Lack's Log

The warrior at level 6

Mon, 06 Jun 2005 04:03:43 GMT

[Change of pace here. This is a display of the warrior's abilities at level 6. I'll do an update of this about every ten levels, to track the effects of overall leveling and emphasis on a particular set of talents. This post is all out of character.]

Each race has a few distinctive abilities. This is one of two that matters most for the Forsaken: they heal faster when they feast on the bodies of their enemies.

And this is the other. What this does is provide the Forsaken a chance at escaping a bunch of attacks that otherwise leave the target helpless, or partially helpless. A Forsaken has better odds of running away and of recovering self-control so as to fight on than other races do. As you might expect, there's a lot of bitching in some circles about it being overpowered; I find it handy but really not that major. It's just an awfully nice edge.

Here's an overall view of a fairly standard user interface setup for a 6th level warrior. The buttons down at lower left are the actions: #1 is attack, #2 is heroic strike, #3 is charge, #4 is rend, #0 is thunder clap, and #= is battle shout. I'll be taking these in alphabetical order by category and ability name.

First the Arms abilities.

(The gaps are there based on my experience with previous warriors. You'll see Lack's toolbar fill up as she progresses.)

Charge is a perennial favorite. The warrior runs fast toward the target, and then slams into it and stuns it. It also provides rage, which fuels warrior abilities. A warrior can have a maximum of 100 rage, and quickly cools down to 0 between fights. Attacks given and received and various other circumstances each generate a few points of rage. That boost from the charge is enough to roll right into a couple of effects early on.

The heroic strike is actually the very first warrior ability, the thing you begin with at 1st level. It takes a few successful blows to build up enough rage to deliver, and then slams in for extra damage. Good stuff.

By the way, some of these ability descriptions refer to stances. I'll cover that when Lack gets to 10th level.

Rend is another staple of the warrior's arsenal. It doesn't work against everything. Skeletons, for instance, don't bleed. Nor do rock elementals. But a whole lot of things do, and having that continuing damage running in parallel with your fresh attacks makes a lot of difference.

Thunder clap is one of those things that warriors really, really appreciate when they're facing multiple opponents. The difference in combat speeds is another crucial bit of leverage in bad circumstances - or in keeping good ones from going bad.

On to the Fury talents. Just one of them for now, but whoo boy. Every good warrior uses this in every battle, or very nearly every one. Notice that it affects the warrior's allies, too. Good fighters of other classes appreciate it when warriors remember to keep their battle shouts active.

And that's it for the moment. Expect the next review, around level 16, to be a lot more complicated.

Deathknell, continued: The Scarlet Crusade and departure

Mon, 06 Jun 2005 03:41:52 GMT

Let's see, where was I...ah, yes, having concluded that foray into the mines. Now it was time for more sentient targets.

This was the first I'd heard of them. Others of my fellow recent acquisitions tell me that the Scarlet Crusade formed in the wake of that first onslaught, the one that killed me. It all sounds ugly and complex, and sometime I need to find a good archive and get the whole story straight from beginning to end. But "living humans bent on killing the undead" is clear enough for me for now.

I found their camp separated from Deathknell only by a little ridge. No wonder Arren was so concerned about them! If they mounted a massed attack, we'd be hard pressed to resist.

The first of them I encountered reminded me, ever so slightly, of my daughter. What is someone like this doing in the midst of our corner of the plague-ridden world, fighting us when there's whole kingdoms filled with the Scourge? It's not lack of opportunity to know the difference - even though we no longer speak the same language, they can distinguish between our free and individual behavior and the mass actions of the Scourge. They choose not to.

Language, now, that's another matter. I remember the various languages and trade jargons our family used in our lives and business. But when I try to speak any of them, it slips away, like apparently solid details in a dream. Very strange, and more than a little disconcerting, as it makes me wonder what else has changed that I happen not to have noticed yet.

Gradually I realized that Arren isn't as altogether intimidating as I first thought. He's commanding, yes, but that touch of irony goes along with a genuine interest in the well-being of the "young ones" in his care.

Me? Most qualified? A scary thought, that. Though I pondered it all the way back to the Crusaders' grove, and decided that he might actually have a point. I did seem to be mastering my calling faster than those around me, and of course the warrior's training is well suited to engaging pernicious foes up close and personal.

I pitied some of the Crusaders I fought - I sympathize with youthful zeal. For Korgal, none of that. This is the sort of bully who sometimes made my sons' lives miserable, picking on them for being interested in the "wrong" things. He was in charge here, and that meant he was responsible for leading that girl and the others astray. It was a pleasure to beat him.

As Arren had told me, Korgal had a letter from his superiors full of useful information about locations and plans. Damned arrogant fools.

Arren was as pleased as I was with the discovery, too.

Then came the big surprise: time for me to leave this stage of training and venture out into the wider reaches of our new little kingdom. I was scared, but tried not to show it. If this veteran of the struggle felt me ready, perhaps he understood my readiness better than I did? I hoped so.

So it was that I paused for a final look around the place, which had become something like home. Certainly more of a home than anyplace else could be to me right now: Andorhal isn't home to anyone except the Scourge, and the war and all must have swept over any place else I might have been attached to. This is where my new kin begins.

My appearance was still rag-tag, and perhaps always will be, but more suitable for a warrior. I must laugh. Lack, the Mighty Warrior. Still...chain mail shirt and leggings and gloves and boots and belt, shield and sword received as commendations...it adds up.

I noticed something clearly about myself for the first time, too: I look young. I wasn't young when I died, and hadn't been for a long time. Somewhere along the line, my past's physical legacy got erased. I have scars I can't account for, no doubt wounds I suffered while in the Scourge, but apart from one small nick on my right shoulder made by one of our cats when I was a child, no part of my body's heritage seems intact. This disturbs me in my quiet moments, making me wonder how much of me is, well, still me.

My first steps beyond Deathknell, next time.

Deathknell, continued: remains and mines

Tue, 31 May 2005 13:34:36 GMT

There was more, of course. There always is....

After I brought Elreth the furs she'd asked for, she came back with this. "Ambivalent" seems a good word to describe my reaction. I, um, do not have the greatest poise in the world with regard to matters of dead loves. Still, I thought, perhaps helping Elreth's friend would illuminate something for me. Anything at all would be an improvement.

I'd passed this fellow before, on my way through the palisade, but he'd had nothing to say to me then. Now, as I was departing on Elreth's errand, this time he did want to tell me something, as you see here.

[You can also see the tail end of an immature argument about earning standing with the various factions in game. Occupational hazard of MMORPGs.]

Nor was he the only one. The deathguard across the road also wanted my attention. Spiders and scavenging, a fine mix with dead loves, I thought. Pfeah.

I decided that Marla could wait a little longer, while those military Forsaken might not. So I set to work on their chores.

[This is what those boxes of supplies look like. Every so often I'd see someone asking about it in the Tirisfal Glades general chat channel. Now you know.]

Saltain professed himself satisfied...

...and Sarvis even more so. There was no particular fanfare to mark the occasion, but obviously this was a significant moment. "Be on your way" is at once a wonderful and intimidating thing to tell someone still so confused about her position in the world. But some of the lessons I learned while still alive remained in force: I smiled, bowed, took his offered reward, and went on my way.

When I was myself part of the Scourge's army, I naturally didn't do much thinking at all. And when I was fleeing across the remains of Lordaeron, I wasn't thinking in terms much beyond "threat" and "not threat". So this mission of Elreth's marked my first full realization of just how diverse a lot we undead are. There are the zombies and the skeletons, of course, but within the ranks of the zombies, quite a variety. I found that husband of Elreth's friend (and soon dispatched him)....

...but he wasn't alone. And this fellow (a drinking buddy? neighbor? colleague? I don't know, and don't expect to know) was quite different: much taller, built more massively, and given (un)natural armament of a very different sort, with those massive claws and a poisonous bite. I must remember to seek out scholars of these things and find out what other types there are, so that I can prepare myself better.

By this point I was feeling a somewhat experienced confidence as well as the initial exuberance I described earlier about the warrior's lot. I'd learned...well, I'll save the fully tally for a summary of what I was up to when I left Deathknell, but I will say now that I'd already learned several additional tricks of the trade, and become more accurate in my aim, more powerful or at least more effective in my swings, and felt...tougher, I guess I want to say. I was building up reflexes for dodging incoming attacks, but even when that failed, I noticed that the blows weren't doing quite as much damage even when they landed on parts of me not yet well-armored. Later, back among the other Forsaken, I heard one of the deathguards talk about that toughening as a thing that warriors and non-warriors alike go through. Apparently the experience of fighting unleashes latent force within us - we are, after all, still fairly malleable in a lot of ways.

I did, of course, dispatch Samuel and bring his unimpressive remains to his wife's grave. Marla stayed where she was - I'd half expected her to rise and join us, but no.

I was good. I was ladylike. I didn't laugh in Elreth's face, only to myself inside. Peace? Final resting place? But of course, dear. There is a sanctuary, anywhere in the world, that the Lich King's minions will not touch. The world is not doomed to end as one vast graveyard stalked by a single army of trapped souls and our handful of rebels hiding in the cracks. Of course.

I wish I had her confidence.

My lack of hope or faith aside, it was good to turn from remains to the mines Arren pointed me toward. No moral complexities or uncomfortable suggestions here: just spiders. There were no Scourge or Forsaken in the area, either, which somewhat surprised me. It was a battle more like the ones I'd heard about in living days, the representatives of king and court taking purely natural foes, and it was satisfying to a degree I'm almost ashamed to admit. I kept remembering tales of women who'd served as scouts, knights, and paladins in days gone by...and tried very hard not to think about my daughter...and slew my way through the place.

When I returned, Arren had another assignment for me. But I'll chronicle that separately.

My first warrior-ing

Mon, 30 May 2005 03:12:48 GMT

I see that I did not mention my choice of new name. My old one, as I've explained, is one I wish to leave buried. Some of my fellow Forsaken keep their names from living days. Some, I think, steal living names that they think or hope have been left unattended. Some choose names that express their new condition. That was what I did. Lack seems to me the best expression of my state at this time. Whatever fullness there may be for me, it's yet to come, fate willing. If fate wills anything.

I set out from the safe part of Deathknell...

This is what I saw looking due north from just outside the church that Shadow Priest Sarvis holds forth in. There's a small cemetery that the Forsaken have claimed for their own here, in addition to the larger one behind me, where I awoke. That crude palisade proves just about enough, surprisingly to me, to keep the mindless and largely uncontrolled undead at bay, and the deathguards assigned to Deathknell take care of any who wander up this way. Just barely visible on the right is an inn, and next to it is a house turned into an informal shop where artisans offer the basics in armor and trade goods.

I set to work killing my former fellow inmates of the Lich King's prison, just as Sardis instructed. They had all sorts of odds and ends tucked away - already here I'd found a chain mail shirt and put it on, and other pieces would soon follow.

The killing itself...that was wonderful. You cannot imagine, I think, how it felt to hold a sword and feel instinctively a way to lunge with it, a way to leap and strike with greater power, a way to block an enemy. I'd soon learn more maneuvers, and know that I have many more ahead of me yet. But even those very first battles were liberating to me in ways I can scarcely describe. I remembered how powerless I felt in the face of earlier wars, condemned by birth and circumstances to rely on others, all the time. And I remembered being betrayed in it, when all was said and done. No general could save the ones I loved. No king could save me, or my town. The Dark Lady Silvanas saved my inner self, and for that I will serve her cause as best I may. But this is the real salvation, for me: my own power.

I am glad to in this calling, however it is I came to be here.

The reward for that first round of killing was, of course, the order to do some more. But you know, I was ready for it. I felt the power in my dead limbs ready to unleash again. But first...

Sarvis had this rather cryptic little message waiting for me along with his instructions.

Nor was he the only one in the church asking for my attention. One of the women near him had this request of me.

I stepped outside to read that scroll, half for the better light and half in hopes of evading even more assignments all piled on top of each other. I read it, and I liked it. I had no idea who this Dannal might be, but he seemed to be thinking in just the way I liked.

A formidable fellow, this Dannal! I was impressed by his arms and armor, and by his manner. That combination of gratitude and independence suits me very well. I hope that other instructors I may have in the future will set as good an example. If not, well, I have Dannal's words here in my heart, in addition to my own choice. If they don't like it, so much the worse for them.

It turns out that he was to be my instructor for the duration of my stay in Deathknell. Every so often, when I gained fresh insight into my calling and overall condition, he'd teach me some new lessons - a new maneuver, or a better version of one I'd learned before. So I spoke with him from time to time, in between my forays into the lands the Forsaken do not rule thoroughly. Or as he explained it...

The same sentiment, in somewhat different words.

Being a warrior necessarily means being hurt, of course, and hurt often. Here I was, pursuing Eldreth's request, and in this moment the bat and I wounded each other. (I won, since I am here writing these notes now and the bat is only fur and a memory.)

[This is an out-of-character insertion, illustrating one of a great many allusions and tips of the hat folded into the game.]

All that killing paid off. Not the best rewards in the world for me in particular - as a newly minted warrior I can use armor made of chain mail as well as lesser kinds - but good for my fellow Forsaken in other callings, like the arcane arts.

I must go. More another time.

The beginning of Lack's story

Sun, 29 May 2005 19:15:38 GMT

[Introduction: This is an in-character journal for a World of Warcraft character. Since the Forsaken are, overall, the least played race, it's also a general guide to their quests and situations.]

I grew up in the Kingdom of Lordaeron, in the town of Andorhal. My family are...were...brewers and tailors, never particularly prosperous but then never very poor, even in difficult times. I fully expected that it would all remain very much that way for the rest of my life and into future generations.

My name? No, I won't tell you who I was, or who my family was. That's gone now. You can go see their graves, if you want, but the cemetery is the whole damned town.

We were four in my generation, two brothers and two sisters, and the family's position was secure enough that my sister and I didn't have the awful pressure to marry quickly or usefully just to keep our legacy in order. I had the time to study a little, both in Andorhal and in the capital city of Lordaeron, and to travel with Father and my brothers on some of their forays to the other kingdoms of the northlands. When I married, it was to a man I loved and whose company I enjoyed, and he brought some extra financial wisdom to the family business. We prospered a bit more than before, and Father sometimes speculated that one of his grandchildren might yet be a knight.

There came the first war against the orcs. Father, my brothers, and my husband all went off to fight. One of my brothers and my husband came back. It was a difficult time for all of us, and for those with whom we did business, but we managed to adjust, and in five years we were as well as off as we'd been before the war. I had two darling boys and a beautiful little girl who showed early signs of that holy acumen that might make her a great paladin.

There came the second war against the orcs. My brother and my husband went off to fight. Neither came back. My sister's husband became the family's business manager, with mother a sort of family court advisor. My children adjusted to the new situation, and grew up wise and strong. Sure enough, my daughter did have the bond with the Light that the paladins want, and she went off to Lordaeron to study with others like her, while my sons learned our trades and made themselves useful in tending to our town's needs. The elder one acted as secretary in the town council meetings, and there was talk that he might become one of the youngest aldermen ever, when he reached his majority.

There came the Burning Legion's invasion. My elder son took up the king's mantle and rode off, and my daughter was an apprentice healer in the supporting ranks. She lived. He died, along with so many others. Once again, we at home adjusted to the losses and tried to carry on.

There came the betrayal from within. We had a new source of grain in the year after the war, harvested by some new network of reapers and sellers, picking up some of the supply lost to the demonic war. And then one day...we all died. And then we came back, as undead.

I cannot recall much of what happened after that. There was always a voice in my head giving me orders, and I was barely aware of myself as something more advanced than a sort of glove you might wear for chores. Years went by that way, I understand. We killed, and marched, and killed, and it went like that. Days and years, nights and seasons, none of it mattered to us.

There came a certain whispering, an elvish voice telling us that we could get back ourselves. For a long time it didn't mean anything to me. Then one day it did. I woke up into myself, just like that, and walked away from the zombies around me. I wasn't very myself anymore, but I was free of being someone else's glove, and I chose as well as being led when making my way out of the Scourge's ranks and to a sort of haven.

Somewhere not far from where the new voice promised me a sanctuary, though, a wandering band of still-enslaved former neighbors caught up with me and left me for, erm, dead. More dead than before, that is. And the next thing I knew, well, I'll show you.

I woke in near darkness, alone in this crypt.

I found myself wearing a hodge-podge of gear I very vaguely remembered assembling during my flight across what used to be Lordaeron. Not very impressive, and I didn't remember at all that I'd collected what amounts to nearly a parody of warrior's equipment. I wasn't a warrior in life, nor much of one in my first undeath. Did my sleeping mind pick this out for me as a response to all of that?

Trying to shake off my disorientation, I climbed out of the crypt, through several bends of stair, and came out to face an unfamiliar cemetery. The scenery was broadly familiar: this is what all the lands touched by the Scourge now look like, if they don't look stranger. So I knew that I was somewhere within the plague-touched kingdoms. The fact that my fellow undead there seemed to want to talk rather than attack suggested that I might have made it to that sanctuary after all.

So here were my first answers. Later I would find out more about the scavengers of potential recruits, but this sufficed. Deathknell was the name the elvish voice had whispered to me. I'd gotten somewhere. I could learn the rest as I went.

Mordo had no time for my other questions, but then I wasn't the only one staggering out of the crypt that day. I let him give his pitch to the others, and headed down into my new home.

It wasn't far. Down a little path, through the cemetery gates, and this church is the first big building you come to. Inside the dead gather. The clerical figure up on the podium had to be Shadow Priest Sarvis. I knew enough to recognize the warlock by the imp nearby. The others might be anyone. Nobody I knew from life, but then that's no surprise. Conversation between guards outside revealed that Deathknell is tucked away in a corner of the Tirisfal Glades, almost two full kingdoms away from my...from the place I lived. Any familiar faces here would be the result of chance, nothing more.

Sylvanas! Now there was a name I'd heard. Supposedly one of the great hunters among elves. Had she fallen to the Scourge too? And then, somehow, got free? There's a story here I don't yet know, obviously. I hope to learn more of it in due season.

Fighting? But I am, never was, just like I said. Sarvis didn't seem to care. So I shrugged, and turned to go. What did I have to lose, after all?

I shall continue another time.