Oh, and if you want nicer answers, I can be bribed. Let’s say green olives, cheese, and . . . those little pastries with the strawberry frosting on top and the raspberry drizzle.

“I can’t find my fucking shoes, Jakob.”

“Yva, the lich king doesn’t give a horses’s arse what shoes you’re wearing. JUST PUT SOMETHING ON.”

She stormed past him – tried to shoulder past him, really, but that failed spectacularly considering how large he was – and began rifling through the closet. “These are special shoes. Enchanted ones. I am not going toe to toe with Putricide in my bloody socks.”

Jak’s cheek ticked. “You have five minutes.”

“DON’T YOU DARE TRY TO RUSH ME.”

The answer was the clang of his sabatons across the floor, and then the slam of the front door.

“Jakob? JAKOB BALTHASAR GET BACK HERE!”

No answer.

Flaadhun lifted his head at the sing-song tones of his mistress having a complete and utter hissy fit. He padded over, stretching and grunting as he leaned against her legs. She cast him a sideward glance and a scowl. “Don’t think I don’t know this is your fault, Dog. I don’t know if hiding my shoes is your way of saying you don’t want to go, but it’s not going to change a damned . . . that miserable sod left without me. He really did. He went after ARTHAS on his own, after all we’ve been through. That horrid, domineering son of a bitch.” Her hands went to her hips as she glared at the spot Jakob Balthasar had occupied a moment ago.

She was getting ready for another round of ranting when there was a thud by her feet. She looked down. The mysteriously missing shoes were suddenly there, and Flaadhun was sitting beside them, the scaly monolith of his tail thudding against the carpets.

“Yes, you want me to tell you you’re good for returning what you stole? I think not.” He whined as she stooped to pull the shoes on, bitching all the while. “And believe you me, Flaadhun, when I find Jak, he’s going to wish he’d never heard my name. No one simply walks out on me, especially not when the most important fight in . . . EVER presents itself. Cad. What an utter CAD.” She grabbed her satchel of runes and stomped through the living room, felhound snorting in tow behind her. She felt one of his tentacles winding around the hem of her robe and tugging, as if he could hold her back.

“Good gods what! I’m in a mood, if you haven’t noticed, and you can thank your father for that.”

“I am not that thing’s father. It’s a fucking demon. Can we GO now?” She jerked her head up to see Jakob staring at her through the glass window of the front door. She blinked, her irritation fluttering away, replaced by red faced embarrassment that she’d likely been cursing him to the nether and back and he’d heard every word.

Because he was standing just outside the door waiting for her the entire time.

“Oh, of course. I . . right. I think I’m ready to . . . ”

His cheek ticked again.

She flashed him her best makeshift smile. “Shall we then?”

2) One dissenting voice can change everything, for better or for worse. If you’re running a story, and it’s your story, be ready to break some eggs and make some omelets, because no matter how good your ideas are, someone’s always going to want to change it or break it or do something differently with it.

3) Delaying projects is as bad, if not worse, than rushing them. You need to act on the enthusiasm your people have up front. The longer you wait, the more likely it is to dwindle.

4) Your RP arc is only as strong as the person leading it. If they’re unfocused, lazy, or short on time, the story will suffer for it as will anyone investing into it. It will not work.

5) It’s okay to offer to help a GM. In fact, it’s appreciated a lot of the time.

6) Keep hard dates for deadlines and events. Nebulous dates allow for procrastination which facilitates number 3. Hard dates keep you honest and on a timeline.

7) Understand that you can’t please everyone, and if you’re trying to, you’ll hate GM’ing the event. Please yourself and as many people as you can.

Be flexible when it’s not a pivotal matter. Being open to other people’s ideas makes small plot lines into major ones, and stories flourish.

9) You don’t know everything. You might think you do, you don’t. Keep humble.

10) People who make commitments of time and effort might not live up to them. Have back up plans.

11) Have a soundboard. Running major RP arcs is stressful. Find someone who’s willing to listen when you need to bitch, and tell you when you need to shut up and work.

12) Make a promise, keep a promise. You’re only as good as your word. If you say X, Y, Z will be done, buckle the hell down and make sure X, Y, Z does happen.

13) Ask for feedback. Don’t be a dick when someone gives you constructive criticism.

14) Don’t overwhelm people with too many big arcs. Give other people limelight time.

15) Know that it’s okay to delegate to others who want to help. If you have open communication about what needs to happen about an event, and they’re willing to run with it, let them.

Anything YOU can think of, readers? Lay it on us.

Ta!

And she’s leaving at least temporarily. And I can’t blame her.

Bricu’s linked SaveBlizz for folks to go see. It’s a great idea. If you’re against this invasion of your privacy, you ought to really consider things like canceling that Cata pre-order or that SC2 pre-order. And hey, if you don’t want to? That’s okay, too. I get that we all game for different reasons. Unfortunately I don’t think what we WANT re: Real ID matters so much as what we do with our money. The biggest weapon you have right now is that fifteen bucks in your pocket. If enough of us take it away, they have to pay attention. I’m not sure they want to take the gamble that the Facebook Farmsville players will pick up our slack when their integration goes live.

Oh, and just so we’re clear on where I’m at? I’ve already canceled my second account, and I’m mulling over my first. We’ll see. I’m watching and waiting.

One thing I’ve toyed around with, for the sake of our little community of people, is how to stay in touch and to keep the RP alive outside of WoW. If we have enough people fall by the wayside because of this situation, I may start up a Tuesday night IRC RP room for us until another MMO catches our fancy. Our network of friends is close enough I think this might actually work. I know I’m not done with Yva, not even close, and WoW doesn’t own her. I do. Her character concept is /mine/, and I know I’m not the only one who’d be more than happy/willing to carry that character concept over into another venue for the sake of keeping my community in tact.

It’s going to be a tough few months, folks, so I’d recommend buckling down and gritting your teeth. We’re going to see people drop off that we care about. We’re going to have to cope with changes we don’t like. My only recommendation is to keep doing what we’re doing, making noise and rabble rousing, and look towards alternate solutions like IRC chatrooms for RP. Just becomes one venue closes doesn’t mean the stories have to end.

The long and short of it, as everyone’s likely heard, is that post Starcraft 2 Blizzard will be implementing RealID on the forums. What does this mean? Your name will appear next to your posts in lieu of your avatar. I understand the reasoning behind it – trolls will stop being trolls, Bliz won’t have to moderate as much.

But. BUT.

In a perfect world, everyone out there is a balanced, rational human being who pays their taxes, goes home, logs on to have “a great time!” and keeps the spirit of the game positive for everyone around them. The fact is, we’re surrounded by people who /are not those things/. Stalking and cyber bullying are real threats. Thanks to this new system, if you post something on a forum people don’t like? Internet creeps have your name. It’s a great platform for taking in-game grief out of game. It is, essentially, a stepping stone for aforementioned cyber bullying and stalking.

I’m not okay with it. Most people I know are not okay with it.

Another facet I am not okay with? Is that a lot of issues are “referred to forums”. An online friend of mine had a problem they called the customer service number about, and were essentially redirected to a forum for a solution. With this new system in place, that player would be FORCED to give out his name to get his problem resolved.

I’m not okay with that either.

The onus is now on us, the people who pay the monthly fee, to get our voices heard.

Start here. And please remember, as my mother always said, you get a lot more flies with honey than vinegar. Calling the guy sorting through the feedback a fucktard probably won’t get a damned good point made.

I will repeat: if you don’t like this forum change? Do yourself and everyone else a favor and make change happen.

*****

Yva looked at her houseplant. It drooped pathetically. That was likely in part thanks to the chomp marks along the lower branches where Stumpy’d had his chew-fit, but the heat wasn’t helping matters either.

She picked up her fan and sighed, sweat running down her back. When she’d been dead, heat wasn’t a problem, but then she didn’t really feel it because she ran so cold she was a walking icebox. Now, though, a pulse and a heartbeat later, not only did she FEEL the heat, she got all sticky and her clothes got clingy and she swelled up like a wood tick.

And it was disgusting.

She guzzled her thirty fourth glass of lemonade, thinking Shad was going to kill her for the sugar consumption, and stabbed in Fells’s box frequency. As soon as it clicked on, Yva threw herself into her chair and oozed across the cushions.

“Fells, this weather is bloody killing me.”

The other line fizzled before quieting down, if quieting down was what one could call tuning into the Drachmas household. There was the less than melodic wailing of babies in the background, and Fells Drachmas’s beleaguered sigh as she struggled to be heard over the cacophony. “Know it,” she half shouted. “Th’babes are fussin’ terrible-like, an’ ‘cosia’s been in th’lake so long she’s gonna git all pruney.”

” . . . is Laz at home?”

“Nope. S’off doin’ whatever it is Laz does when he ain’t here. Thank th’bronzes for Shad. Got him out runnin’ for ice cream. Should be back inna tick.”

The notion of ice cream made the Balthasar heir churning in Yva’s stomach blurgle at her, and she looked down with a frown. “Ice cream? I want ice cream.” She glanced over at the wall clock. Jak had been gone since before sunrise and wasn’t due back from his patrol until after suppertime. Which meant if she wanted ice cream, she had to head to Tanaris herself to get it. Of course if it was hot here, it was infinitely hotter in the desert.

She hated Jak right then. It wasn’t rational, it wasn’t nice, but she hated him for getting her pregnant, abandoning her to the heat, and most especially for not psychically knowing she and his child demanded an ice cream sacrifice RIGHT NOW.

“Yva, why don’ ya come over? Sure we gots more’n ‘nough ice cream t’go ’round.”

“I . . . yes, I could . . . ”

Ice. Cream.

Yva lifted up her hand and peered at her fingers. She flexed her pointer and a talon of ice grew from the tip almost like an extra fingernail. Her eyes flickered over to the wall, and then back to her magic effect, and a grin began to split her face.

“Fells, I have the most wonderful idea. I’ll be there shortly.”

She thrust herself from the comfortable clutches of her chair and tottered towards her office, retrieving a rune from her desk drawer. A few magical words and a snapped rune later, she, Flaadhun the felhound, Stumpy the corehound, Evan the wolfhound, her two snakes, and a zombie bunny kept in a bag as to not disturb Fells appeared on the Drachmas family farm . . .

. . . which was not a farm because Laurus was a nutter.

Yva shuffled up the drive, pausing in her tracks to peer at the lake. She spotted a blond head bobbing in the waters and waved, her hands cupping around her mouth so she could shout.

“Precosia, dear, come inside. Yva has a splendid idea.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, instead letting herself into Fells’s house with ice talons sprouting from every fingertip. Her menagerie tottered in behind her, all panting and miserable and droopy.

“I hope you don’t mind the pets,” she said in greeting. “But it was terribly hot at home and I didn’t feel right leaving the poor things there. Oh, and Bunny’s in the bag.” She dropped the bag onto the chair in the corner with an unceremonious thud. It twitched but otherwise remained unmoving.

Fells eyed it as she paced back and forth, a wailing Heth against her shoulder. Her dark hair was plastered to her scalp, and there were dots of sweat at her temples. A few of them ran rivulets down the sides of her face. “Fine s’long as ya keep that unnatural thing ‘way from th’babes. An’ inna bag.”

“Of course. Now then.”

Yva eyed the back wall of the great room, her mouth pinching thoughtfully. When she lifted her hand up, ice began to spread, covering everything from the paint to the pictures to the drapes. Fells turned around and squawked, her eyes bulging from their sockets. The noise startled the babies, and both of them set off on another round of screeching. The dogs barked in echo and the snakes slithered away to hide under the bed. Even the big dead rabbit roiled around inside of his canvas sack.

Utter chaos had descended upon the household in the span of twelve seconds.

“Yva, what’re ya doin’! That ain’t . . . Laz’s gonna . . . aww damn it! Everythin’ stop bellowin’!”

Yva just smiled, opting not to point out that Fell’s bellowing was louder than everything else’s. She forced the ice over a second wall, and then a third. Fells sputtered beside her like a gobbo machine about to die a glorious, mechanical death. “Give it a moment, my dear. Just one moment.”

The temperature dropped almost immediately. Yva channeled more mana into the ice to keep the effect alive, so nothing would melt and cause a watery mess. She lifted her arms and waited, and soon, a lovely circulation of cool air began around them. Flaadhun grunted and shoved by her to go sprawl on the hearth, Stumpy and Evan trotting behind him. They settled down into three large heaps, stretching out to enjoy the now tolerable temperature. Heth quieted down, which meant Feli quieted down, which meant . . .

Fells quieted down.

“Oh damn! That feels real nice!” She sighed as she sank down into a chair at the table, reaching for a glass of water. “Laz’ll prolly have a ruttin’ fit, but I don’ care. Feels too good ta tell ya t’stop.”

“I’ll handle Laz.” Yva moved to the chair beside her, reaching forward to pick Feli up from her crib. The little girl squirmed and made a very ‘I don’t like you’ face at her, but Yva ignored it, rubbing her back in soothing circles. Feli settled down, unhinging her jaw in a yawn and cramming a pudgy fist in her mouth.

“Ya know what’s gonna make it even better?” Fells said after a minute. “Mean, other’n the house gittin’ cool.”

“Hmm?”

“Shad’s still bringin’ ice cream.”

Yva’s stomach yowled. Fells’s stomach brawred in answer.

The cousins looked at each other and grinned.

*****

There was a thud as the boots hit the floor behind him. He was in the sixth row, hidden behind books stacked nearly to the ceiling, and yet someone had managed to ferret out his location with little preamble. To make matters worse, that royal piss of a felhound warming the doorway couldn’t be bothered to warn him.

“Oi. Niall. I need somethin’.”

Recognizing the questionably dulcet tones of Naiara Bittertongue, Niall flipped his head back to look up at the ceiling, allowing a long, ragged sigh to escape. “Oh. It’s you.” He couldn’t have telegraphed his annoyance any clearer if he’d had one of those gobbo sound amplifiers to boom it through the chamber.

“Don’t sound so fekkin’ thrilled about it. Ya might burst somethin’.”

“Nothing overly important, I assure you. Maybe just my brain as the aneurysm strikes.” Niall turned and peered at her beneath the dark arches of his brows. She was about her mother’s height, with a riot of dark wavy hair that spilled past her shoulders and flowed over her back. Her green eyes seemed to gleam, almost like she had a secret she couldn’t wait to tell, and her lips held a perpetually wry twist. “And to what do I owe this Most Welcome Interruption.”

Naiara’s grin ate up half of her face, exposing two rows of perfect, glinting teeth. “Need a book.”

“Help yourself. There’s at least ten thousand here. Might I recommend ‘Common Courtesies of the Stormwind Dynasties’.” He hobbled down the aisle towards her, his polished onyx cane clicking on the floor tiles as he moved. “Or perhaps ‘Speaking Like A Tavern Wench’ by the esteemed Scary Mary of Goldshire proper.”

“My aunt’s taught me all the tavern wenching I ever need to know.” Naiara scurried ahead of him to perch on a stack of books, extending a long leg across so he couldn’t pass. “There’s pride in proper wenching, you know. Plus you get to wear fun clothes. You seen Aunt Annie’s wardrobe?”

“I’m sure somewhere in that muddled brain of yours that makes complete and utter sense. And no, I haven’t. I tend not to notice things I find completely inane. Like women’s dress. Though . . . ” He gave her a blatant perusal from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. His mouth slid into a smirk. “Perhaps I’d notice it if you actually bothered to attempt looking female? Have you heard of a skirt? They’re like pants, you see, but with one big leg hole at the bottom in lieu of two.”

“You’re a crabby arsehole, Balthasar.” She pulled a book from the shelf behind her, running her finger along the gilt letters of the spine. “Now then, about me book.”

“‘My’ book.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No it’s no . . . I am not arguing this with you.” He tried to thwack at her with his cane, but she moved too fast, the left leg dropping so the right one could take its place, still blocking his retreat. He gave her his dirtiest scowl, which just managed to set the wenchling grinning even wider. “Move please? Or are we going to play games all day? I tend not to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.”

“Not movin’ ’til I get my book.”

“Will wonder’s never cease. You actually said it properly.”

“Proper’s boring,” she said. “Anyway, Mum said I should bug you with this. An’ trust me – you don’t want to piss off me mum.”

He stood up straighter, suddenly looking every bit like a wiry, even more arrogant version of Jakob Balthasar. “That doesn’t mean I’m simply going to hand over one of MY mother’s tomes without permission, you realize.”

With a sigh, Naiara slid the book in her hand onto the stack in front of her. Niall frowned at it, then pointedly looked at the vacant slot on the shelf behind her. She followed his gaze, but did nothing. He began to tap his cane on the floor, rhythmically, a little faster as time passed. Their eyes locked. He twitched, she giggled. When he leaned forward to grab the book and put it back onto the shelf himself, she grabbed for it and jerked it just out of his reach, shaking it back and forth. “Ya want this? Just gotta say you’re gonna help me.”

“You little . . . ugh. Fine. I will help IF you put the damned thing back where it belongs.”

Her eyes swept up to his temple. “You got a vein pulsin’ right here, mate. Think that aneurysm’s comin’ on.”

“PUT THE BLOODY BOOK BACK!”

“Oi! I’m right here, you tosser!” The giggles became belly laughter as she did indeed return the book to its rightful place. She’d momentarily toyed with the idea of putting it in upside down and backwards, but she was fairly sure Niall would spontaneously combust if she did, and she couldn’t let that happen before she got what she’d come for.

Niall gave her a long look, his fingers swiping imaginary lint off of the cuff of his robe. “Now then. I should warn you, I really shouldn’t lend out my mother’s books without her permission, so you’ll have to do your reading here.”

“Don’t be such a pansy.”

“A pan . . . have you seen my mother in a temper?”

A dagger appeared in Naiara’s hand seemingly out of nowhere, its blade glinting silver in the dim lantern light. She ran the tip under her fingernails to clean them out. “Nah, but Da says she’s nuttier than a squirrel house, an’ I heard stories.”

“I will not confirm or deny any of that, but I will say I’m not going to risk her wrath.” He leaned against one of the book shelves, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what is it that you need so badly as to interrupt my work?”

“Book on the northern travelers.”

He arched a brow, now quite interested in whatever it was she wanted. He’d expected something girly and dumb, but a history book steeped in rich magical practices? Well, he couldn’t quite hide his surprise. “The gypsy people? An odd request.”

“I’m an odd lass, and aye. Arathi travellers. Think you can help me out?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully and nodded, motioning ahead of him with his cane. “Third aisle. A lot of my mother’s books focus on arcanery, you realize, so it might be something along the lines of hearth witchery – auguries, herbal compendiums and the like.”

“Perfect.” She dropped her leg and followed him through the maze of shelves into the back of the room. His finger traced over the titles. Near the bottom right, he pulled out a half dozen or so tomes, blowing the dust off of the tops of the pages.

He handed them to her in a neat stack. “I didn’t realize YOU had any kind of interest in such material.”

“And I didn’t realize you weren’t a poofter. Oh wait, still don’t know that for sure.”

Niall watched her retreating back as she made her way to the table out front, not hiding his smile quite as well as he’d meant to. “Let’s test the theory, shall we? Next time you’re visiting why don’t you bring an actual female with you?”

“Go fek yourself, Balthasar.”

The Wildfire Riders decided that the release of today’s patch would see our RP circle IC’ly tackling the fall of the Lich King. This is something I whipped up to commemorate it!

Can be tough bein’ me, though folk ain’t gonna believe it none. Gorgeous, tough, got two beautiful kids an’ a tongue that can talk sweet an’ sour at th’drop of a hat. Tongue can do other shit, too, but see, that’s the damned problem. Least, the problem I’m yappin’ on t’day. So sit down, shut the fuck up an’ hear me out. Oh, an’ pass me that bottle’a whiskey.

Just gimme ten minutes.

I’m also going to take this time to apologize for our lack of posting shenanigans lately. Real life has kicked the three authors in the junk. As one of us is getting married next week (grats Bricu!) I doubt that’s going to turn around for a little bit – both Yva and Threnn are traveling to attend the festivities and posts will be sporadic at best. That being said, if anyone would like to put a guest post together, feel free! We’d love to hear from our contributors. Contact me via email with any questions or potential posts.

Many harts.