I need to preface this post with the statement that I am not (legally speaking) a Qualified Mental Health Professional in my state. I do have over eleven years of experience of working with juveniles with extremely difficult mental health behaviors; however, I cannot provide a diagnosis. My role is limited to providing treatment–in a limited context–to kids involved with the juvenile justice system. So while I am familiar with a number of mental health issues, definitions and treatments, I’m not the guy who can prescribe treatments or medications. I can draw from, and comment on, my experiences, training and eduction on mental health concerns. Just do not ask me for a diagnosis.

Last week on twitter, I asked if anyone wanted to read about my thoughts on psychopaths and sociopaths for RP. While it wasn’t an overwhelming response, there was a hint of interest. First, some definitions:

Technically, there is no such thing as a psychopath. Sociopaths don’t exist either. Both of these terms are, in current mental health lingo, as useless as the term subconscious. These are terms– for literature and pop culture. In the field, we tend to call it “Antisocial Personality Disorder.” While it is true that clinicians are currently arguing about adding terms to the next incarnation of the American Mental Health Bible, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM), as it stands right now Psychopathy is not measured in the DSM.

We do use the word psychopathy–and Psychopathy– in my field. We prefer that term over sociopath as someone has started to define and measure traits within Psychopaths. Robert Hare’s Psychopathy Checklist-Revised is a clinical measure that was created to measure Psychopathy and anti-social traits within an individual. The tool has been researched and validated for a number of populations. Antisocial Personality Disorder is the clinical diagnosis given to individuals who have high scores on the PCL-R. Sociopath, while used by some people in the field, does not have a clinical definition. Given the lack of any clinical definition for sociopath, I’m going to drop its use entirely; furthermore, while I am concerned about labeling a client with APD at say 15, that is a post for an entirely different blog. What does concern me is using proper terms when discussing these matters, even when discussing these matters for RP.

If you want to play a person that has Antisocial Personality Disorder, I would recommend the following things:

1) Talk with your circle.
Psychopathy is a dark subject. These are not well adjust people, nor do the change easily. In fact, most trainings I’ve attended have stressed the point that people with APD actually get worse if they receive treatment: They learn how to mask their predatory behaviors with treatment-speak. They learn what to say and how to act–just long enough to get someone’s trust in order to hurt them. If you want to play this kind of character, then you have to be able to explain this to the people you RP with and be able to accept the consequences of this PCs bad behavior.

2) Look up the traits.

One might think that this would be better first step; however, given how collaborative RP is, I think it is better to give people a head up before dropping a well researched APD in their lap.  The  traits for the PCL can be found here. I thought about linking them directly, but I was worried that someone would look at them and say, “omfg Bricu posted the traits of a psychopath and I have most of them!” The PCL has advanced degree requirements because an evaluator needs to be able to suss out the differences between normal human failings and a personality that is prone to violent behaviors. I want to focus on four particularly problematic traits:

Affect means observable emotional response. A shallow affect, then, means a deadpan when displaying most emotion. The rest of these traits are fairly self explanatory. All of these traits can be RPed by a character with the Azeroth equivalent of APD. Shallow affect can be be demonstrated through /say and /em, while lack of remorse, lack of empathy and manipulative behavior can be demonstrated in a variety of RP sessions. Here is an example of from my experiences working in the field.

Jenga–not his real name–called his mother. She was completely distraught over the news that he would be held in custody for failing to progress in his treatment. The staff member monitoring the phone call was playing Tetris on the computer while Jenga tried to convince his mother to come up for a “long visit before jail-time” even though she had to work. Jenga’s tone of voice never changed. Instead, he started to watch the staff play Tetris. Over the course of the phone call, Jenga became more interested in playing Tetris than in consoling his mother. He did not care if she was upset. He just wanted her to come up and visit.

It was later discovered that Jenga was using some previously established code to try and get his mother to bring him contraband–food, money–to his treatment facility. Jenga also had a list of what he wanted to do to each and every staff member at the facility. Most of these behaviors involved killing staff members.

Jenga had no regrets. The only time he would display more affect was when he was humiliated. This prompted him to plan more ways of manipulating supervisors and case managers to investigate staff. Jenga was, in my estimation, the most dangerous kid I worked with.

Tomorrow, we’ll continue to discuss these traits and how you can incorporate Antisocial Personality types into your RP.

The players of Bricu and Tarquin act like real writers and get wasted on cheap ass beer.

As we have said countless times, RP has more to do with interaction than solo production. Our clever readers may ask, “But Bricu, isn’t the process of writing Fic a solo activity?” The really clever readers respond:

“Writing is not a solitary process.”

Let’s face it, even when planning how you are going to do heroic/terrible thing to your fellow gamers (or their primary place of RP), at some point, Fic will be written to fill in the gaps that occur given this style of RP. The Fic maybe a background story on a particular NPC, or a spruced up chatlog from a previous nights RP. The Fic may even be a piece written as part of a Forum challenge, character development exercise, an email/IM exchange or prop used by the PCs (such as the torn page of a journal from a key character). Whatever the nature and role of the Fic, someone is going to have to write it. This Fic isn’t just going to be written to exist in your notebook. No, this Fic is going to be read by the rest of your RP circle.

If you, dear reader, are anything like me, then this is a terrifying realization.

Despite years of writing intensive courses, hundreds of reports for court and a fairly consistent blogging hobby, the process of Fic scares me. The writing I am used to is usually a form of non-fiction. But writing Fic is as close as I am ever going to get to writing creative fiction. It is one thing to write a report that is thorough and easy to comprehend. It is another thing entirely to show off your creations–your stories based around your characters–to your friends.

At first, I dealt with my anxieties by self-deprecating humor. I thought I was being a completely modern hipster, laughing at my self and my nerdy ways. Turns out that I was also laughing at the people I game with. That isn’t what I intended. I still play WoW because of these people. I have become extremely close to some of the people I have met through WoW, and the last thing I would ever want to do is to hurt their feelings. I had to find a different way to write and share fic without being an asshole to the people that matter to me. Here are two of the ways I’ve learned to Fic.

You might think this is an obvious point, but I have done some almost scientific observations of my Fic writing behavior. Of the time I am supposed to be writing, only 1/10 of that time is actually writing something. The breakdown is as follows:

This is wickedly inefficient. The goal is to Write then Edit. Sure, Bruce Springsteen can write and edit at the same time–but he’s the Boss. There can be only one Boss. The rest of us have to Write then edit.

Because I am not the boss, I have two techniques I use to Write then Edit. The first is to do something Threnn does: I cut text out and paste it into a separate document. This way, I keep what I have written even if it is no longer on my page.

The other method–something I am trying on this work trip–is to hand write everything. I bought a small notebook and a decent pen and started writing. If I don’t like a line, I try to limit myself to one scratch out through the center of the offending line. This way, even though I have technically edited while writing, I still have words on the page. Words that I can see, rewrite and play with until I am happy with them.

Again, this seems fairly self-evident. You are writing fic that is going to be shared with the RP circle. Before this RP makes its grand debut on your guild or realm forum, have someone else you trust go over it. In other words:

Before you share your work with the entire circle, getting another pair of eyes to look at the Fic can make a huge difference. Have your friend critique not just for grammar and style, but for content. Someone who knows the voices of the other characters may have additional insights that you either didn’t know or didn’t convey properly. An editor can even help clarify bits of complicated Lore or help you stay true to internal continuity–those stories already written by other guildies.

The hard part here is actually listening to what they have to say to you. If your friend says, “this doesn’t make sense” then listen to their concerns. It could be you need to change verb tense or stay with a consistent point of view. It could be that the scene you wrote, while perfectly executed in your head, is missing a connection for your readers. You do not have complete control over what you readers take away from your text. But you can give your readers a pretty clear path to follow.

But editing is not just supposed to be all, “Fix this.” Editing also includes compliments. Some of us, myself included, cannot take a compliment well. We dismiss what we write for any number of reasons. When we give our Fic over to someone to edit we should listen to everything they have to say, especially the compliments.

Writing Fic is just as collaborative as RP. It is just slightly more demanding that traditional MMO RP or table top RP. In Fic we still figure out how our characters solve particular dilemmas, get into wonderfully graphic fights, finish long quest chains and discover something new about our game world. Our platform just happens to be a word processor, not the game client. The loot table from Fic, however, is so much more rewarding than anything dropped in an encounter. The pretty purple pixels you get or the shiny new mount is incredibly fun, but the story you craft cannot be nerfed in the next game patch nor will it be made obsolete when the next big expansion drops.

As always, I am interested in hearing how other people write their Fic. Please, fill us in on your writing process, how you edit your fic or what you listen to while writing! Please share! See, I’ve got this other story I’m working on and I need a push in the right direction…

Or you find yourself staring at the start of a document, knowing that somewhere in that blank space is a kickass scene waiting to happen, but you have no earthly clue how to start it.

Or you’ve written one awesome scene and have the badassery that will follow all worked out, but you have no earthly cluel how to get from one scene to another.

Or you’ve got nothing, nothing at all, for this character you want to flesh out, or revisit, or jumpstart.

Some of us call it writer’s block.  Ila calls it Writer’s Blah.  Other variants on the theme are: dunwanna, Oh God ARGH, /headdesk, and My Muse is Off Boozing it Up in Jamaica Without Me WTF.

How do you get past it?  What are some ways to go snatch that pina colada out of your muse’s hand and get her back to churning out ideas?  (Okay, first thing to note, as we’ve learned from Neil Gaiman: capturing a muse is a bad idea.)

Warning: some of this advice might contradict itself here and there.  Some of it might not work for you.  The thing to keep in mind is that everyone has different writing styles.  What works for me might make you want to throw down your pen.  If you have suggestions, feel free to stick ‘em in the comments!

If you have something down on paper already…

Give it a reread.  ONE reread. What do you have down that you like?  Is there part of it that bogs down that’s getting you stuck?

If it gets slow at some point, or there’s a paragraph that keeps making you cringe, cut it out of there. That doesn’t mean highlight the paragraph and delete it permanently.  If I excise chunks of a story as I’m writing, I keep a second document open where I can dump the pieces I’m cutting in case I want to use them later.  Just because something doesn’t fit what I’m writing now doesn’t mean it won’t come in handy later on. But sometimes having the piece that has me stalling staring me in the face keeps me from being able to write past it.  Once it’s gone, I feel less like I have to make it work.

Now that the offending piece is gone, rethink what you have.  Can you take the story or the scene in a different direction?  If what you cut was dialogue that just didn’t flow, start from the beginning and play with the characters’ reactions.

Remember how I said to reread once?  That’s so you can stop tinkering with what’s already there. If you find yourself going back to the same section and moving words around over and over, you’re not accomplishing very much in the way of story progression.  Sure, you might end up with some beautifully crafted sentences early on.  You might have dialogue so moving your readers will be reaching for the tissues.  But if you don’t write what comes next, all that tweaking and perfecting are for naught.

Speaking of that, write what comes next. You’re stuck in one scene, no idea how to resolve it or wrap it up.  Set it aside for the time being and get working on the next scene.  Where do the characters go?  How has what came before affected them?  Sometimes looking at the aftermath of an action can help you figure out what needs to come before.

Check your POV — is the right character telling the story? In whose head are we tagging along for the scene?  Sure, Jack’s your main character, but would this work better from the point of view of someone else who’s with him? Try a scene break and let someone else be the narrator/POV character.  Does it work better?  I’m not a fan of switching POVs from one paragraph (or, shudder, sentence) to the next — it’s jarring.  So if  you’re going to try it, my suggestion is to try the whole scene from that new point of view, or insert a scene break and let the New Guy have his say for a while before going back into your hero’s brain after a new scene break.

If a different scene is clamoring for your attention, write it. If you keep putting off writing Random Scene of Badassery until you Finish Problem Story Goddammit, Problem Story’s going to feel like more and more of a chore.  Take a break from it.  Give yourself half an hour or so to play around with Random Scene of Badassery to get it out of your system, then go back to Problem Story.  If Problem Story starts feeling like the peas you have to eat before you can have dessert, those peas are going to get cold and nasty awfully quick.  Plus, sometimes writing something else can be a good kickstart.

Take a break from the keyboard. Get up.  Walk around.  Walk away from the story for a while and do something else.  Read a book, watch a movie, do something that lets you think about something else for a while.  Or do something that lets you think about the story without actually staring at the page.  Give your mind some freedom to wander.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve spent the day bashing my head off the scene in front of me, then figured out what needs to happen when I take ten minutes to go put my laundry in the washing machine, or how many times I’ve had a plot epiphany during the ten-minute walk to the train station.  (Of course, when those breakthroughs occur, make sure you write that shit down ASAP.)

When you’ve got a whole lot o’nothin’…

One of the hardest blocks can be when you’re just not feeling the character or the story.  If that’s the case, it might require looking at the bigger picture.  Is it just this particular story you’re not excited about telling?  Or are you not interested in playing/writing for/developing that particular character at the moment?

If it’s the former, move on to a different story.  Write about a different point in the character’s life.  Change the setting, change the theme, change the mood.  Write about something that happened when they were younger, or project yourself into their far future.  If you’re stuck on a swashbuckling adventure scene for them, switch gears and write about something more low-key.

If it’s the latter, that’s okay, too.  Sometimes you just plain aren’t feeling the character. Ask yourself why that is.  Sometimes an alt might have more of your attention.  Focus on that alt for a while.

Sometimes you’ve just finished putting the character through the wringer — if he’s going through a rough time, consider giving him something lighter to focus on.  Even though it can be all kinds of fun to do awful things to our characters, they need to have a win sometimes, too.  Let them.

If it’s a bigger problem than just a bump their current story, take a step back.  What made playing the character fun for you?  Has that changed?  Maybe the pendulum has swung to the other extreme from where the character started — how can you swing it back?

Outside factors

When you’re writing, are you also twittering, checking your blogroll, looking up phat lewtz that you want to collect, posting on forums and clicking around the interwebz in general?  While you’re catching up on your favorite series on TV? Get rid of your distractions. No, seriously.  Yes, even people-distractions. Shut off the TV.  Close your browser.  If you can’t help it and reopen the browser every few minutes “just for a second,” then reach over and unplug your ethernet cable or disconnect from your wireless network while you’re writing.  Because you’re not getting anything done, or at least not as much as you were if you devoted your full attention to the story.

Some distractions are harder to avoid — if you’re a parent, you can’t always close your office door on your kids, especially when they’re small.  But if they’re old enough to entertain themselves for a little while (or you have someone else home with you to keep an eye on them), ask for some time to yourself.  During the summer, my parents occasionally come over to swim in our pool on weekends.  It’s in my upbringing that you don’t ignore houseguests, ever. So at first, I’d find myself outside chatting with them, no matter how many times they insisted I didn’t have to play hostess.  I finally decided to take them up on that, though, letting them know “Hey, I’m writing right now, so I’ll come out and visit later, but right now I’m going to keep my door closed.”

And you know what?  They’re fine with it.

Ask someone else to take a look. Google docs is great for this, allowing you to share the doc with other people as readers or editors.  See where they think it bogs down.  Let them know where you’d like to go with the story and bounce ideas back and forth.  Sometimes all it takes is a fresh pair of eyes saying “What if this happened?” to spark you back into creativity.

Write in manageable chunks. Declare a ten-or-fifteen minute period to writing whatever comes to mind.  Spread it out over a day.

Have a writing partner. Are you more productive when someone else is counting on you?  Find someone with whom you can say “Okay, we’re writing between 6 and 6:30.  GO.”  Then when time’s up, share with each other and, if you want, give one another feedback.  Remember, it’s not a word count race, it’s a way to help each other to get things done.

Work with someone. Write the story with a partner.  If you each have characters in a scene, write a few paragraphs at a time, then bounce it back to the other person.  Try to set a response time — a day or two, or if you’re both having a lazy Saturday, every couple of hours.

—

The most important thing is to enjoy what you’re writing.  As soon as it feels like a chore, chances are you’re going to want to do it less and less and all your stories will suffer for it.  Talk it out with other writers, take a break when you need to, but don’t let the break extend so long that you never go back to it.

Are there times when a story just isn’t working?  Absolutely.  Every now and then, you might find yourself putting a story on the shelf or abandoning it altogether.  That’s okay; it happens.  It doesn’t make you a bad writer.  Put the story that’s not working away and start on something new.  If you’re not interested in what you’re writing, your audience will feel it and that’s no fun for anyone.

Okay, writers, what have I missed?  How do you power through those times when no matter how hard you try, the words just won’t come?

(Thanks to Bricu for the blogging prompt!)

—

The runeblade thunked into rotted flesh, severing the ghoul’s spine.  The grotesque thing fell to the ground, not quite split in two; its hands dragged it along while its legs kicked feebly, not quite getting the signal that they were no longer useful.  “No, you don’t, sugar,” the woman muttered, her blade whistling as she drove it down once more, relieving the creature of its head and thus its life.

Sugar.  That’s Amarra’s word, not mine.

…who the hell is Amarra?

She paused, cleaning gore off of her blade with a scrap of her late opponent’s tattered shirt.  The flashes were coming more often, now that the fog that had clouded her mind these last months had lifted, now that the voice that had filled her every thought with twisting echoes had fled.

The Argent Crusade had put her to work, after the battle.  Where else did she have to go?  Darnassus?  The humilation she’d suffered during her one trek through Stormwind had been quite enough; she had no desire to watch Kal’dorei recoil from her, too.  For a people who held life so sacred, the return of one of their own in this unnatural state could not possibly be looked upon with kindness.

What else was there?  She had a name, one that meant little enough to her and nothing to anyone else who heard it.  If I was such a great champion, why hasn’t anyone heard of me?  Maybe it’s this Amarra he meant to take.  Or maybe I am Amarra, and the names just got jumbled up in my head after death.  But no, that didn’t feel right, either.  Of all the lies she’d been fed since awakening in Acherus, the name she’d claimed was the only one that tasted of truth.

She sat on an outcropping of rock and pulled off her helm.  Fetid air lifted her hair from her neck, drying the sweat she’d worked up over the past hours.  Her deathcharger had long since declared it lunchtime; he was face-deep in a patch of weeds, tearing mouthfuls of sickly-colored grass out of the ground and munching noisily.  She had to whistle three times before he came, dragging one last clump out of the ground and chewing as he approached.

Her mana biscuits had been flattened by the other contents of her saddlebags.  Now, they were little more than a handful of bland-tasting crumbs.  Not very appetizing.  “Here,” she said, holding the disappointing mess out to the horse.  “You can have it.”

Dignity was not one of his better qualities.  He snuffled and snorted into her hand as he ate, greedily nudging and questing for more when he was done.  She laughed, picking stray bits of grass from his mane and untangling the knots the wind had twisted in.

Her fingers paused, holding a long-leafed plant that was one of the horse’s victims.  It looks familiar.  Why?

Sometimes, she could feel one of the flashes of recollection approaching, could reach out and snatch it from the air, drag it close enough to examine.  This was one of those times.  She turned the leaf over, crushed it to let the fragrance out.  Sniffed.

…silversage…

That was all at first, just the name and nothing more.  Like me.  Just a name, nothing to it.

“Fuck that, sugar.  Right, Amarra?”  She said it to the air, but maybe Amarra’s ghost was listening.  If I don’t know her, how do I know she’s dead? But it was a question she’d have to come back to.  She smelled the leaf again, crammed it into her mouth and chewed, summoning something long-buried as the flavor shocked her tongue.

There was a teacup.  Fine Darnassian porcelain, a chip in the handle from when… someone… had knocked it off the table in a fit of awkward teenaged exuberance.  She was dancing around the kitchen, because she’d seen the first crocuses peeking through the snow, and that meant spring was on the way.  It had been a long, hard winter.  She took my hand and twirled me around, and she bumped the table.  She spent the next hour apologizing, even though I said I wasn’t mad.  Because she’d broken something I loved, and she took it to heart.

“She brought me a tiny bouquet of crocuses to make up for it,” she whispered.  “And she pulled the broken cup from the trash when I wasn’t looking, and glued it back together, and gave it back to me for my name-day.”

But who was she?  Not Amarra.  That much she knew for sure.

She slipped another leaf into her mouth, rolled it around on her tongue.

There was a cottage, tucked away deep in the forests of Ashenvale.  Some days, she thought the only thing that kept the long path from the door to the road a half mile distant from getting overgrown was the girl, racing up and down to fetch the mail, or to trek into Astranaar on errands.  Even then, she was as likely to veer off the path and run through the woods instead, fleet-footed and wild. But she’d walked that path, too, and if she thought on it…  If she closed her eyes tight and willed the memory forward…

The woman trembled with the effort of it, a new sheen of sweat breaking on her brow.  The deathcharger whickered with uncertainty and nuzzled, but she didn’t acknowledge him.  It was so close.  It was right…

There.

She opened her eyes, triumphant.  The nervous horse got a reassuring pat and a piece of carrot for his distress.  He didn’t have long to enjoy it, though.  His mistress strapped her helm back on and swung up into the saddle.  “Come on, friend.  We’re going on an adventure.”

—

They rode by the path three times before her eyes finally found the place where the greenery was just a little thinner than what surrounded it.  She’d been close to giving up, to declaring the memory a false one, and casting all the other flashes as delusions planted by the Lich King or mere wishful thinking.

But no, there it was, and now that she’d seen it, it seemed so obvious.

She clucked her tongue and got the horse moving, every few strides urging him faster and faster, until they were galloping down the path, churning up the overgrowth beneath his ghostly glowing hooves.

Throughout the long journey, while the boat creaked and rocked its way across the sea, she’d imagined this homecoming.  Other bits had come to her — the way the setting sun fell across the bedspread, the flowerboxes she’d filled with herbs outside the kitchen window, so many things, but never the girl’s face, never her name.

She’ll be there, in that house.  Maybe alone, or maybe she’s found someone to stay with her.  It might hurt, to see me on the doorstep like this.  She might not throw her arms wide when she gets a good look, and if she wants me to go, I will.

And maybe it won’t be awful.  Maybe she’ll ask me to come in, and tell me all the things I’ve missed.

Either way.  All I want is to know her name.

She didn’t know what she’d expected, truly — smoke billowing from the chimney, a cheery fire inside?  The smell of something delicious cooking on the stove, or even the simple scent of silversage tea?  A neatly swept doorstep, curtains billowing from windows left open to let in the evening breeze?

The deathcharger stopped short as she sawed at the reins, and she just barely kept her saddle.

Whatever she’d imagined, it wasn’t this.

The cottage still stood, but just barely.  The leaves of at least two autumns piled up against the neglected door, whose paint was pristine white in her memory, but now had begun to chip and curl.  One of the windows had broken in a fierce storm; the branch that had smashed through it still stuck out like an knobby finger.  No cozy ribbon of smoke drifted from the chimney.  In fact, a magpie’s nest covered the top of it, and even that seemed long-abandoned.

She slid out of the saddle.  The groan that escaped her throat when she hit the ground wasn’t solely caused by muscles sore from the ride.

The door was unlocked.  It swung in on silent hinges when she gave it a push.  She didn’t bother calling out.  There was no one here to answer.

There was a mound of leaves beneath the broken window, and a scattering of them had migrated across the floor, but aside from some water damage where the storms had come in, the damage to the cottage seemed relatively minor.  Oh, a thick layer of dust covered every surface — the table, the mantel, the rocking chair.

That belongs outside.  On the terrace.

It felt like the right thing to do.  She dragged it outside, leaving a trail through the dust and debris.  The view from the terrace took her breath away, the land behind the cottage dropped off sharply, the forest spreading out below her and allowing what would be, in the morning, a spectacular view of the sunrise.  I watched it come up on my last day.  I sat here, drinking my tea and saying goodbye.

She set her runeblade down, let her armor fall clanking to the flagstone, and sank into the rocker.  The old wood creaked as she rocked, but the chair itself was solid.  It should be; she’d spent hours caring for it over the years.  So very many years.

Images came to her, not flashes anymore but a flood, her whole life piecing itself back together as the rocking chair creaked, creaked, creaked away the hours.  Faces came to her, and names that brought tears to her glowing blue eyes.

Amarra.  Her sister.  Seven feet of Sentinel and swagger, and a heart bigger than the mace she lugged around.

Seylon Jh’talith, her oldest friend, her sister’s lover.  Mother to the daughter she’d raised as her own.

Skyborne.

Dancing around the kitchen, a ball of barely contained energy, leaves in her hair, the smell of spring trailing in her wake.  Her wild girl.  The girl with sunshine in her smile.

Xiarra Mistweaver, Xia to her loved ones, sat in her favorite chair, in her favorite place, and remembered.

Let’s have a round of /applause for our Honorable Mention, “Missing Friends,” submitted by Illithias of Feathermoon and based on the quest of the same name in Terrokar Forest.

—-

Every leaf glistened in the low, pre-dawn light; drooping with the night’s dew. Not quite yet time for the dawn chorus, the sun approached the shattered world’s irregular horizon, and the forest began to lighten. Insects chirped and whirred in the undergrowth; the filigree wings of the giant moths of Terokkar beat a rhythm in the space between the bushes and the boughs. Illithias crept through the undergrowth, hunched almost double. Despite her size and the bulk of her armour, only the whispering swings of disturbed branches or the soft crack of the bracken underfoot marked her passage. The leather hood hanging over her face collected the droplets as the leaves brushed by – fat drops of water falling from the brim, in front of the soft silver glow of the kal’dorei’s eyes.

It had taken a few hours painstaking, early morning travel – half running, half crawling through the brush. But eventually Illithias made it to her goal – a clearing of a few tall, older trees in the far eastern reaches of the forest, abutting the foothills and mountains dividing the forests from the rolling grasslands and floating land islands of Nagrand. There was the first stirrings of activity in the clearing, central fires were lit, and sporadic movement through the branches and between the trees was visible. The stench of roasting meat wafted across to the elf from the middle of the clearing tree-village – she had deliberately approached from downwind. Ensuring that the wickedly curved forearm blade was still affixed securely, Illithias drew her jagged longsword from it’s scabbard, and rose to her feet. The sibilant hiss of the sword was the only announcement of Illithias’ entry into Veil Skith.

Vekrik stood over his small campfire, the butt of his spear propped into the curve of a root for support – he leaned on it heavily. His beady eyes scanned the edge of the woods, looking for any signs or hints of the wolves or stalkers that prowled the area. Or, better still, another lost or misguided traveler or refugee. His beak clacked open and closed a few times as he worked his tongue over the edge of it. His shoulders rose and fell with a slight avian sigh. And he let out a yelping squawk and jerked up as an unexpected jolt tore into his lower back. Pain flooded him. Scrabbling to pull his spear right and failing – his fingers frantic with shock – Vekrik felt a heavy form press against his back, hot breath in his ear.
“Dorados’no.” it’s voice snarled. He didn’t have time to respond; a white hot slash along the heavy bob of his throat prevented that.

Subtlety was out of the question by now. Disturbances could be heard all throughout the Veil – corpses were being found. Illi dropped the pretext of her covert approach, running full tilt through the clearings. Any arakkoa that found itself in her way was quickly dealt with – more often than not without and change to Illithias’ stride. Broken birdmen left in her wake, she tore towards one of the main trees in the clearing – larger and older than it’s brethren, and heavy with buildings and platforms. Illi run, leapt, and began scrabbling up a rope ladder as quickly was her adrenaline fueled muscles would pull her.

She dragged herself over the lip of the platform, breath whistling between her teeth clenched from the exertion. The kal’dorei pulled herself to her knees, then to her feet, straightening herself – and coming face to face with another of the skettis. It opened it’s beak wide and screeched in Illithias’s face – she stumbled back, momentarily, and almost lost herself over the side of the wooden platform. It advanced on her in it’s race’s typical bobbing gait, swinging it’s blade low and lazily. Dropping down into a combat stance, Illithias brought her weapons up ready – not a moment too quickly. The arakkoa swung out with savage grace, air keening as the sword cut the air. Ducking behind her left arm, the elf caught the sword between the guards and edges of her forearm blade, twisting her wrist to pin the birdman’s weapon. Lunging forward, Illi lashed out with her head – butting the arakkoa once, twice in the head. It screamed as an ugly crack shot through it’s beak. Illithias cursed as more teeth were jolted loose. Maintaining the momentum, Illithias pushed forward, sending her adversary falling backwards, striking out – and slashing through the arakkoa’s head. It was dead as it hit the platform flooring. Panting and wiping the blood from her chin, Illithias leant down and pulled the keyring from the slain birdman’s belt.

“Are you here to rescue us?”

Illithias worked quickly through the keys on the heavy iron ring in turn, trying each in the padlocks holding the cage closed. The refugee children within crowded the door as she frantically tried each in turn, cursing in Darnassian all the while.

“I think they were going to eat us!”
“Are you a night elf?”
“I miss my family!”
“I like Goretusk Liver Pie!”

With a final click, the last padlock sprung open and clattered to the floorboards. Illi rose back to her feet and swung the cage door open.  “Right – everyone out!”

The assorted children surged out from their confines, milling about Illithias’ legs. Most of them came up to her knees. There were a lot of them. How was she going to get them out?  “Right. All of you.” the elf kneeled back down again. “I want you to all get on my…”   llithias’ voice trailed off as she looked at her shoulders – both of the dark kal’dorei forged pauldrons covered in crescent blade designs. She looked back down at the various children, all looking back up at the strange, ugly elf. She sighed. She reached up and unfastened each in turn, taking off each shoulderpiece and throwing them into the canopy.   “Okay, now. Everyone up on my back and shoulders.”

The children scrabbled up onto Illithias, grabbing purchase on her back, shoulders, clothing, necklace, straps, hair, ears. She stood, a little unsteadily. Hoots and screams echoed through the treetops – the avian screeching of the arakkoa of Veil Skith got louder as the birdmen warriors got closer.

“Now, hold on…” Illithias took three running paces to the edge of the platform and leapt off – hands grabbing wildly for a vine or a branch as childrens’ screams rang in her ears.

—
“Thankkk you very much, kkkal’dorei, for all that you’ve done…” Kirrik the Awakened croaked out.

Ankle deep in the grey ash of the Bone Wastes, Illithias was back at the temporarily halted refugee caravan. The arakkoa “leader” of the motley ensemble was thanking the berserker profusely – Illithias was trying to calm the birdman’s exultations and extract herself from the situation. Illi just wanted to return to the road, onwards towards Shadowmoon. A small tug on her belt grabbed her attention, she turned and looked down. A small human boy stood there looking up at her, eyes white against the smudgy, ashy face.

“Um, ma’am… thank you for… bringing my friends back. I wanted you to… have this…”

An old and battered device or toy of gnomish design sat in the boy’s hands. He gestured up at Illithias. She took the clockwork creation gingerly from his hands. She opened her mouth to say something, before pausing, and closing it again. She patted the child on the head instead. Turning, she headed back out of the caravan-camp hybrid, to where her sabre was stabled. No-one saw her wipe at her eyes as she brought her hood back up and over her head.

—
Congratulations Illi!  You have looted a chest that contains a TCG Loot Card – Please email the loot master at midsummerwriting at gmail dot com to receive your prize!

Please check back tomorrow to see the third place winner in our Midsummer Night’s RP Writing Contest!

The time has come! You’ve all been waiting patiently (or not so patiently in some cases), wondering whose RP entries will be featured, who will win the snazzy prizes, whose bribes were the best, and the general results of the Midsummer Night’s RP writing contest!

Judging was based on criteria you can see here, and each entry was read by all of the bloggers involved – Falconesse, Yva, and Bricu from here at WTT:RP, Greyseer from Lorecrafted, and myself. We pored over your entries (and they are some pretty awesome entries) and finally managed to select four of them as winners.

You will see those four, starting with our Honorable Mention, tomorrow. (Yes, that means you have to wait until Friday to see who won 1st place!) If your entry is selected as one of the prize-winning submissions (1st through 3rd place), please email us at midsummerwriting at gmail dot com with your regular postal address so that we can distribute the loot!

Today, however, is something a little different.

The story featured today is here because we really wanted to recognize this player for what they’ve done. This is a little bit of the email we received along with the story:

This is my first try at any kind of writing.  It’s something I’ve always thought about doing.  I used to read any science fiction or fantasy book that I could get my hands on.  Since the internet came along I find myself reading books less and less.  I’ve recently started following a bunch of blogs and have found the desire to read start building again.  I have also found myself wanting to write as well. I may start writing short fiction after having enjoyed creating this story so much.

Wow.

So huge congratulations to Talifalana from the Alterac Mountains server (and Mauly, his bear). You impressed us all with your first work of RP, and we hope you continue to work and grow as a writer!

Defending the Flame

Talifalana, Alterac Mountains
(editors’ note:  line breaks were added to clarify changes in scene/point-of-view)

Hartin had felt proud when he was chosen to be one of the Flamekeepers for Darkshire, though at the moment he was feeling miserable.  Sweat was running down his back from the heat of the bonfire built in the middle of town.  He and his men stayed close so that no one could steal, or even worst, dowse the town’s flame.  If either of these things occurred, the town would be disgraced and he (even worse) would be demoted.

Larona had been looking for the orangish-yellow fire blossom that was native to Stanglethorn Vale for the goblins (they exported the flower to all the kingdoms this time of year) when she was came upon the small clutch of huts.  She had decided it best to skirt the little village when both her arms where grasp by two bluish-green trolls.

Sul’abar was deep in thought on how he could use this time of frivolity by the humans to the north to his advantage.  The beads that hung from the entrance to his hut parted and his shaman Shakti’la entered.  “The one that not be a-livin’ could be helpin’ us to take dat town’s flame you beena wantin’ so bad” Shakti’la informed him.  “You go an git her mojo and bring it ta me.  We see how good a sneaker she be.” he said as a plan began to form.

—

Did the Forsaken have mojo?  Larona didn’t know.  What she did know was when that big troll pushed that pin into the little doll’s stomach her midsection burned like the fires that were being kept stoked all over Azeroth.  What they were asking didn’t seem too hard.  Distract the guards long enough for the trolls to walk into the town square and dowse the flame.  No problem.

—

“More wood!” Hartin yelled.  They had done more wood cutting than flame guarding these last four days.  “Would you and your men like a fire blossom?” an old lady asked.  Hartin didn’t recognize the old lady.  She was pale and her eyes were sunk back into her head under her cloak.  “Thank you.” Hartin said.  He and his men took a flower each and put them in the joint between their shoulder pads and chest plate.  The old lady smiled a toothy grin and continued to roam the town.

—

“What she be a doin’ handin’ out flors to da idot’s?” Sul’abar hissed over his shoulder.  “Just be quite ya sack o bones an watch.”  Shakti’la whispered back.

—

“She’s not going to eat anyone.” Talifalana assured the innkeeper.  Smitts had given the the night elf a wary look when he entered the common room but he became downright distraught when the bear came in behind him.  The night elf had assured him that she wouldn’t be any trouble and also persuaded him with a few pieces of gold.  Tali ordered some stew and ale for himself and three steaks (raw of course) for Mauly, his closest friend since he had left Auberdine.

—

Larona wandered around town handing out fire blossoms to all the people she saw.  It would take close to an hour for the dust she had sprinkled on the flowers to fully take effect.  When that hour was up, everyone she had given a flower to would be asleep and the trolls could come in and desecrate the flame.  Then, if they were good to their word, they would give her mojo back so that she could be on her way.

—

As the people of Darkshire started to slump down and fall asleep where they fell, Sul’abar couldn’t help but laugh out loud.  “Maybe I be keepin’ that dead ting ’round.  She turn out to be real fine sneaker.”  The troll stroked the small doll around his neck as he motioned the band of trolls to follow him into Darkshire and toward the flame that was now unguarded.

—

Tali decided to stretch his legs after his meal and get a bit of fresh air.  Mauly snorted at the idea and curled up for a nap (as much as a large brown bear can curl up).  Tali had been through Darkshire before and knew only the guards would be out at this hour so you can imagine his surprise when he emerged from the inn to see a group of trolls strolling toward him and all the guards laying on the ground like sacks of corn.
—

“Crap” thought Larona as she shrugged off the old lady disguise.  “This night elf looks like the kind who can handle himself.”

—

“Ha ha ha.  We be cookin’ up some not-elf tonite!” Sul’abar cackled as he motioned for his group to attack.

—

“MAULY” Tali yelled as he drew his shotgun from the holster strapped to his back.  He was worried by something he saw out of the corner of his eye.  If the trolls had a rogue among their numbers, he had to get his back against a wall.  The combination of several rounds from the shotgun and an angry brown bear storming out of the inn brought the trolls to an abrupt halt.

The troll who had led the charge had dropped to the ground when the shotgun was aimed at him.  This left the poor troll behind Sul’abar to take the first shell in the chest and crumple to the ground.  The second and third shots proved to be just as deadly as the first.  Then Mauly hit them head on.  Two more trolls fell under Mauly’s huge claws and the rest where routed.

Tali and Mauly chased the remainder of the trolls back into the woods then turned to come back to Darkshire.  When they came around the corner to the square, Tali saw a petite, very pale woman straddling the troll who had dove for cover.  She apparently had settled some grudge with the troll since her dagger was covered with his blood.  In her other hand she appeared to be holding a small doll.

—

Larona wasn’t sure what to do.  She had no doubt this night elf and his bear could pick her off with ease.  She was surprised when the night elf bowed his head to her and went back into the inn followed by the bear.  The bear stopped at the door to the inn, looked back at her, and snorted.  Larona took this opportunity to move quickly in the opposite direction not stopping to question her good fortune.

—

As Talifalana got ready for bed, he pulled a small doll from his backpack.  It had been made from sticks, leaves, string, pebbles, and small animal bones.  His brow furrowed as he remembered the troll he had had to kill to get his mojo back.

—

Be sure to check back over the rest of this week to read the other winning entries in the Midsummer Night’s RP Writing Contest!

I shouldn’t want this…

She traces a finger along his scars, old battle wounds and new, connecting them, finding patterns, careful not to wake him. The first rays of sun are creeping across the floor, and soon they’ll be in her eyes. On the street below, Stormwind is as quiet as it ever gets; she can hear people rustling about, preparing to open their stalls for the day, but the din of the crowd won’t swell for a few more hours. And here she is, in a bed in the Gilded Rose, curled against Bricu Bittertongue.

Three days ago, I wished him good luck with the whores. And people were talking about him being with Indarra, at least briefly.

But Indarra had been at the Pig the other night, just as they were leaving, and things had seemed…fine. Formal – although, Indarra was always that – but fine. It hadn’t felt like Threnn was being paraded in front of the priestess for revenge. None of the games she’d seen people play to hurt one another seemed present. And as far as she knows now, Indarra is Ulthanon’s. Not that she’s ever been good at keeping track of these things.

How long will he want a woman who fell into bed with him so quickly?

Color rushes to her cheeks. She hides her face against his chest as moments from the past few hours drift across her thoughts. It’s not like she’s never bedded anyone before, but the number isn’t all that high, and she’s always made them wait first. Bricu had talked about sparks, in between kisses that drove rational thought right out of her head.

Why should she play by everyone else’s rules? Why wait for something that might go away if she hesitated? Tarquin’s Law, he called it – “I could die in my sleep tonight, love, and then how would yeh feel?” He’d been joking, then, cajoling her into staying for a drink, and into letting him stand guard with her at her parents’ shop, but perhaps he was a little serious, too.

And so, as they sat there in the Recluse, drinking and bantering and stealing kisses, she’d decided that if he asked her into his bed, she’d go. “There are times to barter and times to buy,” her father had taught her, “and the finest silks will always be gone if you look away for even a second.” He didn’t have to love her; she’d worry about that some other time. It was enough to be wanted, or fancied, as he put it.

Gods, how long has it been since someone has wanted her for anything other than a dowry and a chance at inheriting her parents’ business? She’s turned aside so many awkward, would-be suitors, sat through so many dinners where her date spoke only to her father about the quality of his silks and never once gave her even an appreciative smile… and now, here was Bricu – unashamed to admit he planned on staring at her, not pulling away in horror at her impropriety if she kissed him first, not masking the desire in his eyes, or his voice.

She twines one of his braids around her fingers, and considers kissing him again. Sleep has softened his face, though, and she knows the last few days have been hell on him. Let him rest, then, before Tarquin’s Law comes into effect again. She begins tracing the slow circuit of his scars once more, closing her eyes and letting touch guide her.

“All that ne’er-do-well and womanizing shite, yeh don’t have to worry about it.”

They took the long way to the Park, and stopped to stare up at the stars, and kiss some more, before they set out for the Rose. If any of the Riders had come upon them… “Look at us,” he’d said in the bar, “two paladins behavin’ like schoolchildren.” Duthorian Rall himself could have tripped over them, and Threnn probably wouldn’t have noticed.

They took the long way to the Rose, too, and as they passed the Blue Recluse, he stopped, his face grown serious, and spoke his reassurances. She didn’t need them, but they were good to hear. Now, hours later, watching his chest rise and fall with the even breaths of deep sleep, she thinks about what the words mean. Oh, certainly, they’re going to the Rose Ball to “make it official,” so she supposes she does have a claim on him now, but it’s so new, it keeps taking her by surprise.

He stirs a bit and turns toward her, his hand coming to rest on her hip, but does not wake. These perfect moments before the day begins are hers, and for a little while at least, he is hers, even if it’s only till he wakes. She takes that, and his words from the night before, and pushes the doubts away. Too soon to give this a name, or to put it in a pretty box with a neat label.

“I’d expected one kiss, maybe two,” he’d said.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “Is it wrong?”

“What, bein’ a good kisser?”

“No. Being so forward.”

He’d laughed. “I’ve been forward, yeh’ve been forward. An’ we both have some more bein’ forward to go before we’re done.”

She hadn’t expected anything like this, either. A drink, a laugh, a kiss if she was lucky. But oh, the sparks had wiped out any question of less than where she was now.

He’d paused again at the door to the Rose, framed by the golden light of the fireplace. “Yeh can still say no, yeh know.”

“I’m not afraid,” she’d said. “You can still tell me to go away, if you want.”

“Love,” he said with a smile that made her think wicked, wonderful thoughts, “get yer arse up here.”

And she’d followed him up the stairs, and into his room, suddenly a little shy, although she tried not to show it. Her hands had callouses from the forge and her weapons – they wouldn’t be soft like Indarra’s undoubtedly were, or…well, face it… like the whores’ in Goldshire. She was neither an elegant, statuesque elf nor pretty painted lady. A wisp of her hair fell into her eyes, and she wondered how absurd the reddish-purple dye must look to him. It had seemed such a good idea when she’d started buying the mixture from Maybell Maclure several months ago.

But then his hands were on her hips, his mouth covering her own, and she didn’t care who’d preceded her anymore.

Threnn pauses in her tracing. His breathing has changed, and she looks up into his eyes, which are lit by that heartstopping grin.

“Strewth, love, how’s a man to sleep with yeh doin’ that?”

“I can stop.”

“Ballacks to that,” he growls, and kisses her. Sparks, he’d called it, but this is…this has swept her up like…

She smiles suddenly, as the sun touches the tabards laid carefully on a chair.

This has swept her up like wildfire.

How do you enter?  Easy!  All you have to do to enter is write a 500-1000 word entry describing an in-character reaction to, or a participation in, a quest or lore event found in World of Warcraft. No, the quest / event isn’t required to be a part of the Fire Festival.  It can be anything found in WoW around which you feel you can craft a suitably creative bit of fiction.

When you’re finished, submit the story to midsummerwriting@gmail.com between Tuesday, June 23rd and Monday, July 6th, and we’ll get to judging (only one entry per person, please).  Please remember to include your character name and server so we can identify you, and don’t forget to submit from an email address that you check regularly!

We’re still sifting through our collective WoWswag (books, comics, game cards, TCG cards, and more!), so check back in the next couple of days for more details on the prizes.

If you need break from juggling torches and dancing around ribbon poles, settle down with some festival brew (or lemonade if you’re under 21) and write us a story!  We’re looking forward to the entries!

I hated it.

That seems to put me in the minority among WoW players who read Christie Golden’s retelling of the life and times of Arthas Menethil, though Anna brought up some of the flaws in her review.

Chances are, this is going to get a bit rambly and spoilery, so how about a jump tag for you to follow?

I’ll get this out of the way first thing: I’m a book snob. My tolerance for lazy writing is low. Cookie-cutter characters make me grit my teeth, as do bad dialogue tags and telling rather than showing.

Those all ran rampant in Arthas.

The prologue lets you know that Ms. Golden has chops. In describing how Northrend’s native creatures and inhabitants are affected by the Lich King’s bad dreams, she evokes a genuine feeling of dread. I think this is what irked me the most later on in the book: the first few pages showed SO MUCH promise, that when it fell apart later on, I felt horribly let down.

From the desolate north, we travel back in time, to a nine-year-old Arthas witnessing the birth of the real main character of the book:  his horse, Invincible.

I’m only sort of kidding.

In the early chapters, it’s a bit unclear whether we should give Arthas the benefit of the doubt — is he merely a precocious child, prone to occasional selfish, petulant thoughts because he’s, well, nine, and has lived a charmed, peaceful life… or is he just an unlikable brat with occasional periods of not-sucking?

On learning that Prince Varian is on the way to Capital City with the remaining survivors from Stormwind, Arthas worries for his own family, hoping he’ll never lose his father the way Varian lost King Llane.  However, when King Terenas tells him he can’t be present to receive the orphaned prince, we get our first flash of something wrong with Arthas:  “He felt a sudden flash of anger.  Why did his father insist on sheltering him so?  Why was he not allowed to attend important meetings?”  On their own, the questions are understandable.  The “flash of anger,” however, seems… off… for a nine year old.  A flash of indignation?  Feeling wounded?  Those I could understand.  But anger conveys something different.

Not long after, though, he’s alone with Varian, and is once more struck by the enormity of what has happened, swinging me back into the “Give him a break, he’s nine” camp.

Then two years pass.  Just… bamf.  War’s over, brief mention of Doomhammer’s capture and escape, brief setup for Muradin, and OH HAY, REMEMBER THE HORSE?

Here’s the thing, though — I didn’t mind the parts where Arthas is just out and about, being a kid.  Once again, it proves that Golden can write well.  She can get inside a character’s head and describe a scene.  When she’s showing instead of telling, I enjoyed the book more.

Soon enough, we’re introduced to Invincible’s only rival, Jaina Proudmoore.  Jaina is the classic tomboy:

Both his sister and the Proudmoore girl were fair haired and slender.  But the resemblance stopped there.  Calia was delicately boned, with a face right out of old paintings, pale skinned and soft.  Jaina, however, had bright eyes and a lively smile, and she moved like someone who was well accustomed to riding and hiking.  She obviously spent a great deal of time out of doors, as her face was tanned with a smattering of sprinkles across her nose.

Reader, I /facepalmed.  She’s cute and pretty, but not a girly-girl, and later on we’ll learn that magical clumsiness (problems with her fire spells) replaces physical clumsiness on the Mary Sue scale.

Now, I understand that there are plenty of well-written female characters in other books that exhibit some of these same characteristics, and I’d never call them Sues.  The difference is, they don’t seem to exist solely as plot devices for the main characters.  There are brief scenes where she starts to have her own personality — sneaking over to spy on the orc internment camp, her scenes with Antonidas — but even when we’re in her head, when it comes to Arthas, her reactions scream “Sue.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When he’s a few months shy of 19, Arthas is out riding Invincible and leads him into a jump they’ve done hundreds of times before. Except it’s icy, and the horse slips and breaks his front legs.  Arthas has to do the merciful thing and kill the horse.  This is where he decides to do “whatever it takes” to protect people going forward, because he couldn’t save his horse.  Not because the orcs destroyed Stormwind, or because girls like Taretha Foxton were being used by men like Aedelyn Blackmoore, or because his sister was going to be forced into a marriage she didn’t want.  Because he forced his horse into a jump he shouldn’t have asked for, and then lied and told everyone it was an accident. (Which, the wording of that still confuses me. It was an accident.  He didn’t exactly dismount and break Invincible’s legs himself.  I guess the lie was suggesting that Invincible lost his footing at a regular trot, maybe, rather than owning up to the jump, but now I’m overthinking this.  Onward.)

I also want you to note that the death of the horse is described over the course of four pages.  Four.  This will be significant later.

Forward to Arthas’ induction into the Silver Hand, and another warning that something just ain’t right.  The Light hesitates to acknowledge him at the end of the ceremony and he hesitates a second too long and missed a shot at kissing Jaina.  Remember that flash of anger when he was nine?  It hits again.  He’s now nineteen. No more excuses:  there’s something wrong with the Prince and I am now pretty comfortable in my dislike of him.  From here on out, even during his few remaining moments of not being a total dick, I feel like anything Arthas does or says is coated with slime.Af

Anyway, with Invincible out of the way, Arthas is now free to court Jaina.  Again, this is one of the places where Golden does better — we get to see some moments in the courtship, and if these were the characters we were following through the whole book, it would be a pretty decent story.  Unfortunately, the Arthas and Jaina we’ll see from here on out bear very little resemblance to these two young people falling in love outside of Dalaran.

After deflowering one another at Hallow’s End, Arthas breaks up with Jaina about ten minutes before the Winter Veil ball.

Wait, what?

Yep. Freaks out, pulls a Rand al’Thor “I’m going to fuck this up” and breaks it off.  And Jaina…accepts it.  Confused for a minute, hurt, but she pretty much just takes it.  Because for some reason she’s not allowed to have emotions beyond that.

From here out, we’re getting a retelling of Warcraft III.  This is a large part of why I got over my normal aversion to media tie-in novels and read the book:  I am a horrible person and haven’t played all the way through WC3 yet.  (I’ll go stand in the corner after I’m done writing this, don’t you worry.)  The problem is exactly that: it’s a retelling.  The scenes and dialogue are pretty much word-for-word from the campaigns and cut scenes of the game (I installed it about twenty minutes after I finished reading and started playing, for SCIENCE.  Er, research.)

So, hey, five-year time jump.  A retelling of the first few campaigns with a glossed-over mention of some rogue mage named Kel’Thuzad who did naughty things with necromancy.  Arthas and Jaina are reunited while they’re investigating the plague, and, well.  Let’s move forward to their first meeting with Kel’Thuzad.

“Lady Jaina Proudmoore,” Kel’Thuzad purred…
“I saw the rats you experimented with!” Jaina cried.  “That was bad enough — but now you –”
“Have furthered my research and perfected it,” Kel’Thuzad answered.
“Are you responsible for this plague, necromancer?” Arthas shouted.

Purred.  Cried.  Answered.  Shouted.  This is about where I threw the book.  The crappy dialogue tags had been there for a while, but most of the time they were at least broken up with actions or internal Arthas whine-alogues.  Four in a row meant I couldn’t trick myself into ignoring it anymore.

Listen to me.  Listen.  Your third grade teacher was wrong. It is perfectly acceptable — no, preferable — to use “said” more than once when writing dialogue.  “Said” is invisible.  Cracking open your thesaurus and using every alternate-word in the entry yanks your readers RIGHT THE FUCK OUT OF THE STORY OMFGARGH.  Even better, use the words they’re saying and the things they DO to convey how they say something.  (Because if you’re tacking “he said”/”she said” after every line of dialogue, now you’re just getting monotonous.)  But seriously, back away from the synonyms.  It’s annoying.  It’s lazy writing, and I don’t understand why editors let that stuff stay.

Okay, enought digressing.  Back to Arthas.

There are battle scenes.  Sort of.  Considering as, y’know, WC3 itself is mostly comprised of battles, there ought to be.  The battles described here, though, are oddly short.  Things die quickly.  When the men are fighting unnamed skeletons, constructions like “His hammer rose and fell, seemingly effortlessly, and he didn’t even see those he struck down” are common.  Plenty of battle, compacted into a phrase to mark the passing of time.  Even fighting the Big Nasties goes quickly.  Remember how it took Invincible four frickin’ pages to die?

Kel’Thuzad bites it in less than one.
Terenas’ murder takes two and a half pages.
Fighting Kael’thas in Northrend, three pages.
Battling Illidan — Illidan bloody Stormrage — just before reaching the Frozen Throne, three and a half.

So Arthas culls Stratholme, goes to Northrend, acquires Frostmourne, comes home, commits regicide, and brings his horse back from the dead (sorry, Jaina, you had your chance.) (Also: two and 3/4 pages for the resurrection of the pony.)

The battle with Uther the Lightbringer is (at just over three pages) is probably the best told of all the fight scenes.  However, neither his death nor the fact that Arthas takes from him the urn filled with his father’s ashes has quite the emotional impact I was hoping for, because all interactions with those two men — who should be right on par with Muradin for significance in his life — were kept to a minimum.  Uther’s an imposing figure in Arthas’ youth.  Terenas was important when he was nine.  However, aside from the argument outside of Stratholme and Terenas’ murder, they haven’t been visible in the story for more than a hundred pages.

Sylvanas Windrunner is the most interesting character in the book.  We get a first-hand feel of the Quel’dorei desperation as Arthas marches on Silvermoon and the Sunwell, and the rage and sorrow she feels as a Banshee.  Silvermoon falls in a paragraph, though, and far too soon we’re back in Arthas’ head.

Another book-throwing moment, on Quel’Danas:  Anasterian’s facing off against Arthas, and severs Invincible’s forelegs, which of course is what spurs Arthas to victory.

As I said to Anna, Seriously, Arthas, just marry the fucking horse already.

And yet another missed opportunity — the whole time Arthas is marching through Eversong, Sylvanas is wondering who might have betrayed the Quel’dorei, who would have told Arthas about the key to Silvermoon, and who lowered the wards.  His name was Dar’Khan.  We only find this out in passing:

She stared sickly at the cackling lich, and the only thing that gave her even a hint of surcease from the agony was watching Dar’Khan, who had attempted to betray his master as he had betrayed his people, dying, as she had done, from Frostmourne’s keen edge.

…

…

So this guy, who was the key to Silvermoon falling, apparently just tried to off Arthas somehow.  RIGHT IN FRONT OF SYLVANAS.  Only, we don’t know what he did, or how he tried to betray Arthas.  Only that he did something, and that he’s dead?  Seriously?  I have to wonder if there was a longer description of this that got edited out somehow, only I don’t understand why it would be cut.  What had been a pretty interesting Sylvanas POV falls victim to the glossing-over that’s by now I’ve come to expect.  She rallies the dreadlords in Undercity (oh, by the way. Dreadlords in Undercity.)  Arthas escapes via a SEKRIT PASSAGEWAY EX MACHINA.

You know what?  I’m okay with secret passages in palaces.  Really, I am.  Except when they’re TOTALLY RANDOM PLOT POINTS.  “Oh, by the way, there was one in every royal chamber. LOL.”  I know, I know.  It’s part of one of the WC3 missions.  It was a SEKRIT PASSAGEWAY EX MACHINA before Golden wrote the scene.  However, why not go back and foreshadow it way back when Arthas was nine?  That’s one of the virtues of novelizations — you can make events seem a bit less plucked out of thin air.  Hell, Arthas could have used it once when he was sneaking out to go ride Invincible.  Show the audience a gun in the first act so we’re not wondering where the hell it came from when it goes off in the third.

Arthas flees Lordaeron, goes back to Northrend, fights Kael’thas and Illidan after the Nerubians bring him through an underground shortcut.  Merges with the Lich King.  Then, in the epilogue, kills the shades of both Ner’Zhul and young Arthas, who are both fighting for his soul, proving once and for all that he’s OMG TEH EBIL, and probably beyond redemption (which Tirion Fordring already figured out in his infinite badassery.)  And it all happens about that fast, too, compared to how long it took to get to that point in the book.

The book spans twenty-something years in 308 pages.  It covers the events of Reign of Chaos and The Frozen Throne.  This shouldn’t have been a single book; it would have been much better served as a trilogy.  I wonder if, given a bit more room to expand upon the events and battles, Golden could have done a lot more showing, thus filling out the story rather than transcribing the major cut scenes from the games.  Also, I’m aware that some of the events that happened in this arc have already been covered in other Warcraft tie-ins, and in the comics.  However, we haven’t seen them from this particular point of view before.  It would be fresh for both tie-in newcomers like myself and for the die-hard fans who’ve read everything that’s come before.

It probably sounds a little odd, on the heels of me shredding 90% of the book, to suggest that it should have been longer. I just can’t let go of the writing in the prologue.  Knowing that Golden can write at that caliber, how much better would that story be if she had an adequate page count in which to write it (and someone to, ahem, get rid of those awful dialogue tags…)?

Though, uh, considering as the only in-game mention of Invincible is his gravemarker and some disturbed earth, I’d hope that the gorram horse subplot could go, too.