(Det här är en testballong. Jag har en tanke om att påbörja mina World of Warcraft-memoarer. På engelska. Om ballongen kan sväva kommer resten av inläggen att postas på http://exodarsisters.wordpress.com/
Kritik mottages. Faktum är att den som sist kritiserade mig har ännu inte återfunnits.)
One day last year my girlfriend mentioned to me during a walk that I should combine my writing experience with my World of Warcraft experience. It was a neat idea, but it ended up on the back burner. Possibly six months later I decided I should start a blog about my World of Warcraft characters … and it ended up on a back burner.
In fact, my back burner is of equal size as Molten Core. A vast, vast place inhabited by ”dead ideas”. After ending the life cycle of Idea A, I usually end up having to backtrack to Boss D (what’s up with all that running?).
So this idea – the Exodar Sisters – have been ”burning” for a long time. In different forms. Alas, the Aspect of Bad ideas has broken free! There will only be … pain … agony … Most likely, You Are Not Prepared.
(See what I did there?)
This is not a strategy guide.
This is: My World of Warcraft memoirs.
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I never found my bones.
Somewhere buried deep in the soil of the Northern Barrens the skeletal fragments of a warrior rest. Possibly, a few bones hide in the sunbleached grass and tangled growth of unamed ”clutter” plants. Gone from living tissue to playthings for hyena cubs, a cycle of life perhaps not even the Titans could quite fathom.
In a thousand years an archaeologist will dig them up and marvel at the visciousness and violence of bygone days in This Modern World of This Planet Called Azeroth. You know, much like we, in this Modern World of This Planet Called Earth, marvel at the remains of thousands upon thousands dead … that, wich we call ”history”.
History is, after all, truly countless bodies.
The remains in the Barrens are my very first bones. They are not a part of massive battles. They were not sacrificed to a crazy god. They are not the bones of a Hero, not even a Villain.
They are the bones of the Unamed Soldier.
These bones are, simply put, very ordinary. They belong to an orc, a female orc. See this tusk? Very short, but the female orc it belonged to was very aware of ”looks”. Now, what can we tell from a single tusk? Well …
Her name was Taramek. She said ”screw you!” to her trainer and wandered off on her own. She found a secret path near the Valley of Trials in Durotar, had a near death experience with an elite shark … and ended up, eaten by hyneas and battered by a giraffe, in Northern Barrens.
Do you see this femur? Once it was hers. Now, it’s gnawed and dirty and almost shattered. Back then, it was part of a life. Her life. Neither Taramek nor her Creator had any idea of her future. I guess she just wanted to be free. This femur … I’m not even sure if it dropped in this place. Maybe it was 200 yards south, or east. What I do know is that Taramek met her Maker by the foothills of Northern Barrens, a short distance northeast of Ratchet, near a big tree. Her ending will never be the Tale of Bars (or Bards). In fact, truth of the matter is this:
Without provocation, she attacked a peaceful 17 year old giraffe and made a hasty retreat being badly mangled by hooves. She Thunderclapped by mistake – and enraged a hyena, hiding in the tall grass but almost out of ”aggro” range. Thus, her final stand was against a snarling monster and a braying monstrosity. With a tall neck.
(Please don’t tell Garrosh that one of his warriors was killed by a giraffe. He’ll strangle you. We all know he’s got … anger management problems.)
Tarameks death is not worth mentioning in the rigid orc society. Taramek wasn’t very strong. On a scale of 1-10 000, she had 12 in strength. Most likely she had a nervous twitch and quite possibly she coughed. I like to imagine that, at least. Maybe she suffered from tuberculosis or some other ”medieaval” disease. Life in Durotar can’t be easy, after all. The dust, the scarce food supplies. Crazy warlocks hiding in caves. The mortality rate of infants must be enormous.
(The cold statistics of World of Warcraft sometimes force me to envisage my characters as beings of flesh and blood; their smell, their strength and weaknesses … in short: A tank is not supposed to think, thus the tanks intellect is of no importance. Can you imagine the dimwitted lumbering mountain of muscles? The ”perfect grunt” – ”You there! Go stand in front of that dragon! I will give you armor!” ”Oooh … mkay … ”
Now, imagine a warlock … the putrid flesh of contagious corpses littering the ground, the mad cackle of a sadist who find pleasure – and pain! – in calling forth demons while plagues and corruptions that covers enemies in blisters and puss and force the squeamish heale priest to whisper a strangled ”Oom… my Maker! Gotta puke!”.
Now! Imagine how Icecrown smells.
Here’s a bucket.)
Taramek was a warrior. It’s not unusual for newborn orcs to grow up to become warriors. Some of them even reach the great age – or level – of 85 or 90. Most, I believe, die in their infancy. Taramek died when she was 5.
She’s been haunting me ever since.
And yet, somehow, I hear the thunderous voice of XXXXXX in Blackrock Caverns – ”the cycle is complete!”. The cycle, as it is, is yet not completed – I still have to give birth to an orc warrior that will reach the distingusihed age of 85 or 90. But the cycle is far gone, so very far gone, since those trembling first steps of Taramek.
How was she born? Well, she was born is the usual way … Male orc meets Female Orc and Male Orc gives Female Orc a one hand axe adorned with blue ribbon after mumbling some embarassed comments while dragging his foot in a semicircle in front of him and hiding his hands behind the back, lowering his head in a charming way.
In my case, Taramek was born from sex. It is true. Warcrafters do have it. Sometimes they even level up while doing it. I had (safe) sex with a 40+ year old woman who shared my idea of ”just sex”. At an impasse in the carnal desires she logged on to her ”ready to raid” level 70 high-end Burning Crusade heroine. I remember being impressed that you could actually fly (while fonlding certain body parts of hers)!
She took me on fast run through Ogrimmar on her belf warlock and I marveled … Then she convinced me to roll a ”toon” myself, on her account as it were. I do believe I reached level 2 before more pressing matters had to be taken care of. The yearnings of flesh, as they are, can trump even World of Warcraft.
Once I had managed to create my very own account the days of single bachelor came to an end. I met a lot of fancy women through World of Warcraft. Unfortunately, most of them were made of pixels. Taramek, her bones will never be forgotten, was my first love.
But not my last.