Art by Kost

The Night Elf sitting on the bar doesn’t turn her pretty head to you when you enter. She’s too busy starring daggers at the ‘arcanist’ in the corner: The blonde one with a pony tail and the spectacles. Her good side to you, you can tell she’s young and pretty–at least she would be if she wasn’t sneering–but the ease in which she hoists the giant blade propped up next to her makes it clear that she’s familiar with battle.

The arcanist makes apologies, and the pretty elf huffs a few words in Darnassian. With her free hand, she reaches for her over-sized mug of gutrot, and that’s when you can see the scars. The left side of the elf’s face is a tangled mass of healed scars. Are they burns or battle scars?

“Squire, yeh want ta die, I can think o’a thousand more preferable ways than bein’ skinned alive by Illi. Siddown an close yer gob, or she’ll spit yeh like a pig.”

“Yeh won’t find anyone angrier than Illithias. Sure, she’s calmed down a wee bit since she joined the Black n’Red, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t full o’piss an’ vinegar. An’ ale. Someone should probably tell her ta cool it–someone other than Fells–but no one does. Personally, if she’s ol’ enough ta fight, she’s old enough ta drink her self sick.

“What, how old is she? Maybe sixty five winters? Aye, she’s young fer an Elf. She’s an orphan ta, losin’ her family why Hyjal burned the first time. That’s why she’s so bloody pissed an’ why she drinks so bloody much. How the hell is she supposed ta cope? Other than babysit fer the missus an’ me…

“Aye she watches Naiara. She’s good at it ta. The bloodthirsty bit isn’t an act, mind yeh. She’s not some hard-bitten warrior on the outside an’ some sort a simperin’ elf on the inside. She’s angry through-an-through, but she’s not a monster. She just looks–an’ acts–like one. Figure by the time Naiara’s old enough ta swing an axe proper, Illi’ll be calm enough ta be a good trainer. Hell, she’s alread started teachin’ some o’the street kids how ta wield a knife properly. She’s more complicated than folk’ll give her credit fer. The again, how complicated do yeh have ta be ta bury an axe inta a tossers skull?”

Are there any sorts of common threads you notice when you consider those plots?  What about the events that led your character to be part of those things — is there a particular kind of hook that will reel her in time after time?  Are there any skills he falls back on repeatedly?

You might have the start of a theme there.  It’s also possible that your character’s theme might intersect with his or her personality traits — is your character prideful?  Stubborn to a fault?  If these traits get him into or out of trouble on a regular basis, you’re looking at a theme.

When Bricu’s player and I talk about future RP stories, I try to keep some of their themes in mind:  Bricu’s cleverness and tendency to scheme, Threnn’s stubbornness and desire to make things right.  There’s also often the reminder of a shared dream of theirs:  once the world is a safe place, to grow old surrounded by their children, grandchildren, and orphans they might someday adopt.  Of course, to achieve that aim in the first place, they’ll need to survive villains, enemies, and the world at large.

What are some themes you’ve noticed while crafting and participating in stories for your characters?  How can these influence and inspire future RP?

Also, for bonus Monday slacker-time, I’ll leave you with my new favorite Bricu and Threnn song (which got me thinking about this post!), Sting’s “The End of the Game.”

These player-made additions are typically discussed in Fic. While we play WoW, we cannot hold an event in Galahad or the Feather. Classes for Stormwind University can occur out of the classroom, but the Headmaster can’t meet with an unruly student in his office, nor can he remove someone from the dorms. Yet these additions add to the feel of the game. They allow for players to say, “My character left his or her mark” with destroying established lore.

Have your characters added to their city? Do you feel it is in appropriate for players to add to the established geography of a particular city? Fill us in!

Lady Varenna Sungale by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Varenna raised her shield and blocked both of Illithias’ slashes. “Il-Illithias! Stop!” Varenna shouted at her. Illlithias snarled in response and swung her axes again. Varenna blocked one axe with her shield. She parried the other, beat the haft of the axe hard enough for Illithias to drop her second axe. This didn’t stop her. She grabbed her remaining axe with both hands and swung with all of her might at Varenna. Varenna neither parried nor raised her shield. She took two quick steps backward out of the arc of the axe. It slammed into the ground, kicking up a great gout of snow. Still snarling, Illithias pulled back up on the axe with both hands.

“Stop! We have to go!” Varenna shouted. “Illithias! We’re leaving!”

Illithias pulled the axe half-out of the snow. She stopped snarling long enough only to spit out, “I’m staying.” She tugged once more before Bricu slammed his own axe onto the haft of her remaining axe.

“Get yer arse back t’the fuckin’ line long ear. Sunshine, get movin’.”

“Not till she moves, Sergeant.” Varenna replied.

Bricu stopped short of a response as Illithias leapt at him, fists swinging, screaming in Darnassian. He caught her by the wrist and held her gaze for a moment.

“The fuck yeh screamin’ ’bout?”

“LEAVE ME HERE!”

“Fuck this.” Bricu said. Then he slammed his forehead into the bridge of her nose. Twice. Illithias went limp, but Bricu held her up by her wrists.

“Sunshine?”

“Yes Sergeant.”

“Carry the fuckin’ tosser. I’ll grab her axes.”

“Yes sir.”

Varenna took Illithias on her shoulders, and carried her back to the rally point. Bricu scooped up her weapons and double timed it back. Varenna rushed past Threnn, Fingold and Annalea and set Illithias up against a rock.

“Sunshine, sit on her.”

“Sergeant?”

“Sit on her, I’m gettin’ rope.”

Bricu went to the makeshift medical tent and grabbed frostweave bandages. Varenna was kneeling on Illithias back when he returned, and although Illi had not stirred, Varenna still looked uncomfortable. He quickly tied her ankles together, then moved to her wrists. He motioned for Varenna to spin her over, which she did quickly. Then Bricu gently put a hand on her face and called upon the light to heal Illi’s broken nose. She awoke with a start, cursing in Darnassian.

“Oi, the fight’s over. We lost. Yer safe.”

“To the Nether with you, Bittertongue. You stole my chance at absolution.” Illithias snarled. She pulled against her bonds, but they held tight.

Bricu glared at her in response. Illithias didn’t seem to notice.

“I can join my family, leave this world doing right, not have to suffer through their deaths and my fall and…”

“Yeh fuckin’ stow this shite solider.” Bricu said. He didn’t raise his voice. “If yer life is so fuckin’ cheap an meaningless, then I’m buyin’ it.”

Illithias stopped struggling and looked up at Bricu. “You what?”

“I fuckin’. Own. Yeh. Yer too fuckin’ stupid t’see the worth that I do? Fine. I own it. Since yeh threw it away on shite move, I bought it on the fuckin’ cheap.”

“I am not going to be your property, your slave…”

“Slaves have value. Yeh only got potential. Yer an’ investment–since yer too fuckin’ broken t’be a person right now. An t’keep my investment safe…. Sunshine?”

“Yes sergeant?” Varenna whispered.

“Keep her in those bandages.”

“Yes sergeant.”

Illithias cursed again, but Bricu glowered at her. She fell silent after a few moments, but Bricu didn’t turn away. Bricu held Illithias’ gaze for as long as she could. When she broke, and lowered her head, Bricu continued to look at her.

“If she gets up,” Bricu said sternly, “knock her out.”

Herein lies the another successful aspect of Wrathgate: The Willingness to Lose. Brilliant plans and fancy words are nothing compared to the power of the Lich King

Italics

His name reverberated through the hills, echoed off cliffs of ice and stone, the Bloody Prince’s name become a prayer shouted from rotting throats. Beneath it, the Highlord’s voice carried still, a condemnation running counterpoint to worship.

Were there words trapped in those metallic screeches? Did something whisper within the saronite?

(All that you know will fade. Give in to your fear.

It WAS your fault.)

The scourge let up a cry, ululating shrieks climbing to the skies in anticipation of their master’s appearance. Abominations lifted their own chains in clumsy, corpse-pale fingers and rattled them, mimicking the sound of the gates. Ghouls fell to their hands and knees, rolling and writhing in the snow. They slammed already-ruined faces against the ground, splitting putrescent skin open on jagged bits of ice and anointing their foreheads with whatever ichor leaked from the wounds.

A tinge of palest blue, coalescing around a sword — keen-edged, demon-forged. (And did they yearn towards it, even just a bit? Even from this distance? The power, oh, to wield even the slightest —

(No.)

The Bloody Prince — The Lich King — Arthas — stepped forth from the darkness, scattering all thoughts of the sword.

The gibbering returned, and there were those who were unsure whether it was the mindless voices of the scourge, or whether it was the terror escaping their own throats.

(There is no escape… not in this life… not in the next…
You will be alone in the end.
This kingdom shall fall.

Give in to your fear.
Give in to your fear.
Give in.)

Bricu
There was a part of Bricu’s heart, safely nestled underneath enchanted steel, battle ready muscles and a thick core of cynicism that wanted to bark out orders to aim and fire. Every other aspect of his being told him to flee. He tried to move, to lift his legs and run to Threnn, but he was frozen in place. Even his guts were tied into a knot. One thought slipped through–Threnn. He was able to turn his head and see her, stock still, held by the same fear he was. Threnn, and the baby, held in place by the Lich King. Guilt brought another thought–he had brought his family to die here. Bricu, Threnn and their child would die here…

Bricu managed to force his thoughts to his service dagger. Straight Stratholme steel, a holdover from a just before the Bloody Prince earned his name. He could use it to cut the armor straps free–Threnn’s greaves, leg plates and spaulders–and run. Get her and the wee one out of the Hi’s grasp. He tried to reach for the dagger, tried to will his legs to move, tried to move. With all his will, all he could do was look at his wife and grind his teeth in worry.

Bricu tried to call upon the Light to free himself, Threnn or anyone near her. It couldn’t answer his call. It didn’t break through the gloom.

Even the Light is scared to tread here now.

Watching Threnn, he saw something move in the snow behind her. Something small–insignificant–but something. It was white, with small, pointy ears and a long snout that ended in a coal black spot. It was hard to see with snow and ice, but there she was. A Fox. Bricu knew this was his vixen. She ran towards Threnn, her bushy tail up and out of the snow. She glanced at up at Threnn then back to Bricu. The two locked eyes for a heartbeat. The vixen darted off towards the tent where Genise, Yva and Davien had prepared their spell.

Bricu prayed once more, one that he barely remembered from his youth. The Light came to him briefly, just enough to free him from his fear, and he sprinted towards Threnn. He called upon Fox to steal enough Light to keep her safe, and Bricu saw her armor shine with the Light’s protective glow. Bricu pulled out his service dagger. He told Threnn what he was going to do, but the first explosion interrupted him, and sent him to the ground. As he reached for his service dagger, Bricu saw the sickly green mist begin to fill the valley below…

Tarquin
He shouldn’t have been surprised when it happened. In the weighing-out of things, Tarquin was a man who made his living on lies – to his victims, to his enemies, to the powerful who could blot out his little world like a wine stain if they felt it worth the effort. Even, when he needed to, to his own. The world was an engine that ran on deceit. What d’yeh expect?, he’d said, called a liar to his smiling face. Honesty’d hardly rate a virtue if iv’ry bloke wis ta take it ta bed. Even here, at the world’s frozen edge, he’d brought his lies with him, dressed up in a little suit called Hope and trotted out to be adored. He hadn’t expected to believe them too, was the problem; hadn’t expected them to have that uncomfortable ring of truth.

And you don’t get attached to a lie. Sooner or later, they all get found out.

“Thir fuckin’ well losin’ it!” he cackled over the bowel-loosening chants and moans. “Yelpin’ thon name like wir ta shite it oafay some…menacin’ syllables. As well chant Turnips! Turnips!” There was a bit of scattered repartee from the Riders on the ground, no more. Tarquin pressed on; he didn’t know much about tactics, but he knew the efficiacy of bullshit as a weapon. “Let’s gang an’ drag the witches oan back here, they’ve had thir fun.” He turned to Jolstraer to have that translated to Military, and that was when the silence fell. That was when the Wrath Gate screeched open, and something walked out.

Tarquin didn’t credit it at first, the form of the Enemy, even with the footsteps ringing for miles and the sword pale with horror. It didn’t seem real. Just another convenient lie, a return stroke in the battle of who would break first. He needed some words, some scheme, something to counter this dread. The hell did it come from?

When the cold found him, he understood. His bones felt brittle as glass; when he took a breath, his throat burned like he’d swallowed Nifflevar snow, and the spit dried in his mouth and tasted of iron. His knives were useless weights strung to a fragile , and as for the sword in his hand, that was a comic prop, a weapon wielded by a man who couldn’t use it against a foe who wouldn’t feel it. He would have laughed, but the cold reached into him and killed the giggle in its birth throes. The Enemy was speaking, but words in that mouth didn’t have any meaning. all he heard was a death-rattle in hope’s throat.

The Enemy looked at him, then. Looked across the field, his eyes sweeping across miles of mountains. The Riders had to be ants to him, like all the others, but still his eyes found them, one by one, and ten thousand others. Tarquin had pictured facing the Bloody Prince before, of course, and imagined the thing beneath his helm. It’d either pissed and moaned, with Arthas Menethil’s famed petulance, or looked at the Riders with distant, alien eyes; so far beyond them it couldn’t be bothered. But this was neither.

“I will show you the justice of the grave…”

The look that sent him stumbling back, turning away, dropping his sword in the unforgiving snow, was heavy with hatred he couldn’t hope to match. Arthas Menethil begrudged the world his failures, Ner’Zhul blamed them for his torments, but the Lich King hated everything that had the teremity to live. Every step taken, every word uttered, without his bitter will driving it, stabbed like knives. “Pride” was the wrong word; the Lich King was no more proud than mountains were. This was inevitability.

“…and the true meaning of fear.”

Bile surged up from the back of Tarquin’s throat, and he retched in the bloody snow. This morning, he’d promised that they would remind the Bloody Prince of fear. He’d told another pretty lie, and told it so well he’d believed it too. Arthas knew fear perfectly well. Knew it like a lover’s caress, like a father’s hand, like the taste of his own spit in his mouth. It was his weapon and his companion. Tarquin had led the Riders here to wield that very weapon, and it did all the good of drowning the ocean in pebbles.

Frostmourne howled below, and a rustling gasp crossed the valley. Someone is dead. The dead were shrieking again, their master’s name swelling to encompass the entire world, the million-throated entity that was the insatiable Scourge. The Oathbreaker hung his head, the taste of vomit in his mouth, his limbs leaden and useless in the consuming cold. Never again, he thought, the irony puncturing even his dread. Of course, never again. This is how it ends.

Did they have a mentor?

Now, mentors don’t all have to be like Dumbledore or Gandalf the Grey.  Can your character have been taught by a grizzled old man of indeterminate age, wielding a staff and dispensing cryptic wisdom?  Sure!  But mentors come in all shapes and sizes, and can lend an interesting aspect to your character’s development.

Some things to consider, if you’re giving your character a mentor:

What kind of influence did the mentor have over your character?

The mentor can be a helpful presence, offering wisdom and teaching your character to be stronger, braver, smarter.  Or perhaps the mentor is more of a hindrance, keeping him from going after his goals until he’s been deemed worthy, whether his reasoning is correct or not.  Perhaps the mentor was actively working against your character’s ambitions.

What was the mentor’s standing in his or her society?  Amongst other practitioners of his art?

Is the mentor a well-respected mage of the Kirin Tor, or did he spend the last ten years living in the forest, shunned by his peers?  Do other hopeful students seek her out, or do her heretical beliefs make her someone most others avoid?  Could he pull strings for your character if the need arose?  (And if he could, would he?)

Did your character want a mentor?  Did the mentor want a student?

Are they together by mutual decision?  By necessity?  Because other parties are forcing them to spend time together, and they don’t have the power or leverage to refuse?

Is the mentor older or younger than the character?

How does any age difference affect their relationship?  Does your much-younger character laugh at the curmudgeonly old crone?  Does your middle-aged character scoff at her teenaged mentor?  Does the mentor think the character’s too immature to learn any of his lessons, or too old to change his ways?  How do they surprise one another and challenge assumptions?

Is the mentor still alive?

If so, how involved is he in the character’s day to day life?  Are they still on speaking terms, or did they have a falling-out?  If they’re not getting along, is one bent on making the other’s life hell?

If the mentor’s dead, how did he or she die?  Does your character need or want vengeance/closure/forgiveness?

Did an enemy send an assassin?  Did your character bring about his mentor’s demise by accident?  On purpose?  Did they die so your character could escape to live another day?  Did her mentor leave her with a task that needs completing?  If so, does she plan to complete it?

There are so very many different scenarios you could play with if you choose to give your character a mentor, and I’m sure there are hundreds of other questions we could ask to help you flesh him or her out even more.  If you have a few hours years to get lost in the clicky labyrinth of TV Tropes, here’s where their page on mentors starts.

When you find your way back to us, tell us — does your character have someone they’d consider a mentor?  Fill us in!

These can be anything from minor flaws to major failings.  They might stem from physical characteristics (or the character’s perception thereof) or be a result of something in her backstory. Let’s take a look at a few examples.  I’m grouping them into physical/mental/social, though understand that in a lot of ways, these categories might bleed into one another.

Physical

Something about your character’s body is the source of insecurity.  Is she taller than everyone she knows?  Does he have an awkward gait due to an injury?  Are his clothes shabby and worn?  Is she a Night Elf who thinks her ears are way too short?

Mental

We have two characters in the Riders who can’t read, a fact that made them very uncomfortable when attention was drawn to it, even inadvertently.  Maybe your character’s terrible at math and dreads a shopkeeper figuring that out and taking advantage of them.  Perhaps their memory is missing from a certain period of time, and they don’t want anyone to know.

Social

Is your character afraid her commoner’s accent will make people think less of her?  Is he terrified of having to speak in front of a crowd?  Maybe he never really had any close friends and suddenly has someone confiding in him — how will he react to someone crying on his shoulder?  What if your character failed spectacularly at something in the past, and is afraid she’ll be recognized and ridiculed for it?

Once you have some of ideas for insecurities in mind, it’s worthwhile to explore why they’re there in the first place.  Did the tall girl in the class get teased about her height when she was growing up, or taunted because her dresses always hung awkwardly on her gangly frame?  Did the character’s failure at math mean their brother got cheated out of a deal?  Did he grow up somewhere remote, with only his immediate family for company?

The reasoning doesn’t have to be intricate.  It doesn’t even have to make sense.  A real-life example: I hate showing my teeth when I smile.  Before braces, I had a huge overbite.  The braces have been off for fifteen years and I still have A Thing about it.  Last weekend, Yva asked me to show ‘em, and I literally could not do it. To the point where I spent the next ten minutes covering my mouth with my hand.

Does it make sense?  Not at all.  But there it is.

So how did your character’s insecurities pop up in the first place?  And how do they color his or her actions and reactions in-game?

Does the shabbily dressed character steal finery from nobles’ clotheslines on wash day?  Does the one who stutters speak as rarely as possible?

Do they perhaps try to cover up their insecurities in another way?  The short-eared elf might go out and get a hundred piercings so peoples’ eyes are drawn to the jewelry rather than the size and shape of her ears.  The woman with the commoner’s accent might adopt a noble’s cadence and inflection to hide where she’s truly from.

How does that character react when someone does call attention to their insecurities?  Do they shrink away or flee the scene?  Do they put on some false bravado and talk too loudly?  Do they try deflecting and changing the subject?

Physical flaws are probably among the easiest to create and bring into roleplay, though there’s the danger of coming off as a bit Sue-ish with them.  If your character is constantly lamenting how ugly she is while her RSP description lists all the ways in which she’s a perfect sparkleprincess, it becomes less about insecurity and more about fishing for attention.  This isn’t to say that all of a character’s perceived physical flaws have to be real.  Body dysmorphic disorder is a very real thing (and would be a completely different post), but if a character’s only calling attention to her “too-big nose” so someone will tell her how it’s really quite lovely and dainty and how they just want to kiss it, well… maybe you want to rethink that.

Something else to consider is whether or not you want your character to overcome that insecurity.  It can become a great source for a storyline.  You can go for anything from the comic to the tragic:  the guy who hates public speaking tries out for a play and hijinks ensue.  The person who doesn’t really know how to be close to someone else fails to deliver comfort in a friend’s time of need — not because he doesn’t feel sympathy, but because he doesn’t know how to show it.  Maybe he loses the friend altogether; maybe he has to work to repair the friendship.  Maybe the spurned friend sells him out to the villain.

So, cats ‘n’ kittens, let’s hear it!  What are some of your characters’ insecurities?  How did they start?  What happens when attention is called to them?  Do you think they’ll ever overcome it, either as a part of their story arc, or simply through interactions with others?

In order to count all of Yva’s alts, I need to count on both of my hands. Falconesse has at least three alts. Most of the other Riders have at least two alts. While people following GotRP’s twitter stream answers the question, “How many alts do you have?” I want to write about the joy of having one WoW character.
(edit: The average number of alts appears to be about 6.)

Technically speaking I have alts. I have not played them–except for my Bank alt–in years. Part of this, as I have stated many times before, is due to time constraints. I simply do not have the time that one requires to develop alts. Time, however, is only one factor. Bricu is my only 80. Even if I do level another toon to 80, it’ll just be a Bricu with a hugely different spec.

While I do have a number of ideas for characters–Horde and Alliance–and I am not intimidated by the game mechanics of the various classes, I am not interested in their stories. I only have room in my brain for Bricu. Don’t get me wrong. I love WoW’s content. I enjoy learning new dungeons, following plot progression and competing for purple pixels. While watching the rise and fall of Arthas is fun, watching Bricu develop from a single sentence to a multi-volume character, goes beyond fun.

I could try playing multiple characters. I could have a huge stable of alts to experience the content a myriad number of ways. That might provide a new perspective on Bricu. It would also detract from the story that he is still telling me. When Bricu gets tired, or needs a break, I will probably fire up an alt. The problem, however, is that Bricu refuses to quit. Just ask the City Watch. His story continues to develop in such a way that I just need to know how it is going to end.

Bricu’s story is going to end one day. Either he’ll jump the shark, the servers will shut down, the Rider fall apart or his story reaches a conclusion. Given that I’ve only just scratched the surface of this character, I don’t foresee the latter anytime soon.

Am I the only who feels this way? Anyone else with One and Only?

(ps Sorry for the Hanging Phrase there. Silly Chrome not updating the blog!)

From all the rumblings I’ve heard on Feathermoon, it seems that 3.3 dropped at just the right time. End game content, specifically the Tourney, had been played out. Thanks to Fall of the Lich King raiders–including RP-Radiers–have new content to throw themselves into. The patch is a booster shot: It is giving players enough content to get to Cataclysm. That is what Blizzard, as content providers, need to do. When the game gets stale they are supposed to add another level of content. Not everyone is going to see that content; however, not everyone needs to see it. There needs to be just enough new stuff–items, instance, battlegrounds, whatever–to keep people interested in the game, even if they may not be able to get there.

Blizzard is responsible for that layer of content. When WoW needs a booster, they provide it. RP is a different matter entirely. While it would be nice for Blizz to throw RPers a bone–player housing, phased bars that allowed bar-fights–it is not Blizzards responsibility to fix your RP. It is the RPer’s.

If your RP needs a shot in the arm, there are a number of solutions to fix it. Some are good, some are bad, but all of them depend on the context of the RP and your RP circle.  And while one could always just take a break from the game, breaks are not a shot in the arm. Breaks are a chance to rest and recuperate from RP.  This is an important, and over looked, tool for recharging your RP batters; however, I’m more interested in more active methods of fixing stale RP.

For instance, in July of this year our esteemed leader and metal head in chief, Tarquin, wanted to get out of his funk. We spent hours talking about what to do, what not to do and how to incorporate the rest of the guild. Currently, that plot line is on-going. In fact, we’ve blogged about them before.  I think this method is ideal. It gives the player a chance to work out the “RP Funk” with friends AND it provides more RP threads for newer characters/players. The downside to this method–and there is a substantial one–is that it takes a long time to do. Not everyone wants to spend three hours with people chatting about RP. Not everyone is going to be able to invest the six months–or more–it will take to revitalize the RP. While the RP would see an initial boost, that is a short term effect. Dissecting the RP and plotting the future takes more than just one night of feeling good about the RP’s direction.

Another method, one that does not require a  a full on group discussion, is to change the method of RP. If you are a forum writer or a Ficcer, trying to RP during an RP night can give you the real interactions your character needs. If you prefer the raucous and chat spamming RP night, a little fic or forum RP can help you find your way. Changing a method, however, is daunting. Breaking into an RP night isn’t always easy. Writing, especially if you think you are not a writer*, is also terribly scary.

A little adversity doesn’t hurt anyone. In fact, a little adversity forces one to grow and change.  Doing something that scares you is good for you.  To quote Elenaor Roosevelt,”You must do the things you think you cannot do.”  Changing up the method, while scary, can really boost the RP when you need to.

If a mass meeting, fic or an RP night is not your thing, it maybe time to roll an alt. Personally, I cannot speak to this method. Others–including my brilliant and esteemed collaborators–have a few alts. I rolled Bricu a few weeks after Launch and I’ve been playing him ever since. I don’t have an Alt with a story that I care about. I can see the appeal. If one characters story is stale, needs a push or is just too much to handle, hopping over to an entirely different persona can also provide a boost for both toons. Tired of the Alliance? Go Horde. Tired of not having chairs? Go Alliance.

Even the most richly developed characters, with years of untapped potential, can hit a snag. While Blizzard can give RPers a few new bells and whistles, in the end, it is the players responsibility to fix their own snags. I’ve only touched on a few of the ways to give your RP a shot in the arm: Please share your methods with the rest of us!

For the Riders on the Hill, we have another italics post.  This post provided the context for the next series posts….

—
Aely

The fact that she’d tossed and turned all night in her tiny cot, dreaming of death and climbing trees, didn’t help the 4am Reveille call.

Aely stuck her nose out of the corner of the borrowed field tent. It was wetter than it had been the previous day, and the fog was thick and swirling in the pre-dawn light. The hushed noises of the night before were replaced with shouts and movement, tents packed up – even the medics seemed infected with a desire to keep busy, to stay moving, and to try and avoid thinking about the horrors they all knew were coming. They were understaffed, thanks to the earlier attacks, and the impending dread didn’t help anyone’s mood, particularly the two dwarf priests who seemed eager to battle /each other/ instead of worrying about the soldiers.

They say there’s always a lull before the storm, for battle or for weather, and that day both the wind and the army was rising.

Men and Dwarves and Elves moved in formation, an assortment of drummers keeping march, and somewhere she heard Goblin planes roaring in the growing wind, the whir of the machines mixing with the solid tramp of booted feet on snow. Not even the clear, rhythmic ring of hoofbeats sounded without an element of anticipation as they marched on Angrathar. Time stretched as an eternity for the Combat Medic Unit, each carrying as many supplies as they could, and two poor donkeys with a wagon behind of whiskey, water, linen, and firewood.

The closer they got to the gate, the worse the wind became, and the first flurries of snow blew in and among the soldiers, whipping their cloaks into a frenzy of multi colored flags. Angrathar loomed over them, a brooding menace that spoke to horrors within – it cracked, and hordes of scourge came into full view, pouring out of the gate, shambling towards them with the odd, shuffling gait of the mindless dead.

Then stillness settled over the Alliance forces, as tangible as the soft wisps of snow falling from the thickening clouds. The wind held its breath.

A shout, muffled – silenced. Two shouts, and a musket misfired. “HOLD FIRE!” Silence again, only the sound of each heartbeat in straining ears. “STEADY!”

And then, as suddenly as the silence fell, it vanished in a rush of swallowed heartbeats and voiced adrenaline, shouts of battle and the percussive roar of cannonfire and musketry overhead. Somewhere an elven battalion sang their arrows into the sky, and with the sickening crunch of metal on reanimated flesh the two armies began to dance.

–

There was a moment where the battle-cries lost their volume, where the collected sounds of swords on shields, maces on flesh, and arrows hissing through iron-grey skies all dampened down. Magic stopped searing the air for a heartbeat. This is not to say that all fighting stopped, that anyone on the field had the time to anything more than lower a sword to ease an aching arm, or wipe sweat from a dripping brow.

It was merely the brief lull that comes when one wave ends and another begins, and the armies pause to take an eyeblink’s assessment of who has fallen, what flanks are weak, what lines need to be reinforced.

Down below, Taborwynn shared the thought. He clapped the massive Tauren beside him on the back, steel clanging on steel. They nodded at one another, and made ready for the fight.