
Firelands (really need this one: Tome – bring your kitty cat for the chance of the druid staff)
Dragon Soul
Mogu’shan Vaults
Heart of Fear
Terrace of Endless Spring (TOES)
Throne of Thunder (TOT)*
Siege of Orgrimmar *

*Obviously some of these current ones will probably take us a few weeks – but Old Ladies shall kick ass!

There’s a Pot a Brewin’  – Kick Ass Soundtrack

Story Time: Green-Eyed Tom

At its inception, and subsequent generations, the faire traveled the globe. Its location shifted depending on an unseen tidal schedule. Recently, however, it stayed in one fixated point, but its inhabitants’ presence transitioned by the phases of the moon. No one outside of its time knew where the inhabitants went, and no one inquired about the welfare of the beasts, live cache of pets, fate of the itinerant dancing bears, and proud flightless running birds. See no evil, speak no evil conscripted the population. If they had known what the animals did after the faire workers left, perhaps an eruptible protest would have been heard ’round the land.
This denizen survived in a hierarchy of power all their own after the carnies, vendors, coin sellers, and performers blended into the routines of the outside world (you might be walking next to one now and not even know it: look for the singed fingers of the fire juggler, or the smell of burnt sugar on a pastry hawker). These leftovers, squatters of sorts, remained unclear of their own motives. However, no one considered leaving the faire, and what may have been an unwelcome accident of logistical neglect transformed to compliance. It was easier to stay, and wait out the phases of time. The ropes were untied, but the beasts felt the phantom chains.
In this cloaked world, the wolves of the forest survived for eons prior to the arrogant discovery by the faire workers and owners. The colonialism of the fairgrounds only added to the success of the wolves: more two-legged creatures equaled more food, more food meant more rats, more rats meant more cats, and the crows just laughed at them all. There had been some two-legged ones who lived and fished near the ocean side, away from the dark forests. When faire owners claimed the land, those few aboriginal folks put up a fight, and now resided permanently in rusty cages hanging from trees. Carnies took pride in providing ‘wishes granted’ as a premium service. They wanted to stay forever, so stay they did.
The currency of the beasts depended on a tithe of blood and meat. Those creatures that ruled the faire three-quarters of the time maintained strict accounting practices. That is how the green-eyed tomcat came to be the king of cats: his ambassadorship between the wolves and the sea, holding dominion in the central grounds. He knew the right words to say, the timing of political skill to keep the wolves pleased—if he kept the wolves under control the faire monthly opening would provide more food for all, and if he kept the faire grounds maintained (by disposal of rats and mice) the other three weeks, he could safely survive if the wolves broke treaty. They only had few demands.
It wasn’t often a new female cat arrived. The last few felines kept hidden with their litters in warm tunnels burrowing under the carousel. Mrs. Whitworth saw them mothering their kittens with dutiful care. She felt minor disgust, her human soul unresolved. Before now she never associated with any cat, domesticated or feral. Her weak magic couldn’t bring her back to her former self, but she was aware enough to know she was safe and warm at the girl’s. A cat could be pampered: her human mind kept her entertained.
She steered clear of the carousel, and instead she and the tomcat spent most of the time taunting the old dusty bear, or trying on human robes from the vendor’s trunk.
“Who did you love before you met me?” he asked, wearing a green sash around his eyes.
“You presume too much, sir. And that is not a question one asks; besides, your kittens are calling you.”
He just laughed. “You’re presuming a bit yourself.”
There were a few bloodied fresh mice; and as always: One for the others, and two for herself.

Hey. You. Get off of my cloud.

I hope you didn’t miss Navimie’s post on Ordo’s loot, specifically the loot and treasures named after famous players, bloggers, WoW/Blizz folks.  Color me jealous! Wait, wait, wait…just a red-hot minute there, missy-green-envy-pants, I have the power of the INTERNET! (insert whooshing-wah-wah-wah sound here). And with this supreme power, I can be trolled on Facebook, defeat misconceptions, and create my own damn gear! 

Damn, though, sometimes I really wish I could conjure up some amazing spells and magic to get folks to see things clearly. I must confess, yesterday I was defeated and discouraged by the aggragate of several minor incidences. When I think about it, though, when any of us get upset, it’s when someone on this planet or the virtual one thinks their oxygen is more important than ours. Tome felt that way recently, and so did Navi. I myself woke up at 330 AM this morning stressing over things that happened at work and on Facebook yesterday, mainly several incidences where immature folks, ranging in ages from 12 to 62, told me their lives, opinions, right to drop the “F” bomb, right to sit where they want, right to throw pencils, right to own guns that (may) kill teachers and students, right to not pay taxes, right to fight and punch each other, right to smoke weed in public bathrooms, and the right to genuinely act like punks extraordinaire superceded my rights to do my job, enjoy the day, and be cool. Cause I am cool. (Or as Google translate would say, “culos extraordinarias.”(Think I found the name of my next guild.) Oh, and this included days of inhabitants of the Matty-shack causing me undue stress, too. Awesome. Where’s my damn Mataoka Robe of Pony-Drops, huh, Ordos? Whatever.

Well, I can tell you already today is one of those days I know a storm is going to hit me in the face, and I need to stay strong. But really, REALLY–don’t feel like it. You all think I’m some tough extravert, but seriously, the introvert part of me really hates confrontation, or when others think their rights overwrite mine. Gets pretty damn old.

So, I’ll take my metaphorical Staff of Bonking with me, and wield it as necessary. Results may vary.

Theme Song: Do Nothing. The Specials