3.46. Glory

The big red button that activates Mimiron's hard mode,
Ulduar

Firefighter

"Stand right here in this corner."

Twenty some-odd players crunched together, backs pressed up against one of the metallic walls as instructed. Omaric and Bretthew shuffled around to prepare for instruction. An enormous red button hovered above us like a canopy, larger than the entire group of raiders. I hovered my mouse over it, the tooltip revealing a message: "DO NOT PUSH THIS BUTTON!" Two weekends had passed since our completion of One Light in the Darkness. Last weekend, we'd cleared up through Auriaya and made initial attempts on Mimi. Tonight, four hours were on the clock; only a few minutes had passed since the official start time for a DoD raid.

Another new feature added with the release of Ulduar was the ability to extend a raid lock. Further adding to a raiding guild's convenience, raid lock extension provided guilds with the option of saving their weekly progress. Rather than starting from scratch each Tuesday (or Wednesday, for you Europeans), guilds could now return from whence they left off; a sort-of raid progression "save game", if you will. Casual raiding guilds wept with joy at the inclusion of this feature, freeing them from the brutality of clearing an entire instance in under a week. It was a feature to, again, grant guilds the necessary flexibility to experience endgame content, one piled on to an ever increasing list of compromises that the more hardcore of guilds questioned.

Extending a lock was not without its consequences: all the loot that would've gone to gear up lackluster players would be flushed down the drain. Truly hardcore raiding guilds cared little for loot, extending only if and when it made sense to secure a server or world first boss kill. As DoD continued to walk the fine line between casual and hardcore, we had our own stance on when it was appropriate to sacrifice gear in lieu of progression: when we needed to maximize the use of our eight hours per week on only the most difficult of encounters.

Like tonight.

"The flames aren't as random as you think. They spawn near you, and they'll seek you out...so the key is controlling them."

Bretthew continued Omaric's thought, "So that means everyone moves carefully. Together. Spreading out is actually a bad idea. What we ultimately want is fire to spawn near other fires, and you do that by staying near existing fires. This is mostly on melee's shoulders..."

"...so we're perpetually fucked -- is what you are saying."

Bretthew laughed, "...more or less."

The two raid leaders began to square away positioning, suggesting various movement strategies for the groups. Having seen the 10-Man version first-hand, Jungard was well-equipped to direct melee traffic. Among those drivers stood the guild leader, having cut over to my new role -- in training for legendaries to come. To my left, a familiar old face listened quietly to Jungard's direction, taking his place among melee, his weapons dripping with vile poisons.

"Fancy meeting you here," I whispered the rogue. He returned a smiley and said nothing.

Descendants of Draenor completes "Firefighter (25 Player)",
wrapping up the final meta for Glory of the Ulduar Raider,
Ulduar

Multitasking

How much do you think you can keep track of at once?

This is what we had to look forward to, on the off-chance we executed a clean transition into phase four:

• Three synchronized health bars: The health of all three mini-bosses making up the V-07-TR-0N. As we depleted the boss's health, each of the three pools had to remain in synchronicity; killing any one of the three parts of V-07-TR-0N's body too soon would cause the remaining functional parts to resurrect it.
• Shock Blast: No player could risk being near the clockwork construct when shock blast was about to go off, not even the tanks. 
• Mines: Ejected by Leviathan MKII (V-07-TR-0N's feet), stepping on any of the freshly laid mines that formed a ring around the boss was nearly always fatal. The risk of setting them off was increased now that Omaric and Bretthew were dragging the boss around the circumference of the room.
• Laser Barrage: VX-001 (V-07-TR-0N's body) continued to produce a focused stream of instant death. All players had to move around the boss, avoiding impenetrable purple beams of focused fire on a full 360 degree rotation. It could not be healed through. If players didn't move, they died.
• Rocket Strikes: Also from VX-001, the floor continued to feature randomly painted targets, offering players mere seconds to sidestep impending rocket strikes. These crosshairs were now infinitely more difficult to see on a screen ablaze with fire.
• Frost Bombs: Slowly moving blue orbs forced anyone near them to get away as fast as possible. Ten seconds was the grace period. After that, any player within fifteen yards was a tax write-off.
• Emergency Fire Bots: These annoying contraptions distracted and confused the raid; their silencing aura shutting down casters and healers in the process. Raiders were instructed to keep their distance, specific players were assigned to blow them to bits.
• Fire, fire, fire: Always and forever. Fire covered every inch of the screen, closing in on players, suffocating them, turning feet into inches, reducing what little safe spots remained in the room.

On top of all these things, we had our roles. Healers had to keep people alive. The tanks had to drag V-07-TR-0N around his room with care and precision. DPS had to unleash every ounce of Hell onto the boss they could wring out. Roles we had all come to perfect over the course of many months of play in multiple tiers of content.

Except myself, of course. I always had to be the exception to the rule.

I had to keep one eye on the wealth of items bombarding the raid, and the other eye on what little DPS I was able to contribute, always struggling to find a better groove, push my damage up the meters with what little off-spec gear I'd managed to piece together. Hour after hour we sunk into Firefighter, walking the tightrope, imminent death a constant threat. When the raid perfected its handling of one roadblock, we'd fall behind in other areas. Nervousness and exhaustion led some pulls to go down the drain right from the start, annihilating the tired and the weak before even getting a chance to see phase two.

And the fire...

Flames scorched virtual flesh, closing in with a claustrophobic intensity that hypnotized players. When focused on moving just enough to keep the fire at bay, they lost sight of the multitude of other risks on their plate. Early deaths in phase one were our first obstacle. Healers caught in Flame Suppressant would have their healing slowed, though most of the deaths couldn't be helped by heals. Careless players met a quick and painful death by stepping on ejected mines. A rocket strike here. A frost bomb there. A few seconds late in rotating around the boss, getting caught in a laser barrage as a result. Then, it was the long run back. Half the time was spent perfecting the art of returning to Mimiron's room quickly, buffing, preparing for another pull. How many more attempts could we fit in? An hour ticked away. Then another. And another.

Phase four continued to devolve into a pyromaniac's wet dream.

---

Only thirty minutes remained for the evening, the second full night of work practicing the million and one things Mimiron had planned out for us. Countless pulls over the weekend had been attempted, and slowly, the 25-Man progression team had begun to refine their system. Frost bombs were now less of an impediment, players had learned their Pavlovian lesson to move their ass...or have it handed to them. Fire bots were a non-factor; casters dodged and weaved out of their silencing auras, unleashing bursts of magical light that blew the contraptions apart before the bots had a chance to wreak havoc on the raid.

Baby steps.

We were fast approaching the definitive "famous last pull" of the night, but the sheer randomness of luck offered us no insight into how close we were to wrapping things up; each pull felt like the first. Omaric and Bretthew dragged the enormous robot across the outer edges of the room, a ring of discs flipping out onto the ground. I glanced up at my raid frames. Neps was out of commission, as was Jungard and Abrinis. I continued to eat into the boss's health with every Obliterate I could, dumping Frost Strikes as soon as my Runic Power capped out. My gaze darted back down towards the damage meters for a split second.
9th.

A wave of deja vu washed over, remembering Zanjina's first night of crossing into the top 10. I popped my remaining trinkets and potions, dug in deep, Mature's refreshing runes scrolling down the screen like Guitar Hero.

The picture stuttered a moment, as it typically did when uncached assets were being loaded by the game client for the first time. In reality it was no more than a second, but to me, it seemed that the game had stopped completely. When your screen locks up, your heart sinks and you know you're about to be kicked off the server. This would have been a shit-poor time for that to happen. But I wasn't kicked off the server, and nobody was disconnecting. Instead, a flash of yellow text scrolled up through guild chat while the familiar gong sound-effect of an achievement bellowed out of the speakers sitting atop my desk. Wide-eyed, I glared at the screen, just below Mature's health. Two golden bars delivered the news.

The 25-Man Progression team displays their freshly
acquired Ironbound Proto-Drakes,
Dalaran

Ironbound

I slumped into my chair and looked up at the ceiling, while cheering and screams overflowed from those speakers and filled my computer room with the noises of triumph and celebration.

On November 1st, 2009, six-and-a-half months after Ulduar was released to World of Warcraft, Descendants of Draenor completed Glory of the Ulduar Raider in 25-Man progression.

Completing Glory of the Ulduar Raider was both euphoric and empowering; the events of the previous tier had now been redeemed. As the 25-Man progression team coalesced over Dalaran in a cloud of purple Ironbound Proto-Drakes, our heart-aching loss of The Immortal was fast becoming a distant memory. As our Twilight Vanquisher titles had done so before them, these proto-drakes would act as badges of pride to those dedicated and loyal to the raid team, and to the guild. As well, they would provide the necessary sales pitches for those on Deathwing-US who continued to a seek a place amongst a 25-Man progression raiding guild, when the hardcore ones had turned them away.

---

One day after we completed this massive raiding accomplishment, a post was made to "The Leaver's Lounge". The Leaver's Lounge was a section of our forums set aside to wish players well on their quest to pursue new interests, outside of the confines of Azeroth. Stickied up at the top of the forum was a popular internet meme; an appropriate final message I directed to players, mocking their exit from World of Warcraft. In the photo, a stereotypical nerdy gamer wearing a headset sat in front of a keyboard and mouse. But in the place where a monitor would normally sit, the gamer instead faced an open window, peering out into his neighborhood with focused concentration. The meme's message read:

Reality: Worst. Game. Ever.

The newest post to The Leaver's Lounge was from Crasian.

Snow was coming, and he yearned to ski atop the Colorado Mountains. He thanked us for the community we provided, congratulated the 25-Man team for their tremendous work on Glory, and wished us well as we headed off toward the next big challenge deep within Icecrown. He thanked Cheeseus for putting up with him, the progression team for the fond memories he'd take away. And he thanked me, for allowing him the chance to hold the rank of Elite and help be a part of the team that drove progression, week after week. It was a heartfelt goodbye message, followed by virtual waves from the members of DoD that had had a chance to play with him.

I read his goodbye forum post, slowly scrolling down the series of replies made by his former teammates, and could only think one thing:

So. Mr. "expected to be at every raid." You wanted to claim Shadowmourne all to yourself, and yet this entire time your plan was to take a leave of absence. Why had you failed to bring this up in any of our conversations regarding a promotion?

What else had you kept from me?

3.45. Decisions, Decisions

"Scourgelord"
Artwork by Zeon-in-a-tree

The Warm-up

The screen was ablaze. Flames licked at my heels. I shifted bit by bit, pouring in as much damage to Mimiron as I could while Omaric and Bretthew dragged the enormous robot through fire. Flaming trails weaved toward the group, creeping up slowly, keeping us from holding any one position for very long.

"Careful, he's winding up..."

I glanced up at the robot's body. The dual Gatling guns in place of arms were coughing and sputtering to life as they prepared for a laser barrage. I rotated Mature around the edges of the tank's treads as he was being pulled along the circumference of the room. It was a nightmarish carnival ride. The spray of purple lasers backed by a deep chugging sound soon died down -- another barrage successfully dodged. No deaths. The tanks continued their slow death march, feeding crumbs of threat to Mimiron, and the giant robot continued to focus its attention on them, repeating its relentless attacks around the perimeter of the Spark of Imagination. A frost bomb -- new to the heroic version -- landed near us. Crasian announced its arrival.

"Bomb...BOMB!"

I turned to look for an exit strategy, but was surrounded by a wall of flame. I popped Anti-Magic Shell, held my breath, and ran through the fire to get away from the explosion. The radius of the frosty explosion barely missed me. Safe. I raced back to the clockwork contraption and laced into it with whatever DPS I could muster. Bulwinkul added encouragement while the moonkin brought down a shower of stars onto Mimiron.

"Keep 'er goin'. Almost there."

Flames continued to dart around the bot, and for a brief moment, I had a flashback to Archimonde's Doomfire. Mimiron's flames weren't nearly as fatal, yet still exhibited the same tenacity. They closed in on us, and I braced for suffocation. Suddenly, the great clockwork machination sagged in defeat, and the flames that were inches from our heals had vanished, replaced with flashes of golden bars signifying achievement acquisition.

"Nice! Good job, all."

"Phew! That was pretty slick. I like that fight!"

I addressed Jungard in raid chat, "Well! That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

"No, not bad at all," he replied, "first time seeing these guys in action. I have to give 'em credit."

I agreed. "Yeah, you boys definitely made this look easy."

Bretthew acknowledged the praise. "Thanks, Hanzo."

"Now if we can just get this done in the 25-Man version, we'll be home free."

Jungard and I thanked The Eh Team for giving us a taste of Mimiron's hard mode mechanics first hand. One month would pass before we'd return to this room and commence with the real work.

Jungard and Mature assist The Eh Team in
completing "Firefighter (10 Player)",
Ulduar

Cross-Examination

"You do know that he has a pretty good track record in the guild with helping out people in 5-Man heroics, right?"

"Absolutely. I'm pretty sure he was first in the guild to get the red proto?"

"That's my understanding," I replied, "but doesn't seem to have slowed down helping anyone else do the same."

Jungard continued with praise, "He's also put out some incredible damage since joining the 25. Consistently top deeps."

I gave him my devilish detective voice, "Aha! So you've noticed?"

"Well, I notice when he beats me."

I laughed. "Oh, I see how it is. This is personal!"

This time, Jungard got the laugh, "Yeah, heh. Guess you could say that. But all around, melee is in a really good spot right now. It's easily the strongest part of the 25 at this point. Boney is going to do pretty well, and Riskers is already top notch."

Jungard began dropping names on players he'd been keeping an eye on. "Boney" was our nickname for Bonechatters, one of the newer faces clamoring for a spot in the 25-Man. With Cheeseus gone, Bonechatters enjoyed a heightened priority of rotations, seeing more consistent raids as a result. Jungard also made note of Señor Riskers, a rogue who had become a staple in progression; it was his stun-locks that helped give me breathing room on Storm Lasher during Knock Knock Knock on Wood. Since it was clear that Jungard had the capacity to observe and understand what was going on with melee, I pushed further to see what else I could glean.

"How do you stand up next to Abrinis?"

"Y'know, funny that you mention Abrinis. I notice he's been struggling lately. Which is weird. Because you know he pretty much took me under his wing when I first joined progression, back in Hyjal. He always kind of kept challenging me to do better. But lately, I'm not sure what's up...he's definitely fallen behind a bit."

I pitched him a curveball, "Maybe his gear?"

"Y'know, I don't think so! Gear's never really an indicator...to that degree, know what I mean? A little bit, OK sure, but for bigger discrepancies...I dunno, maybe he's just distracted or getting burnt out. I'll have a talk with him at some point."

Skill vs gear. Check. Empathy and insight into others. Check.

"Ranged still fluctuates a bit."

I could sense the dismay in his voice as the pitch turned downward. Jungard and I obviously saw eye-to-eye on this. I took a deep breath as I acknowledged his observation, "Yeah, it's been an ongoing struggle since as far back as when you joined. Well, probably earlier. Blain pointed it out to me on more than one occasion."

"If Ben would show up more frequently, that would definitely be an improvement."

I agreed, but was careful to point out Ben's improvements in the responsibility department, "Ben's been getting much better about it. Did you know he's actually texting if he's going to be late, now?"

"Wow, really? Ben is?"

"I know, I know. You may have to sit down in order to let that sink in."

Jungard continued to share his opinions, seeing if there was a way to shine some hope on the ranged situation.

"But I like Mangetsu a lot. He's really making a name for himself."

I chuckled. "Mang is definitely quite the character, and his DPS is nothing to laugh at. How about Omaric and Taba taking over as dual raid leaders? What's your opinion there?"

"I think it's fine. Both really talented guys, and they've been around a long while. I never expected to see two raid leaders at once, though."

I gave him my reasoning on the subject, "Well, it's really no different than how Ater and Blain did it, back in the day. Only difference now is that I have things a bit more formalized. Though I have yet to actually write that down. It's on my never ending to-do list. But, I think they're off to a good start."

"Ah, Blain. I bet he would love to hear that Bretthew is running the show now."

"Not exactly from the same schools of thought, now, are they?" I laughed. Jungard agreed, acknowledging the vast differences in Blain's by-the-book policies -- a stark contrast to Bretthew's laid-back, chatty raids.

The conversation between Jungard and I went well that day. I went in to the interview asking about Crasian, but the discussion soon turned to the raid as a whole. He reflected on many facets of progression, both good and bad, not just the stuff that was easy to talk about. Jungard saw the big picture. That was an important consideration when contemplating the possibility of his promotion. It's easy to focus on the small things like a fury rotation. But, to be able to step back and see the big picture -- that takes something else entirely. In many cases, the difference between a player and a leader is really just giving a shit. A leader can speak honestly about players, and know if they are doing well or languishing. They show compassion and empathy towards their fellow teammates. Jungard was hitting all the nails on their heads.

---

Jungard gave me his opinion on a good many things during that interview, but it was what he chose to keep to himself that would confirm I was leaning in the right direction. He had the perfect opportunity to rake Crasian across the coals that day, and instead said nothing about it. The fact in question: the day he and I had been invited to take part in a 10-Man Firefighter was the only time he'd ever been a part of an Eh Team run. It was a minor observation, but one that resonated as I weighed my options for promoting my next melee officer.

I walked down my fact sheet after concluding both interviews. Crasian had expressed little interest in Jungard, offering up only the most commonly-held knowledge about his warrior counterpart. By comparison, Jungard revealed insight into many of his fellow team members, focusing the conversation on them rather than himself. Additionally, a subtle inconsistency flowed over Ventrilo the night I interviewed Crasian. If our assist with 10-Man Firefighter was the first time Jungard had been present in an Eh Team run, why had Crasian stated otherwise? Was it simply an oversight on his part? Or was an attempt to massage the truth?

To be honest, it didn't matter. What mattered was my perception of his attention to details.

If it was an accidental oversight, that told me Crasian really couldn't care less about Jungard -- or anyone else in melee, for that matter. It meant his focus really truly was on himself by default. And that wasn't necessarily a bad thing...just not something I wanted in leadership. Of course, there was the other side of the coin to consider as well. If he was being purposefully deceptive...he had no business in officership, period. Confronted with these realizations, the decision to promote Jungard was the most sound, logical one.

...but I stopped short when it came time to decide on the legendary.

Mimiron blankets the raid with a
Laser Barrage during phase four,
Ulduar

The Golden Ticket

In wrestling with the decision of who to promote next for melee officer, the decision surrounding Shadowmourne continued to follow me like Mimiron's flames, never letting up or allowing me to catch my breath. Whomever I promoted would most certainly be first on the weapon's list. Crasian was the best death knight in the guild -- possibly the entire Deathwing-US server -- so denying him the axe would surely be a waste. But there was Jungard as well, a trusted player, skilled warrior, and Crasian's only real competition in the guild from a melee perspective. I got so caught up in struggling with this decision that I lost sight of a possible third option: myself. I'd been too busy trying to figure out how to equitably distribute the golden ticket to some other bright-eyed kid. They dreamed of a chocolate factory tour, and here I was, able to partake of the candy at will.

Instantly, doubt lingered there.

The moment I gave the option even the slightest consideration, a wave of guilt washed over me. If I take this axe first, what will the guild think? Will I come across as some kind of ruthless dictator who just takes what he wants because he can? True, I had turned the guild around from its failures early in TBC. Yet when pondering the decision of taking Shadowmourne myself, I collapsed back into my old fears as the impostor syndrome wrapped its grip tightly around my neck. This is a joke, right? You don't know what you're doing. You're the laughing stock of the guild. The only reason people follow you is because Fraya isn't recruiting stupids for Enigma. Your competency with the death knight falls somewhere between pathetic and outright embarrassment. Why don't you go ahead and taunt some more? That'll make it look like you're contributing. It's amazing you can even log in without drooling all over yourself. Go ahead! Take the legendary first...and watch your guild walk away in disgust.

For shame. Is this how Ater would've behaved?

I snapped out of it.

At some point, you have to give yourself credit. I'd dedicated five years of myself to Descendants of Draenor, rejoicing our triumphs and suffering bitterly our losses. I had made mistakes and swallowed my pride repeatedly as a result. I built up the 40-Man raiding machine from a mere Popsicle stand, then watched it splinter, crumble, and collapse under its own mismanaged weight -- an embarrassment of uninvested players repeatedly wiping to trash. Then I rebuilt it, getting us back on the map; back on track. I mediated drama and painstakingly detailed out every new rule, wrote out every single bit of common-sense I felt players could use against me if they didn't see it for themselves...or couldn't see it. Wouldn't see it. And I pushed them. We could be a family-friendly guild but still hold ourselves to a higher standard, without a lot of excuses and whining. We stood on the precipice of glory, nearly able to reach out and feel the cold metal plating stamped along its cobalt purple wingspan.

Maybe after all I had driven us to accomplish, I could justify some small reward for myself. Now would be the most opportune time. I had two solid tanks as raid leaders, and my own interests drifted elsewhere: a return to the damage meters. Perhaps, at last, this would be my opportunity.

If you do this, you had better be prepared to stop at nothing to top the meters. A guild leader with a legendary that can't perform will be stripped of any and all credibility. A cliche. A joke. Other guild leaders will use you as an example to outline what happens when absolute power corrupts absolutely.

I understood the stakes. This wasn't going to be an excuse for me perform like a chump. I would have to hold myself to the same high standard I expected of every individual in progression. Failing that would not only reflect poorly on Descendants of Draenor, it would prove that I had no business wielding a legendary, or remaining in charge of the best damn guild on Deathwing-US.

So, rather than hiding the golden ticket inside a random candy bar, I tucked it in my pocket instead.