Letters Home

Prologue

Garl peered into the blank parchment on the rough table before him and sighed. Writing his mother and father in Coldridge had never been easy for him, but he had felt it was his duty, and so had sent a few brief accounts home. But it had been a while since his last missive, and so much had happened, he wasn’t sure where to start or what to say.

He placed the quill back in the inkpot, and finished off his Darkmoon ale that had been full when he first sat down, and reached for another that wasn’t there.

Bah! Getting up, he crossed the room to the cabinet, passing the one small window in his room, and paused to look out on the Great Forge of Ironforge. His room above the gnome tinker’s shop below was small, but he could see and hear the busyness from the forge and the shops surrounding it, the gryphons on their never-ending flights, and the comings and goings of all manner of folk. Peace and quiet it was not, but that was how he liked it. Having had four brothers growing up, it was what he was used to. His mother, always teaching something to somebody, and his father, always making something for someone, had only added to the bustle of the house. His parents. The letter. He got another ale and sat back down, ale in one hand, quill in the other, and the empty parchment still reproaching him. He took another long drink of ale.

Darkmoon. The Faire. His friend Aksi. Warsong. The Horde. Westfall.

Where to start? When to start?

“Dear Mother and Father,” he wrote.

Rube Goldberg was a famous cartoonist, drawing ridiculously complicated cartoons depicting the accomplishment of a simple task.

adj. Of, relating to, or being a contrivance that brings about by complicated means what apparently could have been accomplished simply.

Goldberg Video

With the advent of 3.2 and Heroic 5-mans dropping Emblems of Conquest, both my 80s, Alpham and Oilcan, are running Heroics. But since Alpham is geared to MT Naxx25, and OC for Ulduar25+, Heroics tend to be both easy and a little boring to run, with only some bosses in some instances offering much of a challenge.

Both Al and OC, while leveling, enjoyed pushing their limits, taking on difficult fights and pulls, and generally getting in over their heads. Whether it was Al fighting 10-12 mobs at once, or OC triple-trapping/pet-tanking/multi-mob kiting 6-12 mobs, I would seek out situations that would challenge them.

The Heroic Achievements are a start towards this end, but only a start…50% or more of the time you are in a Heroic, you are fighting trash mobs, not bosses. So I’ve begun looking at trash mobs in the same light as I looked at world mobs while leveling: How can I make this more interesting/challenging/technical?

Recently, running Heroics with overgeared folks, I’ve found there are several ways to liven up the trash pulls.

Aggro everything

This generally involves combining two or more pulls into a single pull. Group to the left? Group to the right? Range pull one while body pulling the other. Groups lined up ahead of you? Run through the first (dropping an AoE whatever for aggro) and go grab the second, too. Throw a pat or two into a fight.

Hunter Misdirects help a lot with this, but any ranged class can be used to pull additional mobs into the fight (gogo DK Death Grip!).

Often there’s a technical aspect to this type of pull; in UK, for example, after the first 2 elites, the next groups are to the left and the right, with a pat pathing through, and 2/3 more mobs further ahead. But multi-target pulls usually will miss a single mob on the left or right (must be *just* out of aggro/jump range), so successfully grabbing ALL the mobs can be a challenge.

These pulls can take several seconds to establish, so not only does the dps need to resist the urge to jump in, but the healer also has to endure the pain of watching the tank get to 50% or less while establishing aggro on all the mobs before healing so as not to aggro himself.

You too can Tank!

Another way to liven up a fight is to have a non-tank tank a pull. Mages are famous for this, with Frost Nova, Blizzard/Flamestrike/Arcane Explosion, and Ice Block, but melee plate, Rogues using Evasion, hunter kiting, etc. are all other examples.

The Gunslinger

Many instances have single elite pats, usually tougher than the multi-mob ones. Let a single dps class take it on, one-on-one, with no help. Or maybe just the healer. Stand back and watch an old-fashioned burndown gunfight. You succeed if the mob is downed without any other dps help; you pwn if you succeed without the healer even getting involved.

Quick! They’re not looking!

Many groups have pats that come and go. Wait until the pat as gone away and reached it’s turnaround point to come back (or even as it is coming back). Can you get the group down and dead before the pat returns and aggros?

Aggro THIS!

Screw aggro….go all out single target, on a higher elite (regulars die too quick). The person who has aggro when the mob dies, wins. No taunts allowed!

CC FTW

Crowd Control everything, using all forms. Pets/demons/eles off-tanking, multiple target trapping, fear bombs, hexes, MC…use everything. Got more CC than mobs? Pull more!

Try to get each single target down while everything else is CC’d, one at a time, one after the other.

Proof positive you had a max level before Lich King came out!

Those are just a few ideas; I’ll post more as I find them =D

OC’s not done the Argent Tournament, so after coming into a H-ToC5 for the last boss that was bugged, we then did the regular 5 man. Handled the lance pretty well, I think, for a rookie….maybe too well….

…as I forgot to re-equip my U25 2hander, Twisted Visage, running it with the Argent Lance…and still did 3161 dps….

*adds to the list*

Naxx in Swift Boots….and with my RP Glass Shooter….and with Light Shot……etc….etc….

Chapter Four

Discovering Spout in that cave had been a boon to his efforts. A five hundred pound snarling Ice Claw Bear a foot from your head tended to hold your attention. Garl could shoot freely at his target now, had barely used his axe of late. It was getting easy. He sighed into his ale. It had been a while since he had felt a real rush of adrenaline-fueled fear, not since his first foray into Frostmane.

The inn was crowded. Buy from the traders, talk to the cook or physician, learn from the stories (for the price of an ale, of course), there were always folks traipsing in and out, and no small few that were settled at benches and tables, either. The dwarf moving from table to table, then, wasn’t notable until one realized he neither left, nor ever sat. Garl eyed him over his ale, suspiciously. Such one as that, who had no specific business or pleasure at the inn, was either a beggar or looking for someone to do something unpleasant, and as the innkeeper had yet to chase the small one out, he suspected it was the latter. He turned back towards the fire. His own work was dirty enough, and getting boring, but at least it was for himself.

“trolls”

The cup stopped halfway to his lips, then dropped back down as he listened intently to the dwarf talking to the two others seated at the table behind him.

“Tha Frostmane trolls grow a plant, shimmerweed, high up inna hills t’ th’ east. They use it inna their strange, tribal rituals. We dwarves hain’t found much use fer it, but it ‘as a unique taste…an’ ah want t’experiment wit’ it inna me brews!”

“Not interested? No? Ye sure? Thanks anyway, then.”

Garl turned around in his chair, catching rather than meeting the dwarf’s eyes.

“Tell me about tha trolls.”

* * * * *

They allowed him to pull the beasts with a shot, and then Harul attacked them from behind while Ceamus did his wavy thing with his hands. Again and again, they brought down the huge bears, Harul taking blows that should have knocked him silly, but Ceamus’ art kept him standing. Priestly blows to soul and spirit and a rogue’s dispatch to bone and sinew left little for Garl to do but fire the first, and sometimes the last, shot.

A trip that would have taken him and Harul weeks, if not taken their lives, took a mere days. Somehow, the pack was lighter on the way home.

* * * * *

The trail led up, into the hills, bordered at haphazard intervals by tilted and twisted torches. Oilcan picked his way carefully, his and Spout’s ears and eyes alert. The path was narrow, not ideal terrain for a hunter. He stopped abruptly, just before a bend, sensing a single troll beyond. A couple of scouts later, he was breathing easier. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too hard getting the shimmerweed, as long as the trolls were staying in small groups, just one or two.

Around the last bend, though, he spied the troll camp. Three, four, five were in the camp, with more perched on the low hills surrounding it. He skirted the camp, keeping Spout quiet. The bear shared his distaste for trolls. It was obvious Spout wanted to charge, ripping and shredding, into the camp. He picked off the sentinels, one by one, working his way westward around, improving the chances of his planned attack on the camp with each kill. Halfway around, though, the sentinels he had seen approaching the camp had gone. No, they were there, just not standing anymore, or even breathing. He heard low words, and a tingling in the air, both not lately familiar, coming from over the next rise. He approached the crest slowly.

He peered over the precipice of snow in time to see a young priestess, with a short, quick wave, finish off a troll, soul-dead before he hit the ground. He waited, to watch her next attack. The attack on soul and spirit was quick and efficient; a wave of her hand and the few blows that had landed were as if they never were. He smiled to himself as he pet Spout. As good as Ceamus. Almost.

The troll hill scouts were gone, all of them; he came over the hill and stopped, eyeing the priestess, then the camp below. She saw him, scanned the other hilltops, and seeing nothing, smiled at him, then returned her gaze to the camp, also. Neither spoke a word. He knew what a priest could do; she obviously appreciated a hunter’s skills. He cast his mark on the first troll in the camp, knowing both she and Spout would know what was forthcoming.

They knelt by their packs, sorting out shimmerweed and other loot from the dead trolls loosely circling the camp. Talking, now, about the few close moments and the brutal efficiency of their teamwork. They swapped potions and linen as they walked down from the now-empty hill. He noticed a small patch on her robe, and asked Erana about it.

“My guild tag. Final Ascensions. We’re looking for a good young hunter, Garl”

“Call me Oilcan. My friends and enemies both do!”

They talked all the way back to Kharanos. The ale at the inn seemed cooler than last time, and the fire much warmer.

 

 

Oilcan finally got an Uldaur 25 drop to replace his Undeath Carrier; it’s the Twisted Visage from XT-002. There’s two 2-handers that drop from Kel’Thuzad: Journey’s End and Betrayer of Humanity. For an upgrade from Ulduar, there’s six to choose from:

3 with +hit rating: Twisted Visage, Dark Edge of Depravity, and Tortured Earth 

and 3 with Armor Penetration (ArP): Lotrafen, Spear of the Damned, Dreambinder, and Rune Edge

A comparison of all six (to Twisted Visage) is here.

Mostly, what you want is a matter of personal choice (or what you might need atm). Obviously, the +hit ones if you need hit, or the ArP ones if you don’t. However, OC is Survival, and among the three hunter trees, SV benefits from ArP the least: our top shot, Explosive Shot, is Fire damage and does not benefit from Armor Penetration. ArP still has some value for Autoshots, Kill Shot, etc., but ArP is not something OC looks for, just taking whatever he happens to get.

The +70 hit from my new shiny puts OC well over the hit cap of 263 (he’s at 328 atm); however, getting that much hit from one piece will allow him to upgrade *other* gear without worrying about what hit rating might be on the new gear. Thus, the 3 +hit 2-handers are generally preferable to the 3 with ArP for SV hunters.

Let’s compare the 3 +hit 2-handers, to the Twisted Visage here.

The TE has a little less Crit and Hit and a little more Stamina. It’s big differences are a lot less Agility, but more RAP and also, 2 gems (yellow). Gemming for Agility will even out the Agi and Crit loss, leaving it with less Hit and more Stamina and RAP. It’s a slight upgrade over the TV, dps-wise.

The DED has a touch more Stamina and Attack, and a little less Agility. The bigger negative is it has Haste instead of the TV’s crit. As is, it’s about 12 dps more. The bigger positive is that it has two gem slots: a red and a blue, with a socket bonus of +6 agility. Gemming for Agi and getting the bonus will give it slightly more Agility than TV, upping it’s RAP advantage even more. You’ll lose some crit, but get more Agility and RAP over the TV, thus more dps, so it’s a definite upgrade over the TV, which makes sense since it’s from Yogg-Saron.

Since both are upgrades over my Twisted Visage, I’d roll on them; but in a guild run, I’d let a druid or melee dps with a Naxx weapon take them first, as it’d be a bigger upgrade for them.

I love Spout; he’s my first pet and even when I finally retire him, he’ll get the finest treatment at the swankiest stables I can find in Azeroth. It’s the least I can do for my buddy, my pal, who’s saved my life countless times, who was my constant companion until level 70 and beyond.

It’s easy in WoW, of course, because your pets never really die. At worst, they need a little feeding, a heal now and then, maybe.

But in Real Life, pets are often treated as throwaway stuffed animals. Even folks who love their pets dearly may be forced to part with them due to financial circumstances, or living arrangements.

Brajana over at Mend Pet is running a NeedMoreStableSlots! Charity Drive for the SPCA.

With animal cruelty issues in the news at least weekly, whether it’s Michael Vick dog-fighting, or your local community news report of a farm with abused horses or the shutin with 50 animals (search for it, you’ll find it, trust me), pets and animals need our love more than ever.

<3 Spout

He could smell the still pines and the flowering herbs that poked up from the otherwise stark white blanket. The barest of breezes brought a whiff of his favorite food from the lake, fish, and another smell, one more common as of late.

The new smell was strange, a mix of familiar odors of meat and skins, and some utterly foreign and harsh and unpleasant, which seemed to reach far up into his nostrils with stinging tendrils. He had seen, with dim eyesight, the source of this new smell only a few times. It stood on two legs, like he and the squirrels sometimes did, but he had never seen it on all fours. It was thus similar to the even fouler-smelling trolls that occasionally made their way into the valley, but smaller and noisier.

His hunger was slight, his winter fat still nourishing him, but he missed the taste of fish. He had avoided the lake and the new smell, and so had gone without his treat that swam just beneath the ice. He woofed at Red still cracking nuts in the tree outside the cave as he passed, interrupting the snaps and pops only for a moment, and slowly ambled out onto the valley slope.

The rabbits and boars paid him scant attention; his winter weight slowed him, and they knew it, keeping on with their nibbling and rooting, pausing only if he seemed to come right at them. He snuffled a flower, clearing his head of the last vestiges of his dreams, and turned his heavy head to take in the smells and sounds that reached him from the lower valley.

The enticing smell of fish was stronger, and he sensed them lying on the shore in the weak sun, their aroma gathering in the slight air. Someone else liked fish, too. There were plenty in the lake.

He wound a circuitous route down to the lake, woofing at pests in the trees, enjoying himself. Tempting as the fish laid out were, he avoided the stranger smelling beast and crossed the bank of the lake some distance away. He stopped at the break in the ice near the shore. He turned and barked at the new smell, and was pleased to have it back a little farther away. Good. He wanted no interruption of his impending feast. He rose up and stomped on the ice, breaking it further, trapping the fish below in the shallows, and began to eat his desire.

 

“Wot? Ah watch’d it! Ah did! Ah almost fell asleep, ah watch’d it fer so long! Why, any more watchin’ an’ ah’d’ve watch’d it die o’ old age!”

“A few minutes teaches ye naught, Oilcan. Why, kin ye t’ink ‘ow little ah’d’ve learnt iff’n ah spent only a few minutes at me lessons?”

“Ah kin t’ink ‘ow momma’d yell at ye!”

“Th’ greatest skill ye kin learn is patience, Oilcan. Patience kin teach ye everthin’ ye need ta know. And anythin’ worth knowin’ takes patience.”

“An’ anythin’ worth doin’ cannae be done sittin’ on yer arse, Ceamus! Lookee! Another, over there!”

“Will ye watch th’ poor thing this — “

<twa-a-ang>

<thunk>

 

Through the winter, when he woke, he would find the fish, further down in the valley, always towards the lake. The new smell was always closer, but never as close as the fish, and so he ate them, and returned to his slumber.

For the last time he roused himself. The now-faint smell of fish was far away, almost to the lake. He now needed the nourishment; spring and warmer weather would soon be here. He picked his way down the snow-drifted slope, and stopped short of the lake. The strange beast was there, not standing but hunched over a bright light. The fish were there, too, close to the beast. The new smell was as strong as the fish this close to the beast. The beast did not move as the bear came close. He snatched a fish and ran off a little ways. He ate it while watching and smelling the beast. Finishing it, he drew close to the rest of the fish. When the beast still made no movement, he ate the rest of the fish, quickly. He still smelled fish, but there were no more on the snow. He went to turn back to the cave, when the beast moved. A fish dropped on the snow. The beast rose up on its hind legs, and the bright light went out. As the beast moved off, away from the lake, the bear went to the fish, and ate that one, too, and looked after the beast that dropped fish. The beast stopped. The bear moved closer, sniffing the air, catching the scent of fish and beast. The beast moved away again, and the bear followed.

The smell of beast and fish was no longer new, or strange.

 

OC’s Survival; I have, of course, heard the Boom BOOM BOOM from his Explosive Shots….but from a distance, usually 10-30 yards. So when Alpham tanked VH, and a SV hunter popped off Explosive Shots, I knew what the booms were….but as I was only a couple of yards from the mob, they were quite a bit louder.

But now I’m thinking…..can a tank hear ANYTHING in a raid with 3-6 SV hunters besides a constant drum of Boom BOOMBOOM Boom BOOMBOOM?!?

…..now if I can just get the hunters to time ES in a rhythm I can dance to…..

For the first time, I have two toons at the max level. My AH alt is gonna be working overtime, I think….

Alpham’s in good shape for a fresh 80: 21k hp and armor, 550ish defense, about 84/102.4 Avoidance, and he’s still has Tempered Titansteel Helm and Treads coming in the mail. Holywise, he’s about 1500+ SP, 20% crit, and 12.5k mana….should be able to heal easier Heroics, but I’ll need more practice healing before I want to tackle anything rather hard.

Alpham popped his Heroic Cherry in AN, then VH, and got his first Heroism marks towards the new Librams. I need to get better at initial threat, but then those places aren’t really great places to just mark and pull and focus fire. With a raid enh-shammy, and then a raid hunter as top dps pulling some aggro, I don’t feel too bad, but I do need to get better at yanking stuff back off of people. No wipes, but there were a few deaths…..warlock mostly, so I don’t feel TOO bad about it

We’ll see how Alpham’s doing in a week =D

 

Chapter Two

 

Frostmane Hold

 

The welcoming warmth of the inn at Kharanos was beginning to wear off as he headed off to Brewnall Village. The heat and light reflecting off the stone walls and the chattering hum of traders and trainers had lulled him to an early bed last night; up with the dawn, Garl had eaten a light breakfast of bread and milk before starting out, but even at that dim hour the inn was busy, the fireplace stoking the soft talk of both those who had never gone to bed and those who had just left it.

 

He had been tasked to go to the west, past Brewnall Village, where some trolls had been causing trouble. He was a little worried about the trolls. He had hunted many beasts, and even the Wendigos in The Grizzled Den. Trolls, however, were an ancient race, as old as The Earthen and Tauren, with old magic. The Earthen and Tauren had developed their own magic, and created their own cities, but the trolls had split among many tribes.

 

The one at Frostmane had been an increasing nuisance. Granted, they were an enemy, but Garl had never fired his gun at a sentient being before, one who could think and react with something other than instinct. What he knew about them in battle was limited to a single letter.

 

 

He opened the drawer slowly, not to be quiet, but rather not to disturb anything. Garl’s father was off to a neighbor’s, repairing yet another of his inventions. Gnomish engineering was tricky enough for a gnome; as a dwarf, his father, Tomass, spent as much time visiting his creations as creating them, and would not be back for a while.

 

He found what he was seeking, a letter from his older brother, Tumas, one of two his father kept in the drawer. Last night, as the elders drank around the fireplace, they talked of battle and glory, for the Third War was drawing to a close, they all felt. Their sons and daughters would be home soon, they said. After all had left, Garl watched as his father returned to his dresser and read this letter. Four of the sons of Tomass would not be returning, and as Garl peered through the crack in the door, he watched as his mother comforted his father. What was in that letter? Stories of battles and honor? Strategy and tactics?

 

Garl peeked out the window; his mother, Mari, was in the garden, teaching young’uns. He opened the scroll and began to read:

 

 

Dear Father and Mother,

 

I hope the delay in my letter has not brought you worry. After my constant letters during my training, I did not wish to add to your troubles with a letter before we headed to the front, instead waiting to write you when we returned, which we have, victorious. The sight of our unit heading to battle was something to see, banners and flags flying, formations of well-drilled soldiers; we, of course, got to the battlefield only to be held in reserve, watching others fight as we fidgeted and paced, hoping we’d get the chance to do our part. The battle was lengthening, the casualties mounting, and finally we were called upon. A company of trolls had turned our flank, taking a hill there, and was raining fire upon our troops. We were ordered to retake that hill.

 

As we advanced, the troll shamans and mages flung spells at us, downing many. Our commander realized we could not withstand the ranged assault, and gave the order to engage at close quarters. We hurled ourselves at their lines. The next few minutes could have been hours; I remember little other than swinging my ax and parrying with it, advancing with my company up the hill towards the mages and shamans; we killed many trolls, but I recall none of them, but one. Upon cresting the hill, we attacked the mages and shamans; without their defenders, they were easy targets for our weapons. I spotted a young troll mage, off to the side and went after him. Focused as he was on his attack, he never saw me until I separated his arm from his shoulder. As he lay on the ground in front of me, I swung a killing blow, as I surely had done before that on this day. He raised his other arm, whether to attack or defend, I do not know, and as my ax came down, his arm met it. His face was in great pain as I looked down upon him, his arms on either side of him, and our eyes met.

 

I saw his mother and father, his brethren, his friends, his life in that instant. Our trainers had told us the Horde were monsters, beasts to be slaughtered, and I had believed it, not knowing better. My training said this was a Horde troll, to lift my ax and finish him. But as I stared in horror at him, my arms would not lift. I do not know how many seconds passed before he died, but his wounds were grievous, it could not have been many. As his eyes grew lifeless, I rose up and realized we had won the battle, the enemy was fleeing. But I had lost something, I’m still not sure what.

 

We have returned to camp. I will write again soon.

 

Love, your son,

 

Tumas

 

Garl replaced the letter in the drawer, next to the other one. The last one that came. From Tumas’ commander.

 

 

Garl looked across the clearing past Brewnall Village, and saw troll pickets spaced around their encampment. As he scouted around the area, he realized they were placed too far apart; he could pick them off one by one, independent of each other. He drew as far back as his weapon would range, and fired upon the first one. His shots wounded the troll badly. But not so badly he didn’t charge. Garl arced his ax at the troll, finishing him off. One down, he headed to the next. He found he preferred it when they charged; the casters would stand off, but his own fire was too strong for them. Yes, he definitely wanted the trolls to charge, to take them down right in front of him. They were tall, like elves, and strong, like orcs, but with his shots weakening them, they were not a match for his quickness with the ax His breathing was heavy, his eyes narrow; he wanted them all dead. They were not the Horde that killed his brothers, but they might have well have been. This was different than hunting, this was revenge.

 

He cleared the pickets, and looked towards their camp. Several were there; perhaps he could draw one out. He fired, and one came charging out. Good, he was ready. As he steadied himself for the attack, he realized a caster, too, had seen him, and was preparing a spell. He backed away, drawing the caster away from the camp, then met the charging troll head-on. He downed him quickly, but the caster’s spells had taken their toll on him. He charged the caster, now close by, and swung.

 

His back was cold, his front warm with blood, his vision gray as peered up, into the face of the caster. Ugly, horrid things they were, he thought, as he saw a final spell being cast, as he passed out.

 

He awoke to dancing firelight and intense warmth, and the faint sounds of song and clinking silverware. He opened his eyes to meet those of a night elf with a bow across his back.

 

“Rest easy, boy, you are back at the inn in Kharanos. Good thing I came along when I did.”

 

He closed his eyes, to dream of killing trolls who had no eyes to look into.