3.38. Damage for Dessert

Shadowmourne is displayed for the first time,
BlizzCon '09

Peeling Onions

"So, who do you think will get it first?"

I eyeballed the photo someone had taken from BlizzCon a week earlier. There, an orc stood hunched over, a large axe tightly gripped in both hands. Its curved blade gave off a deep bluish glow, affixed with various markings and runes. As a guild leader, I stood aside on several occasions while other more deserving players were bestowed with weapons of legendary strength. I was fine with this. My job was to run a successful guild, so if others sacrificed of themselves to help in that endeavor, I'd offer whatever small token of appreciation I could in return for that loyalty. And as I gazed upon Shadowmourne's eery glow, players began to race through my mind. Ater had crafted Thunderfury, Blessed Blade of the Windseeker; more recently, Neps came to be the bearer of Val'anyr, Hammer of Ancient Kings. We even managed to forge a Sulfuras, Hand of Ragnaros, but its fate was far less ceremonious in Descendants of Draenor. A weapon once coveted by all of Azeroth's warriors (and paladins, and shamans, and druids), ours fell into the hands of a random, no-name player who left the guild several weeks later. The poor luck of our streaky drops had gotten the best of all the officers who had attempted to suffer through years of running Molten Core, and they had all thrown up their hands in defeat. When the Eye of Sulfuras finally dropped, nobody of significance was present to receive the item. It went to a warrior who simply happened to the possess the necessary material components. And once he bore the legendary two-handed mace, he...like his materials...was gone.

I would not make the same mistake twice.

The issuing of legendary weapons to guild members was something I took great pains to work through. It couldn't just be the first person with the materials, or the player furthest along in the quest. It had to be carefully planned out, ensuring that it would land in the hands of a player that not only deserved it, but whom would continue to carry it throughout our raids, adding to our combined strength. A decision of this significance brought to light many concerns I would've previously swept under the rug. Red flags took on entirely new levels of importance and players' ulterior motives had to be scrutinized. I wanted to assume the best in people, but a realistic approach was just as important -- greed absolutely could be a contributing factor to lead people to behave in new, manipulative ways. Ways that would make me think that giving them Shadowmourne first was the right decision, for the good of the guild.

The trick was how well could I peel back the onion.

"I dunno, perhaps Klocker. I'll have to see the stats first."

Ah, Sir Klocker. A faithful and trusted officer. A loyal guild member and confidant as far back as the early days in Blackwing Lair. Quite possibly first in line to craft this legendary axe...had it not been for the turn of events that were about to be set into motion. A small stone would soon be cast into a lake by a guild member, and it would cause ripples to grow, to encompass the roster, leadership...even me. Ripples that would ultimately lead Sir Klocker to be the guild's third bearer of Shadowmourne, rather than the first.

Dreadscale and Acidmaw are killed within
seconds of each other, earning the guild
"Not One But Two Jormungars (25-Man)",
Trial of the Crusader

The Life of a Tank

I leaned over my desk awkwardly, shoving a mouthful of ice cream into my face, while the 25-Man team wailed on Gormak. I stood at the base of the enormous Magnataur, holding him in position while DPS tore him up. Numbers flowed down my screen like a fountain of death, of hit points that once were. I'd held the role of tank for these many months in Wrath and had enjoyed its benefits. Tanks were quick to gear up, as competition against loot was minimal. There was always a need a tank in a 5-Man, particularly a heroic one. And Death Knights truly enjoyed the benefit of the role in Wrath, implicitly overpowered in their design that any of the three specs -- be it Blood, Frost or Unholy -- could tank. It made life easy for me, whether I was playing the pivotal role of Sartharion tank during a three-drake kill, or simply standing in front of Gormak and weathering each strike as if a light breeze brushed past my cheek. I could even enjoy dessert and perform my raid-related duties at the same time. Indeed, life was easy.

Easy...and dull as rocks.

I remembered the days of Kerulak and of struggling with new mechanics. Of rewiring my buttons from the ground up as a result of Battleguard Sartura. Of the adrenaline flowing through me as Huhuran neared death and the fate of the raid rested with the Shamans and their Chain Heal spam. Chills...

Gormak fell over dead and Omaric raced into position to pick up Dreadscale, while I crossed the room and waited for Acidmaw. A giant worm burst out of the floor like some poorly written Dune fan-fiction, and I began to backpedal, staying out of his poison clouds.

"Keep the damage level on both. Going for the achievement."

I glanced up at the poison debuff ticking away on me. If left unchecked, I would eventually be slowed to the point of complete immobility. Perhaps this would get a little exciting after all!

"I have the debuff. Want me to run to fire?"

"No, stay there. It’s coming to you."

Meh, perhaps not.

I continued to keep the Jormungar's poison spit pointed away from the raid, and watched their health-bars drop in unison. Down and to my right, the damage meters were a multicolored ice cream dessert; once again, Crasian remained the cherry on top.

I missed being on the meters.

I thought back to playing Zanjina and how so much of it was a struggle to claw my way back up into the top 10. Shit gear, poor itemization, and a bad mix of racials all stacked the deck against me. Yet every day I would return to try to find some new trick or technique to scale that DPS mountain. I remembered the day Supremus crumbled into a heap of rubble in Black Temple and I stood in the #1 spot, if only for a single moment.

Pardon my French, but it was a pretty fucking cool feeling.

Tanking had its place, but I knew the full effect it had on the player, that lack of glory, the inability to come out of a raid with any quantifiable performance. The success of a tank wasn't gauged in multicolored flavors of damage; it was a cruel world of simply being alive or dead. It was the stale carrot cake you pulled from the back of the refrigerator, as a nice gesture to guests, long after all the ice cream was gone. It often left you hungry while others stuffed their faces. So I smiled politely and thanked the hosts for their generosity; I ate the cake and lied. Oh no, no this is fine. You go ahead with your sundae. This will be enough for me.

The pair of worms collapsed within seconds of one another, and the achievement "Not One But Two Jormungars (25 Player)" flashed up on our screen, as we transitioned to phase three. Icehowl burst through the doors. I shoved another spoonful in, and ran straight for the yeti.

Well...time to see who gets trampled tonight.

The 25-Man progression team defeats Anub'arak,
earning the guild "Call of the Crusade (25 Player)",
Tournament of Champions

We Meet Again

We carried on through Jaraxxas, the Champions, and the Twin Val'kyr, but there would be no diversion to Ulduar this eve. The floor was shattered by the Lich King, and we plummeted down into a hidden chamber, far below the tournament's arena. Hiding in wait, a familiar arachnid lurked. Anub'arak, unhappy with his defeat in Azjol-Nerub, had returned to take his vengeance out on us. Burrowing insects was in our immediate future.

Phase one demanded a tank keep control of Anub'arak himself, while a second tank picked up spiderling minions. As predicted, these minions had a tendency to dig into the floor of the cave, re-appearing in random spots which added to the chaos. In order to keep the burrowing under control, tanks had to position these spiderlings onto patches of ice called permafrost, and permafrost was created when ranged DPS destroyed the various floating spheres that encircled Anub'arak's pit. We kept on the boss until he himself burrowed, indicating the start of phase two.

In this second phase, Anub'arak locked onto a specific member of the raid, seeking this target out. Our raid had to keep tabs on positioning, as this target and his prey drew a line that players could not cross, for fear of being impaled -- an attack that had the potential to one-shot under the right conditions. Meanwhile, scarabs would randomly pop from the ground and swarm on to players, sending them into a panic and running wildly in random directions....often towards the aforementioned invisible line. Keeping calm was the only way to make it through this phase, without losing targets of Anub'arak's hunger. We bounced between these two phases several times, until Anub'arak was whittled down to the magic 30%.

Then, the fun began.

The final burn had a clever twist which would cause the unsuspecting raid to do themselves in, if not careful. Anub'arak surrounded the entire raid in a leeching swarm, draining 10% of the raid's current health each second. This meant a huge spike of damage to the entire raid at the onset, eventually plateauing at a level far less apt to inducing a heart attack among the healers. But! The healers had to resist their instincts to top off the raid; overhealing caused Anub'arak's leech to replenish his hit-points faster than we could remove them. If Anub'arak was left to put the heat on our DPS sundae, the burn would be dragged out; he'd win by attrition, as our DPS melted away. The healers remained disciplined, healing the very least they could, focusing more on the tanks and less on the raid itself. With only a few attempts to perfect these many mechanics, Anub'arak collapsed in a broken husk, and the golden banners flashed up on our screens: "Call of the Crusade (25 Player)".

It was the start of September 2009, and we were now ready to begin our heroic work in Trial of the Grand Crusader.

---

I sat down at my desk, sipped the morning coffee, and began to pull up my work for the day. Instantly, my IM client sprang to life, a pending message from Cheeseus:

"Ever look at other guilds and think, 'How can they succeed, while we fail so hard'?"

I watched as the stone skipped across the lake, ripples growing outward, preparing to devour all that they encompassed.

3.36. Answering the Call

Descendants of Draenor defeats Northrend Beasts with
four Snobalds alive, earning "25-Man: Upper Back Pain",
Trial of the Crusader

Hail the Conquering Hero

I was greeted with blaring trumpets and a cheering crowd upon my arrival to the Tournament of Champions, marking my return to raids after a month-long ordeal. It was refreshing to be back in control, even if the artificial pomp and circumstance was scripted. Five days earlier, I received no such fanfare as I arrived at the car dealership that had inadvertently caused my vacation from Hell. Beaten down by the previous week's events, it would have been nice to return to a line of bowing peasants, showering me with a thousand apologies while I pointed to several of them at random, ordering their beheadings.

I don't think the guillotine would have been particularly helpful for their sales floor.

Squarely positioned in front of the flat panel, left hand sitting one key askew of the home row, right hand gripping the MX1000, it was time to suppress all lingering memories of Williston, North Dakota. My blood pressure dropped as images of being stranded were overwritten by boss strategies. Faces of auto mechanics and calls to dealerships faded to black, and were replaced with Lord Jaraxxas and The Twin Val'kyr. There was a time, not long ago, where it was World of Warcraft that acted as my primary source of stress. How ironic it was, then, to finally arrive at a place where being in-game recharged my batteries rather than drain them. Being online with the guild felt like my home-away-from-home. It gave me a small sense of comfort, even while cooped up in cheap hotel rooms, trapped in a town blanketed with the smell of unrefined oil. I adjusted my headset and listened to Tirion Fordring deliver his speech introducing our first challenge: Northrend Beasts.

---

Well into Wrath of the Lich King, the definite constant in Descendants of Draenor was a changing roster, and this was by my design. While Elites (for the most part) remained stalwart, the lower rank of Raider boasted a seemingly bottomless trove of up-and-coming faces. Demand to participate in 25-Man content was at an all-time high -- especially amid knowledge that we provided it outside of a militant hardcore guild setting. The newest of these ever-changing faces came from Federation Starflex, a guild belonging to Jungard's brother, a rogue named Randyflagg. Previously, they'd chosen to keep things close-knit and small, a decision I respected, but wasn't particularly fond of. As Jungard's volunteer hours in Fedstar increased due to their invariable dependence upon him grew, I continued to turn the vice and keep the pressure on him. Sell an assimilation to your sibling. Show them the ways of DoD. The wine would flow in both directions; Fedstar could fill spots in the 25 if they wished. In return, they'd have more people to help with their own 10-Man endeavors. Eventually, he made them see the light, and Descendants of Draenor soaked up Federation Starflex like a sponge.

Hodir is defeated within three minutes, earning the
raid "25-Man: I Could Say This Cache Was Rare",
Ulduar

The Road Less Traveled

DoD not only obtained Jungard's brother through the assimilation of Federation Starflex, but gained a healthy mix of the other roles one would expect to see in a balanced roster. There was Wfredlund, a paladin whom the guild came to know as "Fred". Fred had a healthy sense of humor and an equally healthy beard, which he both flaunted and mocked in our forums' real-life pic thread. Fred broke the ice easily with the rest of the crew, an essential attribute that all newly invited guildies should possess. As it was with many folks that came and went in DoD, first impressions were laser-etched into granite, and no amount of fantastical healing could make up for that. As it stood, Fred was occasionally nervous wielding the Light, and breaking the ice was a good way to allow us to see past those deficiencies, giving him a chance to grow into his position.

A player with no skills and no personality didn't last long in the roster.

On the other end of the spectrum sat a warlock with both skills and personality, more than enough to go around. He called himself Mangetsu. Mang was quite the character. I detected an accent I couldn't place in that initial interview; I'd come to find out later he was Portuguese...but his English did not suffer despite this. Aside from the accent, his conversations were as straightforward and natural as any introverted nerd would be. Mangetsu had a tendency to turn the conversation into something anime related, whether it be the latest series he was transfixed on, or the fact that he adored his "waifu", a pillow with an anime architecture imprinted on the case. But Mangetsu wasn't just a playful, cuddly anime nerd that DoD could pat on the head and tuck away in the corner once it was time to talk business. Inside a raid, his jovial, happy-go-lucky attitude continued to crack jokes, while his fel fire and shadow bolts lit the meters up like fireworks. Mang wielded the dark powers of the warlock with ease, almost as if it were an extension of the self. He willed the death of those raid bosses, and they succumbed. Even Eacavissi himself felt a challenge when Mangetsu stepped in.

Mangetsu made many friends in DoD very quickly, but I still sensed a nervousness in him. Was he intimidated by our accomplishments? We were no great superpower on Deathwing-US, so in dealing with him, I leveraged what I had learned about perception. How we see ourselves is often not how others see us. A quick interview in Ventrilo put his mind at ease. We put our pants on one leg at time, just like you, Mang. We merely strove to set a new standard for guilds -- one that meant we would raid competitively without taking the easy road like so many hardcore guilds had. The less people-oriented road. I made it a personal mission of mine to work with people and mediate their issues, be flexible with their schedules, encourage them to learn and grow as contributing members. After all, this was about more than just raiding, this was a social environment we were cultivating. Once Mang got comfortable, and the stress of being inducted washed away, his name floated to the surface of every damage meter we ran, constantly making us chuckle in the process. He never overstepped his bounds. He never once displayed an ounce of egotism or pride. He was humbled to be a part of our group, and I was lucky to call him one of my own.

I predicted great things from Mangetsu, and had a feeling he would play more than just the role of warlock/anime nerd.

The 25-Man progression team defeats Thorim while
Sif is present, earning "25-Man: Lose Your Illusion",
Ulduar

Stoning Birds to Death

The beasts had no chance to run amok. A magnataur, two jormungars, and a Northrend yeti were no match for the progression team. Snobolds picked away at us like gnats while we moved through each successive boss, but under strict direction from Cheeseus, the raid ignored them and focused their attention on the beast at hand. Their defeat was almost entirely without casualties: Sir Klocker and Dalans were victims of Icehowl's enrage as a result of other players being caught in the yeti's charge. Following the Wrath formula, normal mode was of no concern -- even when at its worst. As Icehowl crashed dead to the floor of the arena, "25-Man: Upper Back Pain" flashed up on our screens.

Wilfred Fizzlebang summoned in our next challenger, buying the farm in the process. Lord Jaraxxus, an Eredar lord bathed in a deep blood red, pummeled the 25-Man progression team while spawning Mistresses of Pain to his side. These succubi were to add a significant amount of incoming damage, but if it were so, I don't recall -- memories blur around events of little consequence. We all knew the drill. The challenge would come later. For now, we jumped through the hoops as commanded from on high, and killed as many achievement birds with one stone in the process. Leaving two succubi alive granted us "25-Man: Three Sixty Pain Spike", another bird expired.

From there, we moved to the Faction Champions, a unique encounter reminiscent of Arena PvP. Coordination was the key to deal with this handful of random Alliance. Crowd-control had to be maintained on certain members of the group...members which changed week-to-week, forcing us to adapt new strategies on-the-fly. The Champions then gave way to Fjola Lytebane and Eydis Darkbane, aka The Twin Val'kyr. Mechanics were textbook: light empowered damage dealers targeted Eydis, while the dark empowered got close and personal with Fjola. There was no surprise to anyone when we sent the twins crying home to their Lich King mommy. At the halfway mark for the night, we were through every boss, save Anub'arak.

Time management was now a priority, requiring us to split efforts between Trial of the Crusader and Ulduar. New content was a life-blood, something everyone loved, but the Iron Bound Proto-Drake still dangled on the stick in front of us. Back to the Storm Peaks we returned, digging down into the titan city. Before that evening ended, we set upon Hodir with increased gusto in an attempt to beat the three minute timer. Birds continued to fall out of the sky as we not only secured Hodir's defeat with seconds remaining, we did so without a single player being flash frozen..not even Ben. Our perfect execution racked up "25-Man: I Could Say This Cache Was Rare" and "25-Man: Cheese the Freeze" on that single kill.

We returned the following Sunday and knocked out "25-Man: Con-speed-atory", accomplished by defeating Freya within 20 minutes of the first mob death in The Observatory of Life. The remainder of that afternoon was spent on "25-Man: Lose Your Illusion". This would involve us defeating Thorim with Sif still present, barraging the raid with ice showers, randomly freezing us into position -- a mechanic particularly painful while a blast of lightning drew imminent. The night was organized in such a way as to give us plenty of time to work on this achievement, but we completed it only a few attempts. We ended the evening by clearing Ulduar and distributing its wealth among the 25-Man team.

---

The first weekend back behind the wheel was extraordinary; I was re-energized and had a clear path into both raids. Glory of the Ulduar Raider inched closer, and only one boss remained in the Tournament before we could begin the Trial of the Grand Crusader...where the real work lay. I reviewed my achievement panel and surveyed all the birds we killed with that weekend's single raiding stone. And as I looked closely at the golden bars, scrolling back and forth between those newly added, and those which had been in the game at Wrath's launch, something subtle appeared there. Something nearly unnoticeable and easily dismissed as a cosmetic change. Something that I wouldn't give any concern to -- nor would anyone else, yet would ultimately set the stage for something much bigger than any of us could predict. And its nearly microscopic tentacles had sprouted, lying in wait to embrace our subconscious.

The subconscious mind is a fickle thing.