4.28. To Breach a Bastion

DoD wipes during an attempt
on the Nefarian encounter,
Blackwing Descent

100 Meter Lavastroke

"Our pillar needs help, down an interrupter."

"Which pillar?"

"Jungard's going. Blain's next."

"Just the next person's name, please. Cut the chatter."

"Insayno has this."

"WHICH PILLAR?"

"EAST!"

"East pillar."

"Raina's next."

"Raina's DEAD, already requested help!"

"I can get over there. Zedman can get over there."

"Calm down. Just everybody relax."

"Boney, you’re up, by the way."

"You'll be dead before you reach it."

"Too late, he's already in the lava."

"Heh, we got ourselves a fucking Michael Phelps here."

"Get a shield on him or something, Christ."

"Wow."

"Chatter down, please. Waiting for Electrocute."

"I think he’s going to make it."

"Can you get this next one?"

"I got it, I got it."

"He's almost here."

"Slow down. SLOW. DOWN. Let’s get everybody up before 70%, please."

"DPS off."

"...aaand, he's up."

"I don't believe it. Zedman is now at east pillar."

"Welcome. And you’re next."

"Are we clear?"

"Jungard, next."

"Hit mine, you're up Mature."

"Top everyone off, we're pushing Electrocute now."

Nefarian rattled, hovering far above us. Forks of electricity pierced the room, striking every living member of the raid. Healers bathed each pillar in light once Electrocute had passed. Panic turned to relief, and doubt reformed as confidence. We burned the Chromatic Prototypes, now able to stay ahead of the three minute timer, and watched as the lava began to drain from the room.

You’re up, Mature.

I beelined to the north pillar, targeting a gigantic pile of bones. Moments later, Nefarian exhaled, and a bright Shadowblaze Spark smashed into the floor next to me. Bones re-animated into constructs, tearing and clawing as they came to life. Upgrades were sparse since starting Tier 11 -- I rested hope on Throngus' Finger and Symbiotic Worm, the best two trinkets I'd been able to procure. With Death and Decay encircling the feet of the bone constructs, I pulled them away from the north pillar, out of the flame, and prepared to do my dance.

The path took me along the outside ring of Nefarian's arena, moving clockwise from noon to five: this delayed the amount of time the room was filled with flame. I kept them moving long enough to begin to collapse, their life energy draining as the blue flame snuffed out. But within moments of the constructs coming apart, another Shadowblaze Spark began the cycle anew.

I continued along the ring until I approached the south-eastern pillar, calling out for extra heals in the moments I'd be out of line-of-sight. This is where things consistently fell apart. Go behind the pillar, risk death, but give the raid extra time to DPS Nefarian? Or cut my path short, and cross the center of the arena? This was a safer bet for my own survivability, but accelerated the spread of blue flame -- an encroaching threat that reduced mobility, strained healers, and allowed for the occasional construct to take a pot shot at a raider.

I spiked wildly, healers struggled to keep me topped off, but I couldn't reach for a cooldown. All cooldowns had to be ready for Electrocutes, now striking us at a rate of one every 10% of Nefarian's health devoured. The spikes were too much for me to bear. I had to cut across. The blue flame was not burning out of the construct's eyes. Too many mistakes. Too much back-pedaling, not enough side-strafing (a faster way for a tank to kite). I zig-zagged through the middle, attempting to avoid the burning blue areas now painted in giant patches across the room. Constructs were getting away from me. Healers were dying. DPS was dying. I was dying.

I was dead.

Zedman's clutch lava bath had been in vain. We exited Blackwing Descent that night, our second full night of attempts on Nefarian, empty handed.

DoD kills Nefarian to earn a legacy
raid achievement and guild xp,
Blackwing Lair

An Undetectable Breaking Point

After two weekends of unsuccessful attempts on Nefarian, I worried about morale. In the days of Blackwing Lair, it wasn't unheard of to sink nearly all the raid weekends into one boss, pull after relentless pull. I was reminded of this fact frequently: every wipe in Blackwing Descent forced us back to the summoning stone perched atop Nefarian's old balcony, an outlook across the entirety of the Burning Steppes. It was hard to believe how fast six years had gotten away from me.

Running back, attempt after attempt, Kerulak resumed his position, while Annihilation and Ater prepared the warriors for their shout rotation, tiny bits of aggro that collected the Chromatic Drakonids. Dalans, Kadrok, Haribo, Klocker and I stood with the other healers and DPS in a tight clump, measuring our heals carefully, keeping people topped off, while casters like Turtleman and melee like Blain ripped minions to shreds. And oh, the screams that filled Teamspeak in those days, when bosses took months, not days, to complete.

I remember Ater's early concern with morale when we'd stagnated on a boss for six weeks. Six weeks! Raiders were made of sturdier stuff back then...they had no choice. The only way to shed the weak was by slaying internet dragons. You persevered because you were a bat-shit, crazy, out-of-your-mind kind of gamer, the only type of person who would be online this late in the evening on a Friday night, glued to pixels instead of a social life.

...except that this was social. Just an unconventional kind of sociality. There were thirty-nine other living breathing humans making this god damn raid work. Strategizing, coordinating, working out the kinks. Internet dragons weren't being slain in a vacuum.

As the memory of my shaman's ghost melted away, replaced by my death knight, few of those original faces remained: Blain, Sir Klocker, Turtleman, to name a few. Old-school raiders that knew what it meant to face a challenge and not give up just because they weren't seeing fancy loot. But so many of these faces were new, and how many of them were from Wrath era? How many had never experienced the suffering of weeks and weeks of work on a boss like Kael'thas, and felt the adrenaline rush through the veins of forty people screaming at the top of their lungs when a boss finally crashed to the ground? Screaming amid the knowledge that they were of a very select few on the server that were able to pull off such a feat?

Vets like Dalans and Annihilation and Haribo and Ater were being replaced with fresh faces like Dewgyd and Aetherknight and Rainaterror and Hygia. A raid comprised of leaders had morphed into one of followers. Boosts in morale wouldn't grow out of thin air. They had to want it. In Wrath, the shinies were perpetually dangling in front of their faces. Cataclysm, by contrast, was more like the days of yore: brutal, terrifying, and asking raiders to sacrifice of themselves in much greater quantities...but without the accompanying rewards.

DoD tore through raids in Wrath of the Lich King at such an alarming rate, that whenever progress stagnated like this, even just for a couple of weekends, I grew somber as I contemplated the current lineup:

How many more wipes before they start to consider a 10-Man?

DoD continues to refine Halfus Wyrmbreaker,
Bastion of Twilight

Wrangling The Wyrmbreaker

I didn't have to pitch a raid shift to Blain for the third week of attempts -- the line-up dictated it. Horateus, a paladin tank that Teras offered to us for a few weeks, was unavailable. The death knights acquiesced; Insayno, Soot and I all knew the limitations of our toolkit as they pertained to the off-tank portion of Nefarian's third phase. Rather than waste everyone's time on an encounter we were ill-equipped to refine, Blain directed us to Bastion of Twilight, with the hopes of making some...any...kind of progress there.

Halfus Wyrmbreaker was first up on our tour through the starfish-shaped citadel, floating high above the Twilight Highlands. We reached the Bastion via a portal nestled amongst dark violet spirals of architecture that twisted skyward like a pit of sacrificial daggers. Inside, deep purples and cobalt blues painted a glowing path down corridors which lead to the awaiting encounters.

The giant ettin stood on an exposed platform, a two headed bi-pedal monstrosity wielding a glowing mace. Narrow red slits in eyeholes darted around the room, casing for any unexpected sound or movement in the rookery. Near the edge of the exposed room flew a horrifically enlarged and mutated version of a proto-drake: Wyrmbreaker's pet proto-behemoth. Three drakes stood at attention around the perimeter of Halfus' platform. Two more lay chained, health bars indicating that they were in no shape to fight.

The encounter required us to have a tank pull the ettin while three members of raid all spoke to a drake, causing them to join the encounter. Each drake provided both a buff and a debuff to Wyrmbreaker (or his Proto-Behemoth) and with each drake we slew, Halfus would buckle, taking additional damage.

The trick with Halfus was to walk that ever increasing fine line of what your raid could dish out vs. what you could withstand. Either we released more drakes, increasing the risk levied on the raid, but ultimately earning a payoff in the form of increased damage. Or, leave drakes alone, potentially improving raid survivability, but handicapping our ability to finish him off before Wyrmbreaker the returned the favor.

Never mind the fact that the drakes changed from week to week, randomizing the encounter further.

We coughed and sputtered on an initial few attempts, but before long, found our groove. Drakes were pulled, separated, and burned. The ettin roared, knocking the melee back in a disorienting attempt to prevent us from interrupting his Shadow Nova. Goldenrod kept a close eye on the impending cast, counterspelling it before it blasted the entire raid with damage. Before we knew it, the two headed creature crashed to the ground in a heap.

Progress had resumed. And the raid evening was still young.

4.27. The Race

"Tauren Warrior"
Artwork by TamplierPainter

Horders

I hope you get cancer and die.

The worst part of being a pack rat is the conscious awareness of your irrational emotional attachment to garbage. Whether facing a full bank in game or an inordinate collection of very important things in your computer room, sensibility wracks you with guilt. All signs point to the dumpster, yet you find ways to justify why cutting your refuse loose would be a bad idea. Textbook excuses are your crutch: a lack of time needed to organize, no guarantee you'll ever come across the item again, a hypothetical future need. Justifications only bury the core issue: an inability to admit defeat. It is the notion that you, at one point of sound mind and body, held a noble, rational argument for its value, seeing in it what others could not. And with a bit of effort, you could extract that diamond from a pile of filthy coal. You just needed to care enough.

Being unable to admit defeat convinces you that a diamond exists somewhere in your coal mine, so you continue to dig and dig, unaware that there is no mine at all...just a hole in the earth you dig for yourself.

---

Check your fucking facts, you piece of shit.

One of my newest members, inspired by the camaraderie he experienced as a member of Descendants of Draenor, brought an idea to me one afternoon.

"Well, I was thinking. I'd like to set something up, a race of sorts. Maybe something like from Thunder Bluff to Orgrimmar. Get everybody together that's interested and have them roll a brand new tauren and see who can make it to Orgrimmar first. Winner could get some gold, enchants, gems, things like that. Do you think that would be a fun event?"

"Absolutely. I'm sure a bunch of people would be interested in participating. In fact, let me sweeten the deal: I'll match the award. Whatever you are able to throw in for the winner, we'll double up by pulling from the guild vault."

"Wow, that would really be great! Thanks, I'm gonna go make a post about it now."

Following the forum post detailing out the date, time, and the rules for participating, an update to the guild Message of the Day caused word to spread rapidly. Some guild members even offered to add to the award pool without even being asked to. I watched the outpouring of generosity from our auction house players, and was proud of the melting pot of players who called DoD their home.

You don't have a clue what you're doing, do you? DoD is a joke, lol.

The day of the race arrived; a herd of naked cows perched at the top of Thunder Bluff's southwestern elevator. I watched the countdown in guild chat, and when the virtual gunshot fired, they were off: a blur of bovines stampeding through the green plains of Mulgore. The racers maintained a pack formation, following the path that slowly veered in a southeasterly direction, with their sights set on breaching The Great Gate, a defensive wall constructed by the tauren in response to Camp Taurajo's decimation. Beyond the gate, the relative safety of the freshly rolled characters could not longer be guaranteed.

"Shaman Draenei"
Artwork by Nadou

High Steaks

Though it is contested territory, the wide-open plains of the Barrens has long been considered Horde owned. From Vanilla through Wrath, Horde outposts stood diligently at select points along the outskirts of the arid savanna. Nearly all of the action ever faced in the zone took place at the Crossroads, a northern trade town connecting four distinct roads that lead northward to Ashenvale, westward to the Stonetalon Peaks, southward to the Thousand Needles via Razorfen territory, and eastward, for those bound for the Horde capital. Pockets of Alliance insurgents would make their random attacks, sneaking onto ships bound for Ratchet, or driving a southern charge via Dustwallow Marsh -- their geographic liaison to Theramore. These pushes would never last, and the Horde would rightfully put them in their place.

When the Cataclysm hit the Barrens, the dominance of the Horde receded. A gaping fiery tear in the land stretched entirely from western to eastern edges of the Barrens, cutting the Horde off and preventing them from effectively defending the southern, less protected areas. The Alliance moved quickly to take control of those southern points, setting up defenses at Fort Triumph and Forward Command. And ensuring that they remained the honorable, righteous faction they claimed to be, the Alliance slaughtered the undefended Camp Taurajo, to demonstrate how truly powerful and noble they were. This tear came to be known as The Great Divide, and is the reason the Horde lost its foothold over the zone.

Ask anybody and they’ll back me up. I had nothing to do with it.

DoD's freshly rolled cows passed through the remnants of Camp Taurajo, and within moments, the herd of cattle had dispersed. Now in hotly contested territory, imminent danger forced them to rethink. Running blinding through the Southern Barrens not only risked inadvertently aggroing high level mobs, any Alliance present for questing would most certainly jump at the chance to kill a naked tauren. Each racer had their own idea about the most effective route, and sticking together was no longer a winning strategy.

Mobs and leveling Alliance were the least of their worries.

After spending a few minutes trying to decide how to get through the Overgrowth, an area of rich vegetation now lining the borders of the The Great Divide, the naked cows made their way northward. Most had avoided death by this point; the race was still anyone's game. Within moments of passing through Vendetta Point, a new threat stood in their path. A level 85 draenei shaman, draped entirely in PvP gear, hopped off her flying mount, drew both weapons, and proceeded to brutalize the racers, wasting them in a frenzy of windfury. The tauren never had a chance.

Warnings spammed guild chat; the racers responded and adjusted as best they could. The draenei was out for blood, mounted quickly after each subsequent killing, scouting quickly in the direction of the nearest graveyard, waiting for the players' imminent release so the harassment could continue unabated.

At first, it was an interesting challenge to overcome. Perhaps the racers would find a way to stagger their re-spawns, or temporarily form allegiances to work together in mutual distraction. If they could at least make it to the Overgrowth, it could potentially provide some cover from a distance. It's the kind of optimism and hope you only see from the truly dedicated, those who make a habit of getting blood from a stone. 

These tactics were futile. 

It became obvious very quickly that a max level character with a flying mount had all the necessary tools to keep lvl 1 characters from moving only a few steps before turning them into ghosts. The "interesting challenge" quickly devolved into full-on harassment. It went on for an hour, yet the worst was yet to come.

OMG you are the worst guild leader on Deathwing. How's that feel?

A Real Team Player

Zedman was the first to whisper me about the lesser known details behind the draenei shaman.

"Did you know that there's a shaman out there that's killing and camping the racers?"

"Sadly, yes."

"You know who it is, right?"

"No, who?"

"It's Sentra's brother."

I rested my elbows on the desk and massaged my temples.

"You're kidding me."

"Wish I was. That shaman is Sentra's brother over on the Alliance side, well known gankers. They show up in Deathwing forum threads a lot. Sentra's feeding him positioning."

I popped open the guild roster. Sentra was online. I noted his position in the world: Southern Barrens. Un-fucking-believable.

[To: Sentra] Are you telling your brother to attack the racers?

[From: Sentra] Nope.

I took a deep breath.

[To: Sentra] Think it through. Are you absolutely certain this is the answer you want to give me?

[From: Sentra] Whatever.

I scrolled to Sentra's name in the roster, highlighted it, and clicked the Remove from Guild button. Miscellaneous cheers filled guild chat shortly after, with a few random whispers arriving to the tune of "Thank God" and "About Damn Time". 

All the effort I put into trying to see the good side of an otherwise d-bag player -- the long, late night arena matches, the wasted discussions on giving your word and sticking to it in an attempt to pave a path for him into the progression raid, the energy spent on giving him some credit long after others had written him off -- was gone instantly in the press of a button.

Sentra was furious. He demanded that I speak to him about it in Vent. I obliged, but his volatile, scathing rants brought nothing new to the table, nothing I didn't already know. Accusations littered with profanity and abuse told the tale of how I had no evidence and how there was no specific rule banning this kind of behavior anyway. I made it clear to him that all the evidence I needed was the knowledge of his presence in the Southern Barrens conveniently lining up with his brother's rampage. And as for the absence of a rule explicitly stating that a "guild member should not harass other guild members with malice"...I told him to go fuck himself.

You better hope I never come to Denver, because if I do, I'll be paying you and your family a visit.

Shortly after the kick/ban from Vent, he took to phone texting; we had exchanged numbers early on in our Arena history. Every few minutes another SMS message arrived, expressing curiosity as to acquisition of various diseases, telling me how incompetent I was, how hated I was on Deathwing-US, how I had no facts in the case, didn't know what I was doing, and how my guild was a joke. He even tossed in a classy threat of violence as icing on the cake. I wouldn't put it past him; if he could knock out a stranger's front teeth, I'm sure he'd pull no punches in giving me some free dental work.

The harassment from Sentra's brother extended past the end of the race, long after the awards were handed out, and we got on with our lives. Sentra, meanwhile, couldn't get on with his. Message after message caused my phone to continue to buzz, saying the same thing over and over, just in slightly different ways -- pathetic, empty threats from a troll with no ability to separate game from reality. Eventually, I stopped looking at it.

---

Late that evening, long after the kids were tucked in and Jul was resting comfortably in bed, I wrapped up a few more job submissions, /waved goodnight to the guild and headed upstairs. It was only a few moments after my head hit the pillow that a final SMS message arrived, vibrating my phone out of slumber. I rolled over, squinting in the dark to read the message glowing out of the screen.

Please let me back in the guild. This is all I have.

"Who is it?" Jul asked, stirring from her sleep.

I put the phone down on the nightstand, and rolled back to my pillow.

"Nobody important."

4.26. All Good Things

I am unemployed. WTB #ColdFusion / #Flex dev. job, pref. in the Denver / Boulder, CO area, PST. #jobsearch
— Shawn Holmes (@Hanzo55) January 28, 2011

What a Ride

It wasn't entirely clear what went wrong. Some things couldn't be said on-the-record, piles of signed confidentiality documents attested to that fact. Legalese buried who was at fault or why; I'd certainly never be cleared to know it. Gossip and speculation were the only options, words muttered behind closed doors and under bated breath. While the details of how things spiraled out of control so quickly would remain left to guesses, one thing was perfectly clear by the end of it...

I was unemployed.

Dust collected up into random piles on Jerry's desk in an otherwise empty office. Jerry ran the show, took a gamble on me three years earlier, instantly ending my career rut, my six years of hell. He was my boss's boss, the one who had final say, and who also happened to share an interest in a certain MMO. I'd catch the occasional glimpse of him, winding his undead rogue through Azeroth between conference calls, and think, that's a pretty sweet gig. Calling the shots at the office, setting up a team, and getting them to make some magic happen. All with enough time left over to check on your auctions before punching out. Jerry was king of the castle and a gamer to boot. They do exist!

I remember a few weeks after getting the job, firing up our then-recent kill video of Archimonde, taken from the point of view of a shaky shadow-priest. Jerry gave a nod of acknowledgement. He saw the raid flung up into air, a few of my guild coming close to cratering -- he knew the stakes. The other folks at the office paid no attention, but Jerry leaned in and watched closely. For a brief moment, the guy that could hire and fire all day long and a simple ColdFusion developer, were on the same level. "Got some computer games goin' on over there?" came a gibe from across the cubes, "Don't look work related to me!" Jerry and I looked at each other. They'll never understand.

One year in, Jerry was gone. His work was done, the team was self-sufficient, and he was off to solve bigger problems elsewhere. I resumed my role of "the only WoW addict in the office", but was lucky enough to build a kinship with my immediate superior, "the boss" Dave. Not a gamer, but definitely a down-to-earth manager that held his team in high regard, fighting to protect us from high drama and distraction whenever it surfaced. Dave mentored and guided me those next two years, helped me take pride in what I did, told me when my work was good enough, and gave me a place to vent when I didn't see the quality I wanted from others.

The respect and trust I'd earned in him made this process all the more difficult to digest.

Negotiations between the buying company and ours had broken down. Rather than give it another go, the company chose to call it a day with some shred of dignity intact, and leave those who helped build it with a bit of severance. The team I'd grown close to over the past three years, who'd come to learn of my WoW addiction, forever branding me as the guy with the Time-Lost Proto Drake, were now divvying up the office supplies and random hardware. The trunk of the civic was crammed with so many reams of printer paper that I am still, to this day, using up the last of it. Once clear of any valuables, Dave flicked the switch on the lights for the last time, locked the office, and shook my hand.

"Well, this is it," his eyes got wide as he shifted from professional to comedian, "Relatively sucks!"

I laughed, "Yeah. Sucks a lot." I reminded him to let me know if he found anything I'd be good at. "Keep me privy, would ya?"

He waved his hand in a motion of comfort, "Aaaah, it'll be fiiiiiiiiiiiiine."

I about lost it on the drive home.

They'll never understand, Jerry

The Worst Job in the World

You'd better be damn thankful for any job you ever get. There is a lineup of people outside the door just waiting to take it from you. Mom's programming was a double-edged sword in adult life. While employed, I gave it my all, did everything I could to impress (perhaps a bit too much), and was constantly striving for recognition and approval. The downside? When unemployed, I was a mess. Distraught, unable to think straight, I barely processed the day-to-day responsibilities. "Unemployment" was a swear word growing up -- another example of Mom's tendency to bucket things with such polarity. When Jul asked if I submitted my unemployment paperwork, I lied and said I had, desperately avoiding it, pouring that energy into finding work instead.

The uncertainty of it all is what makes looking for work the worst job in the world. The knowledge of coming home to a wife and two kids that rely solely on you as the breadwinner. What if finances dry up? What if I never work again? Are we going to lose the house? Be out on the street? Fear was not an alien concept as a motivator. Fear kept me at a job for six years, trapped by self-doubt. Fear kept decent, well-played gamers returning to raid leaders that shredded their confidence and self-esteem, turning them into a joke for all to point and laugh at, living on in infamy on sites like You're The Man Now, Dog-dot-com.

Fear works, but it's no way to live.

The weeks to follow were spent with WoW on one screen and Monster.com on the other. I cared for a recovering wife, toiled over kids, and tried to focus on the biggest problems facing the guild, while images of unemployment lines danced through my mind. Resumes went out the door while I refreshed my email, waiting for applicants to respond to my questions about their ability to tank, their experience in previous guilds, and whether or not they were selfish human beings.

More than once, I wavered -- the mouse cursor dangling above the "Delete Email" button, but never actually killing the idiotic applicant. I caught myself letting some slip through, the poorly written and the badly sold -- the kind of guild applicant I'd end on sight. With my own resumes out the door and being judged somewhere else, it became increasingly difficult to axe a potential guildy for a typo or some other trivial infraction. By the evenings, I was a zombified mess, exhausted from the constant second-guessing of the very rules I swore to uphold. Where once sat a full plate fit for a king, there now lay a crusted dish of rotten food overflowing to the floor.

For weeks it bore down on my shoulders, yet I still had time to show up to raids. Every Friday, every Sunday. Like clockwork, I was online and overseeing invites, ensuring spots were filled on time and by-the-book. I kept it together, because the 25 was the life blood of the guild, and no amount of inconveniences IRL were going to put a stop to that. I kept it together because it mattered.

But I wasn't coming out unscathed.

The 25-Man team waits patiently for the
lava to drain from Nefarian's arena,
Blackwing Descent

Shuttered

Two full nights of work had gone into Nefarian, ending in depressing wipes and no perceptible progress. The hunger to clear Blackwing Descent intensified. The last encounter of the instance, in which we did battle with both Nefarian and his dead sister Onyxia simultaneously, was rough. Each of the three phases floated DoD's baggage back to the surface, mechanics long dormant were now plaguing us, long after we'd emerged from WoTLK as champions. Aggro between the two dragons in phase one, while swimming through lava to pillars of safety in phase two presented their own challenges. The structure of the encounter had an unfortunate tendency to isolate the mouth breathers, and make it very easy to point the finger at the biggest offenders.

Perhaps too easy.

Ultimately, the Nefarian encounter hinged on a player that wasn't entirely representative of the type of player I wished the roster would emulate. It hinged on a player lacking the intended proficiency, a known offender guilty of making poor judgement calls under duress, a person very good at spamming buttons, rather than staying calm under pressure. In short, a spaz.

Nefarian hinged on me. And I was blowing it.

Things went south during the transition from phase two to three. In a nod to the original Nefarian 40-man encounter, the great dragon would raise an army of dead minions that required an off-tank to collect up and kite. A meticulous orchestration was necessary. Various players did what they could to create as tight a pile of death as possible. The goal: have the minions collapse into a single spot in Nefarian's circular arena, dying in a clump, which was vital for the OT -- it meant an easy pick-up, once rezzed by Nefarian's blue flame.

Controlling them was so textbook, so understanding the mechanic was a non-issue. Nefarian's blue flame, if under their feet, would bring them to life -- and in order to ease the pain of phase three, an OT was to drag them away from said flame, keep them moving, forcing their life essence to expire. Without the blue flame, they would eventually collapse as lifeless bones, giving the healers some breathing room for a few moments. Then, the blue flame would alight once more, and the process would repeat. Textbook...especially for a tank that, at one point, was the envy of all other tanks in the game, thanks to an outrageous toolkit that excelled in AoE situations.

The minions were incorrigible. Random ones would flake off, wack healers, and kill DPS. When they weren't getting away from me, I was tripping over my own feet, not moving far enough to avoid blankets of blue flame. Every misstep, every accidental drag through fire reconstituted their undeath, and our healers were granted no reprieve.

Insayno was right. The warrior's AoE stun, Shockwave, trivialized phase three, and kiting the undead minions was cake for them. Shockwave was godly, and every raid in their right mind with a warrior tank on staff leveraged them for this particular role.

We had no warrior tank. We had me.

So, I struggled like the spaz I was, switching between Death and Decay, Blood Boil, and Heart Strike, keeping as many on me as I could, backpedaling like a cripple in my attempts to stay alive and keep them out of blue flame. My play was lackluster and rife with mistakes. Ending so many attempts in defeat gave me flashbacks to those first TBC raids I thrust Zanjina into. Dying. Failing. Contributing nothing to the damage meters. If my strategy was to lead by example, I was undoubtedly creating a raid rich with sadness and despair.

4.25. Twenty-Five Morsels on the Menu

"The Triumph of Evil",
Artwork by Keisinger

Damage Control

I wanted to be mad, but my schedule didn't allow for it. I would've been perfectly happy wallowing in pent up frustration at Bheer's bombshell, falling back into old ways, holding grudges and punching keyboards in frustration. Circumstances, however, dictated that I focus my rage into solving the problem. So behind a false grin of clenched teeth, I moved to assess what damage the roster took as a result of being in the blast radius.

At first glance, practically nothing changed; the situation was only slightly different from when he left me high-and-dry midway through Tournament of Champions. Bheer was but one enhancement shaman out of the 25-Man roster. His then replacement, Hellspectral, was now a full-time frost death knight of the core raid team: former Elite, and fiercely dedicated to progression, his improved icy talons / 10% weapon speed bonus was a permanent fixture. Thanks to the rework of hunters, every raid buff in the game could be brought via a pet -- this comprised the contingency plan. Realistically, all we missed was the warm body. The safety net provided by a "reliable" long-term vet was gone, and anybody I chose to put in that spot would be a wild card. It wasn't uncommon to raid with 24 players for the next few weeks.

There was more at play that simply Bheer's absence from the roster. In their announcement, Bheer made it clear that he was to join Drecca's 10-Man team, which also meant Drecca was forsaking 25 as well. True, he offered himself as a back-up, but you can't plan around "maybes". I had to assume he would never be available, and rebuild the roster to that end. Anything less would put progression in jeopardy.

It sucked.

It sucked because Drecca had been such an incredible asset to the 25 when he joined DoD. Few raiders could slip into an intact team so seamlessly, taking up responsibilities and demonstrating skills one would expect of a long-term, committed raider. The chances of it happening again were slim-to-none.

I immediately ramped up recruitment in search of long-term tanks. Soot was one possibility; Falnerashe's "hubby" Teras was another, by way of his paladin alt Horateus. I pushed both to gear up and sign up. But before recruiting any more tanks, I had to have a heart-to-heart with Insayno.

---

"The situation has, shall we say, had a bit of a wrench thrown in to it."

"Oh yeah?" Insayno answered me over vent. I could hear the rapid clicking of keys in the background ...a telltale indication of PvP.

"Without the tanks, we have no progression. That should be pretty self-explanatory."

"Agreed."

"In any other circumstance, I'd have back-ups. And I am working on that. But I'm speaking to you about this right now because of its importance. I want to make sure you understand how this affects the raid team and the guild."

"Ok…"

I downshifted. "Are you enjoying the tanking stuff so far?"

"Yeah, it's pretty solid right now. I like it. Still jealous of the prot warror's AoE stun, but it's still workable." He spoke of Shockwave, an ability I didn't pay much attention to...an ability I would soon come to despise. I continued.

"I'd appreciate it if you could continue in this capacity, for as long as humanly possible. Right now, you and I are all that the 25-Man team has for 100% reliable tanks. All the rest are wild cards."

"Yeah, my schedule is wide-open right now, so I'm happy to help. For as long as it takes."

"Thank you. I'll do everything I can to solidify new long-term tanks for our spots. Maybe we can get a little deeps in now and again, eh?"

Insayno's tone became official, "Sounds like a plan, Hanzo. I shall sign up for all raids until I hear otherwise." The faint sound effect of Icy Touch landing on his target could be heard before his mic shut off.

Fight the good fight, Insayno. Don’t let me down.

The 25-Man progression team spots a
familiar friend waiting for them,
Blackwing Descent

Healer Heart Attack

Week two put us face to face with a new foe. By the end of the first night, Magmaw, Omnotron Defense, Maloriak and Atramedes were all eating dirt, a huge improvement from the previous weekend. This freed us to dedicate Sunday entirely to Chimaeron, a hydra that would push the healers to their very limits.

Chimaeron's gimmick was Finkle Einhorn and his "Bile-o-Tron", a silly bot that wandered the room, dousing players with a protective spray. The mixture prevented anyone above 10k HP from dying -- instead, those covered in the gunk were reduced to a solitary hit-point when Chimaeron struck. This unnerving style of damage forced the healers to rethink their traditional strategy of keeping the raid topped off; any heals above 10k translated into overheals, and was a fast track to an empty mana pool.

The raid had to maintain precise positioning during the fight. Caustic Slime would hit four people at random, bouncing to other players that were too close. Those afflicted would suffer damage handicaps along with their health spiking to 1 HP. A randomly positioned raid increased the healing stress, spiking more players down to 1 HP, and crippled our ability to make the enrage timer. Chimaeron was a solid gear check with benefits.

Massacre was the worst. In a single blast, the hydra reduced the entire raid to 1 HP, the extreme amount of damage even enough to throw the Bile-o-Tron offline. Lacking the protective cover of Finkle's Mixture, all players were susceptible to instant death...10k or otherwise. Our saving grace was the hydra's heads feuding with one another. We collapsed into a group and the healers blanketed the raid with as many AoE heals as possible, all the while poison bombs of Caustic Slime pummeling the raid in the process. Any heal helped at this point; players were even burning bandages on themselves, a tactic not seen since as far back as Naj'entus.

Massacre didn't always knock the Bile-o-Tron offline, however, so every single player had to be alert and ready to move into a clump if necessary. Gone were the days of an encounter following an explicit pattern of A, then B...A, then B...A, then B. Any PvP troll who trashed PvE as a mindless endeavor of learning a pattern and following it would've been eaten alive by Chimaeron. Many were.

A race to the finish kicked off when Chimaeron neared 20% -- again, a trigger not entirely set in stone. The entire raid receiving a debuff reducing our healing received by 99%. At this point, healers shut down completely, joining the DPS in a race to burn him down before he ate every living thing in the room. Not only did it involve blowing every cooldown that remained, but it forced us to start calling out the "next victim". Chimaeron used our threat meter as menu. One by one, top players in threat would retreat to the furthest corner of the room, delaying Chimaeron's feast, gaining the raid precious seconds of DPS. A kill would most certainly not be clean...if we could pull it off.

Mature glances at Al'akir from a safe distance,
Throne of the Four Winds

Juggling 101

Much of the encounter rested on the healers. Self-discipline and calm nerves were essential to keeping the raid alive. Blain and Jungard worked out very specific positions for people to stand, but resuming those positions after a Feud collapse often put people in the wrong spots. As for surviving Double Attack, the traditional Main Tank/Off-Tank setup had to be tweaked.

The first tank began by allowing Break to stack; consider this player the MT. By the second stack, healers certainly felt the strain. Between the 2nd and 3rd stack of Break is when Double Attack could really mess a tank up...and this is when the second tank, our OT for the purposes of this description, would taunt. It was in that split second that the OT would eat the Double Attack, saving the MT from being one-shot. Seconds later, the MT would take Chimaeron back and prepare for the third break.

At three stacks, the MT and OT switched roles.

Now, the OT, which had just eaten a Double Attack moments earlier, was now stacking Break, allowing the former MT a chance to let their stacks drop...hoping and praying that a Double Attack didn't come in before their stacks dropped. If one did (and it happened here and there), the OT would hopefully have cooldowns from the healing crew to keep him alive. Since I preferred avoidance tanking, I played the OT.

For the most part, the challenge came in the transition to phase three. The difference between the two tanks surviving an extra few seconds at the start of the 20%, vs. dying instantly was huge. Every second counted during the final 20% burn. Panic ensued, top melee often got over zealous, stayed in too long, lost track of their place in threat, and were eaten alive. The amount of 3%, 2%, and 1% wipes were painful. Chimaeron plowed through morale like a jackhammer.

But we persevered.

Chimaeron flopped over, lifeless, at the top of the third hour, after pushing nearly sixteen attempts. Wherever possible, I opted to give the raid an early dismissal, especially in the wake of a great accomplishment, but Blain rode the momentum. One hour in Blain's mind was plenty of time to investigate our next challenges, so we took that final hour to examine both the Nefarian encounter and set foot into Throne of the Four Winds, an instance that housed Ragnaros' wind-fueled partner in crime: Al'akir.

---

My nerves wavered amid the state of the roster. On one computer monitor, Mature procc'd achievements for completing quests in all the zones. On the other monitor sat WoWLemmings, as I scoured for tanks, looking for a long term replacement for the core...an Ater, a Dalans, a Drecca...anything. Page after page returned nothing. Nobody cared for the fine art of tanking.

Meanwhile, home life vied for control of my attention. I readily gave it. Jul continued to recover from her knee and neck surgeries, leaving me to run the show -- dinners, lunches, laundries, homework, school projects, bills. I saw it as a chance to make up for lost time, for those initial years that WoW usurped all my time, stole me away from my wife and kids. It was a chance to make amends, and I took it. But at the end of each day, I was spent. I had a new appreciation for single parents, and wasn't so quick to condemn my mother on some of her own decisions. It didn't excuse her choices, but it helped explain them.

I took consolation in work. For three years, it remained a reassuring monolith of stability in an otherwise haphazard existence. I was respected at the office, given authority there. It changed me. At the start, I was excited about technology but shrouded in self-doubt about my ability to produce anything of any value. By the end of this third year, I not only discovered a confidence I never knew existed, I was compelled to strive for quality and results...something I could take pride in. Just a little bit of effort was all it took, a little thoughtfulness, care and concern towards a helpful tool you put in someone else's hands, something they rely on to do their own job. I gave a shit about the people I worked for and with, and wanted those tools to reflect our commitment to quality and detail. The side-effect: I was quick to condemn those who didn't put in similar effort. To anyone claiming it "paid the bills" made me nauseous.

The months of December 2010 and January 2011 were particularly exciting at the office, as news of an impending buyout was spreading. Exciting, yes, but it also filled me with a sense of unease. A potentially stable, empowering job was now in a state of flux. I thrived on stability, and my experience with such mergers in the past left a lot to be desired. I remained optimistic, but prepared for the worst.

Good thing, too...

4.24. Fat Man and Little Boy

The 25-Man progression team claims
its first victim, Magmaw,
Blackwing Descent

Welcome Back, Fodder

Magmaw thrashed about as we struggled to gain control. The enormous faceless worm emerged from its molten tomb, towering above the raid, white hot blood vessels like bolts of burning lightning painted across its body. A pillar of flame burst out of the floor leaving parasites in its wake, wandering, hungry for warm flesh. Lava Parasites. They carried an infection which caused unsuspecting victims to projectile vomit onto the raid. More damage to have to heal through. Damage everywhere.

With parasites spreading disease, Magmaw continued to flail, impaling the tanks, slamming its entire body down onto the platform, stunning all in its path. If we could somehow manage to get two players to leap onto Magmaw, wrestling with it like something out of a Frank Herbert novel, we could trick it into impaling itself on a large spike in the middle of the floor. Do it, and we could be rid of this first boss, officially cutting the ribbon on 25-Man raiding in Cataclysm.

It was taking longer than expected. Exactly where things fell apart was hard to say. The parasites were biting too many people, spreading nausea, turning our strengths into liabilities. Getting people up onto Magmaw was a chore. It wasn't always working: UIs were glitching out, unable to target the spike on the floor with constricting chains -- the ability that would pull Magmaw down onto the spike for a burst of damage from the raid. And it was a challenge to keep the tanks up. The damage we took felt as if it got worse as the fight progressed. Insayno had graciously filled the second tanking position, after Drecca was unable to attend the kick-off of the 25-Man. It was just Insayno and I for the first attempts on Magmaw. And it was rough.

[To: Blain] Welcome back to raiding. :\

DoD's raids were split into two nights a week, four hours per night -- since as far back as Serpentshrine Cavern. Each night began precisely at the top of the hour; invites started thirty minutes prior, fillers came in fifteen minutes till. We made our attempts for two hours, granted the raid a 5-10 minute bio break at the halfway mark, then reconvened for the remaining two hours.

It was the entire first hour, on Friday, January 7th, 2011, that we worked on Magmaw. It was no Razorgore-style brick wall, but it was certainly no Naxxramas-25 pushover, either. Roughly eight attempts was all it took to send the worm into a twitching spasm of death. A glance up at the raid frames confirmed our suspicions: of a 25-Man raid, 9 of us lived. In a normal mode, this was evidence that the difficulty had indeed increased since the days of Wrath.

[From: Blain] I like these odds.

Omnotron Defense System wasn't nearly as difficult. When the four automatons finally toppled over, we had fifteen minutes remaining before the break. The learning curve was flat on these robots; most of the challenge was simply in transitioning from the two trons being tanked to the ones preparing to animate. Other challenges, such as dealing with each tron's shield -- two of which happened to cause massive raid wide damage if accidentally burned through -- were handled with relative ease. The days of hammering nails with bare hands were distant memories. DeadlyBossMods gave us the visuals, and precise calls from a veteran raid leader filled in any gaps.

Mature stands down while the raid
unleashes hell into Maloriak,
Blackwing Descent

Bang the Gong Quickly

After the bio break, we returned to Blackwing Descent to face our next challenge: Maloriak. This boss took us the remaining two hours of the raid. Maloriak kept changing things on us, tossing red potions into his cauldron, followed by blue ones -- or was it blue, then red? Each attempt was different, so understanding each vial's ramifications and learning how to adapt simply took time and practice. Blain controlled the abberation spawns with extreme precision, letting certain casts through while interrupting others. I had enough on my plate as it stood, without having to worry about which interrupt strategy was best for us. Thank God for Blain doing the math.

The 25-Man progression team triumphed, killing Maloriak in DoD's infamous last pull of the evening. We were 50% through Blackwing Descent by the end of the first night of raid progression, and well on our way to wrapping up the normal modes by the end of the weekend.

Or so I thought.

Atramedes brought our progression to a sharp halt the following Sunday. The entire four hours was spent wiping to a blind dragon.

He lay sleeping at the far end of a keyhole shaped room: a large circular arena at the base of a thin outer foyer -- at its tip, the smooth edges of the walkway dropped off sharply into smoldering lava. We entered the main arena from a southern doorway, and were treated to a cinematic explaining the dragon's pitiful state. Maloriak was responsible, the self-proclaimed mad scientist of Blackwing Descent headed all of Nefarion's gruesome experiments in manufacturing augmented dragonflight. His ineptitude promised all-encompassing sight, resulting instead in total blindness. The dragon quickly proved it was no worse off.

During the fight, Atramedes sent out sonically charged discs, attempting to locate us by sound. Any player struck by the discs caused a thermometer-like gauge to slowly fill. Top the gauge off completely after being hit enough times, and Atramedes would issue a killing blow, having fully detected the player.

It's funny how a simple command like "dodge the rings" becomes a four hour nightmare of explanation, coordination and subsequently failed attempts. Even after being instructed which direction to move, players panicked and ran in random directions. Sporadic movement seeded the next set of discs in an unpredictable direction, and the attempt would spiral downward into tragedy. Blain insisted on a tight group and a single direction to move to. The discs would not control us, we'd control them. Getting players to think and act uniformly with precision took much longer than expected.

In flight, Atramedes posed another risk, targeting people at random and blanketing the room with fire until either they were burned to a crisp...or one of several gongs was struck. The sound from the gong counteracted his echolocation, stunning him in the process -- our window of opportunity to grant him another burst of damage. But there were a fixed amount of gongs, so those being chased had to do everything in their power to avoid the incoming flame, striking the gong at the last possible moment.

The grueling four hours finally came to an end with five minutes to spare. Once again, DoD ended victoriously in our famous last pull of the night. After the first weekend, we were 2/3rds through Blackwing Descent. Chimaeron and Nefarion would have to wait.

Atramedes is defeated in the final pull of the 2nd night,
Blackwing Descent

You Dropped a Bomb on Me

The raid dispersed amid congratulations on a job well done and reminders to get signed-up for next week's run. As the raid dismantled, a whisper caught my attention.

[From: Bheer] You and the officers have a few moments to chat in vent?

[To: Bheer] Of course! Will ping them and drag you in.

I shot a message into officer chat, calling whomever was available. Blain, Sir Klocker, Neps, and Jungard answered the call, joining us in the private vent channel.

"Go ahead and grab Drecca, too," said Bheer.

Drecca?

"Sure thing," I said, noting that Drecca had joined vent. I moved him down into the officer channel. "So, what's this all about?"

"We've decided to step down from the 25-Man progression team."

What?

"...uh, may I ask why?"

"To be honest, it's really just more of the same stuff we've always had problems with. People fuckin' around in raid chat, lots of downtime between pulls, lot of wasted time on re-explanations...the usual stuff."

So, basically every raid we've ever been in, none of which is news.

Sir Klocker was the first to point out the obvious, "You do realize that this was our first weekend in raids. This is the first time we've seen any of these bosses."

I continued his thought, "Do you really think it's appropriate to make a judgement call on the 25 this early?"

"The inefficiency of the 25 is just one part of it. There's other reasons as well."

Inefficiency? I'm sure Blain loved hearing that.

"I'm all ears. Please, by all means."

Bheer took a deep breath, "Well, some of us aren't a big fan of Lexxii, so making her healing officer wasn't the best decision."

I skipped the part where I gave a shit about his opinion on who would've been a better choice and cut to the chase, "Is there any particular reason why you felt the need to string me along? I mean, here you both are, updating your position on the raid slot template, gearing up, maxing out reps, giving me every indication that you're loyal to the 25...I mean, Bheer, we're practically in constant communication every day over IM. I'm sorry but I have to ask: why even participate at all this weekend?"

"I did it as a courtesy to you."

Well, thank you very fucking much for gracing me with your presence. For future reference, it would've been a "courtesy" to let me know you planned to skip town, so that I could recruit in your absence.

I took a deep breath while my inner monologue vented like a steam pump bursting under pressure.

"If you insist on this, I'm sorry to see you go. I only hope that this doesn't cripple the 25-Man."

Drecca butted in, "I think there's certainly going to be some opportunities where we're able to help with the 25. Just not a week-to-week thing anymore."

"That was another one of the reasons," Bheer added, "we can't really be expected to demonstrate any loyalty to the 25-Man if you're unwilling to do the same."

You mean how I carved a spot out for your shaman in Wrath when your druid was on the verge of being squeezed out? You mean how I ensured that a loot whore like Crasian would never set foot in the guild again, making the guild a safe place for you? You mean how I didn't think twice to re-invite you after walking away from Elite, without explanation? No, I've never demonstrated loyalty to you. Ever.

"I don't follow, Bheer. Explain."

"The whole business about guaranteed spots in the 25-Man going away."

"Bheer, the whole purpose of re-writing that rule was to prevent players from getting up on their high horse and treating everyone like shit, remember? Remember how it wasn't that long ago that some folks with guaranteed spots started to become awful people? Besides, we've been over this. As long as you are a constant, reliable raider in the 25-Man, the end result remains exactly the same as it was in Wrath: you get every raid you sign up for."

"See, that's what I’m talking about. There are so many rules now. I hate to say it, Hanzo, but the guild is really losing its old-school family-oriented appeal. Everything is so rigid and structured now."

I wanted to scream at him.

YOU WERE ONE OF THE PEOPLE THAT DEMANDED MORE RULES!

But there was no point in yelling...or being civil. Their minds were made up long before the "courtesy" first weekend in raid progression.

Bheer left the 25-Man to join Drecca's newly created 10-Man team. And I had no choice but to put on a good face and support their decision, just as I committed to supporting all the 10-Man teams in DoD. But I didn't have to like it. The fact that I lost Bheer to a 10 wasn't what upset me the most...it was his delivery that left me gutted and used. Bheer had many weeks to approach me about his intentions, but left it until the absolute last possible moment, explaining it away with a myriad of excuses that hid the truth behind his motives. The truth, in turn, would slowly start to fall into place over the weeks and months to come -- pieces of the puzzle coalescing into a much clearer picture. For now, however, I was left only with his "reasons", and processed them as best I could: I deferred to my inner voice.

So, you want to leave the 25-Man progression team high and dry, eh?

Good for you.

4.23. I Solemnly Swear That I Am Up to No Good

Kerulak wades into a world PvP battle as
the Horde lays siege to the human capital,
Stormwind

Killing in the Name Of

A mess of unintelligible names filled the screen. Under normal circumstances, I would've loathed being here. Buried in the dark recesses of their subconscious, all of these players did. But I had good reason to jam myself into the crowd. Never say "No" to a free lunch. Any opportunity to squelch the pain and humiliation of fruitless battlegrounds became a reasonable option. For many of us, it was our shared hatred of PvP that was the very reason we formed a unified front, fingers twitching, watching, waiting. A fleeting moment on that bridge was a shot at salvation, a chance to save ourselves from the villainy of Alterac Valley, the atrocity of Arathic Basin, the wretchedness of Warsong Gulch. No special sign-up was needed, no vetting necessary. Meet us on the bridge and stand by for the signal.

---

World PvP evolved significantly by year seven. In the days when Shamans ruled wide, grassy fields between Tarren Mill and Southshore, Hillsbrad was a perpetual warzone. Favored by PvPers due to the close proximity of the two opposing towns, battles erupted out of thin air, playing out for days at a time, with neither faction maintaining control for long. The warfare in this zone was not unlike early Alterac Valley. In those days, Alterac Valley was considerably epic: you could participate in a match on Tuesday afternoon, then return Saturday night to join the very same battle still in progress. "Rushing" was not an option; it was an amusing consideration at best.

Alterac Valley had structure with defined points of contention. It required tactics and coordination to successfully end a game...with PvP rewards waiting for those who did. If only there was a way to capture the intensity and incentives of Alterac Valley and instill them in the outdoor world, Blizzard thought, the resulting PvP could be elevated to something much more.

About the time that the members of Descendants of Draenor were taking their first steps into 40-Man Naxxramas, Blizzard took a stab at tackling world PvP in a more organized fashion. Control points popped up in the Eastern Plaguelands and Silithus, towers marked on our maps with icons both red and blue, indicating faction ownership. This initial implementation led to further control points revealed when we stepped through The Dark Portal into Outland. Flagpoles driven into the ground among the ruins of Hellfire Penninsula, and in ancient Draenei ruins in Zangarmarsh conveyed their same red and blue faction ownership.

Beyond these control points, Blizzard constructed an entire town around faction control: a hub in the center of Nagrand called Halaa. This town, when controlled, granted access to specific vendors, allowing us to purchase a couple of fun mounts and other miscellaneous items that a player wouldn't find elsewhere.

Response to this first attempt of world PvP was mostly apathy. Control Points held little interest for players constantly in search of bright shinies. Hey, I love killing Night Elves as much as the rest of 'em, but what's in this for me? With few explicit rewards for controlling said points, Eastern Plaguelands, Silithus, Hellfire Penninsula, and Zangarmarsh all went ignored a few short months after being introduced. And as for Halaa, it saw the highest concentration of PvP activity...but even that tapered off. You came, you killed, you collected tokens, you bought your two Talbuk mounts...and never returned.

DoD defeats Koralon the Flame Watcher, 2nd of the
four raid bosses in the Vault of Archavon,
Lake Wintergrasp

The Secret Garden

Lake Wintergrasp was Blizzard's next attempt at wrapping their arms around world PvP. In Wrath of the Lich King, an outdoor PvP zone was baked directly into the landscape. Blanketed by snow and ice, the zone served as both a questing area and a place where players could work on leveling professions. These were distractions from its true purpose. Nestled in the northernmost point of the zone, half buried into the mountains, sat Wintergrasp Fortress. Defended by cannons situated around its perimeter and in strategic points throughout its outer walls, the fortress was the goal, both for those defending and those attempting to sack. The fortress, you see, kept a secret, and it was this secret that kept players returning to the zone even as Wrath's life trickled away in the final weeks before Cataclysm. 

Controlling Wintergrasp Fortress not only granted players tangible, practical rewards (beyond the aforementioned "fun" mounts), it also opened access to a raid instance for the victors. Inside, four bosses revealed themselves over the course of Wrath's life, each one an opportunity for players to seize gear upgrades. And these weren't any old one-off pieces -- these were set pieces, pieces PvPers wouldn't normally see...if said players happened to steer clear of raids. The beauty of these bosses was that they were a two-way street: they also had a chance to drop PvP set pieces, the likes of which strict raiders might never see otherwise! Neither PvP nor PvE pieces were top-of-the-line, but they were something, and as we are prone to thinking about risk aversion in a certain way...something is always better than nothing.

Fighting in Wintergrasp was also loads of fun due to varied and unique tasks. Attack the towers, crippling the defense. Gain control of the workshops, to man a vehicle and lay siege to the fortress. Hunker down behind the castle walls, shutting down any attempts to infiltrate the base. Engage in the all out assault on the fortress walls. I didn't often enjoy PvP as much as those early days where Kerulak stormed a battle at Tarren Mill, but for a non-PvPer, I had to admit that Wintergrasp was enjoyable. Upon reflection, those Tarren Mill/Southshore battles typically ended when one side put more skin into the game. So, how was it that Wintergrasp, an outdoor zone, was able to maintain the balance between both sides, keeping the battle fair, but fun?

A very simple mechanism monitored the battle of Lake Wintergrasp. Since it was outdoors, players could potentially come and go as they pleased. Each time a player entered or left the zone, the balancing mechanism monitored both sides. If one side was too deficient in manpower, that faction was granted a bonus to health and strength. Individual players on a lopsided team carried the strength of 10, 20 or 50 players; watching a single player waste an entire warfront was hilarious and cool. But this balancing mechanism went both ways. If a player entered the zone and their faction was already at full strength, a warning popped up: Warning! Battle in Progress! You will be Teleported Out in 10 Seconds! Lake Wintergrasp not only kept the weak from being overwhelmed, it kept the strong from getting stronger...

...and it was this mechanism that brought us here today, waiting to exploit it, by any means possible.

A massive gathering of the Horde march
across the bridge in the final moments of battle,
Tol Barad

The Bridge Exploit

Tol Barad was the culmination of all that Blizzard had learned in their quest to polish world PvP. An island off the coast of Khaz Modan provided to the setting of a former stronghold, now converted to a prison. Baradin Hold, like the Vault of Archavon, granted secret raid bosses to the faction capable of capturing the island. Additionally, those in control would gain additional daily quests, which they could use to stockpile a special currency for Tol Barad-specific rewards.

Tol Barad was popular. It was new; it was accessible. And, just like Wintergrasp, if one side was deficient, they gained strength. Conversely, attempting to join when your faction dominated the roster ended with a 10-second warning, alerting you to the impending ejection you were about to receive. We understood the ejection, but I can't say with certainty that all of us understood the ramifications of attempting to side-step it. At the very least, I can promise you that I did.

Word traveled quickly of this exploit. All that was required was a player on the inside to count down the final moments of the battle over Vent. As the remaining few seconds ticked away, those waiting on the boundary burst forward, unfairly forcing their way into a battle they had no business being in.

You will be teleported out in 10 seconds.

It counted down. Six. Five. Four. Another message flashed up on our screens. 

The Horde has claimed Tol Barad!

Voilà. Honor points for the Horde on the island. Not the just Horde that participated in battle. All the Horde on the island.

Everyone.

---

Anyone who claimed this wasn't an exploit is a liar. Everything about it screamed violation of the rules. Yet for some strange reason, Blizzard hadn't officially gone on record to condemn the behavior. Exactly why this was is unknown, but the problem remains: the absence of clarification acts like a "Get Out of Jail Free" card to many. The first half of my WoW career as guild leader to DoD can attest to this. If I didn't explicitly say it was a rule...someone...somewhere...would pitch me this line:

"You didn't say I couldn't do this."

Whatever helps you sleep at night.

Not everyone in DoD participated. Goldenrod, for one, felt uncomfortable about the entire situation, choosing to step away from the bridge entirely. But there were others bearing the Descendants of Draenor tag that joined the well-orchestrated march across the bridge.

I was one of them.

I did it knowing full well that, eventually, something was going to happen. I accepted the responsibility of that decision, but never once tried to claim that it wasn't an exploit. Most likely, Blizzard would return from Christmas holidays, fix the exploit, and all the honor / Tol Barad tokens earned as a result would be rolled back.

Blizzard closed up the exploit on January 6th, but never actually rolled back the honor accrued during its presence. That was surprising; a bullet dodged. I would have accepted the loss if it had been stripped from me; I have a feeling few others shared my point of view.

...but it didn't make them right.

My reasons are my own, but for you, dear reader, I'm happy to share. I exploited this bug with other players because PvP didn't really matter to me in the grand scheme of things. PvP is an afterthought, an appetizer, a side-dish that plays a very small roll in a much larger feast. It was easy for me to justify breaking the rules (whether unofficial or not).

Therein lies the rub, for this is a point of contention that permeates my entire experience in World of Warcraft. When players so easily defend their actions by saying "Calm down nerd, it's just a game," they give themselves a free pass to misbehave -- they justify their actions to themselves because nothing is in writing. One thing, however, was very clear about the Tol Barad exploit, regardless which direction each player's moral compass happened to point...

...if players can take the easy way out, they will.

4.22. The Loose End

Jungard shares his opinion on the possibility of
allowing Crasian to return to DoD (1/3),
Vashj'ir

 Regarding Collusion

[To: Crasian] I'm afraid I can't give you a re-invite.

[From: Crasian] Why not?

Because you're a selfish, ungrateful bastard that conspired against my guild.

[To: Crasian] I have reason to believe you were at the forefront of loot collusion during Ulduar and ToGC

[From: Crasian] What?! What are you talking about?

[To: Crasian] Do you deny that you were involved in any loot manipulation while a part of Eh Team?

[From: Crasian] Can we go to Vent?

[To: Crasian] Sure.

He was irritated and bitter. Crasian sounded as if ready to pounce on the real perpetrator. I had yet to be convinced that anyone was more guilty than him.

"Alright, that's better. So, who was it that said this?"

"Doesn't matter who said it; we can deal with that later. What I want to know right now is, in your own words, how and why you felt it was OK to manipulate the loot rules of this guild for your own personal benefit."

"Hanzo, I swear to you, I have no idea what you are talking about."

You're lying.

"Start at Ulduar. Eh Team is in its prime. You all decide to set up a private chat channel to talk shit about fail players in the 25. Continue."

"Ok, yeah...yeah we were in there. But it was just, y'know, like you said, there was some stuff people wanted to get off their chest, but it was mostly just a bullshit session in there."

"What was Eh Team's loot distro?"

"Need Before Greed. We worked out amongst each other who could really benefit the most from each drop."

That's not Need Before Greed.

"You actually just described 'Loot Council'."

"OK, I guess you're right, it was more of a loot council, then, but we were pretty fair about it, how we worked out who got what."

In your eyes, perhaps it was fair.

"How exactly did you 'work it out'. Describe the process to me."

"Well, it was just like you'd expect. We'd take a look at the piece, and figure out who it would benefit the most and then hand it over. Y'know? And if multiple people wanted something really badly, we'd work it out. Like I'll take it this week and then maybe you get the next one."

If there was a next one.

"Name some of the pieces you remember this situation coming up with. Where you decided to work it out with someone else, to take 'turns'."

"Ah, jeez. Ok. Let me think. Well the trinket in ToC was one for sure, what was that, Death's Choice?"

"Death's Choice drops in 25-Man"

"...What?"

"The trinket you just named, Death's Choice. It drops in 25-Man Tournament of Champions."

I know because I ended up with Bheer's after he left the guild, thanks to your stellar people skills.

"Right. Er, wait. Maybe that wasn't the one I was thinking of."

"This 'agreeing' beforehand that you did while in Eh Team may have been your business, Crasian, but when you started doing it in the 25-Man...that's collusion. Friendly or not. I'm sickened by the mechanics of Loot Council in general...but to hear that it was going on in that private chat while a part of the 25-Man? I'm sorry, chief. It's inexcusable. I can't have it in DoD."

I could hear the frustration building in his voice, trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.

"God! Listen, Hanzo, I am truly sorry about this. I'm telling you that I really had no idea this went against the rules, I mean, I never once thought about it that way. I never once considered it to be collusion. I mean, there were a bunch of people doing it, and I thought it was the right thing to do, to be fair to folks on the team, so that we could divvy things up. But when we chatted about it, everyone was participating."

Everyone? Or just you.

"I know you're smart enough to know that doesn't make it right."

"So, why are they all still in the guild?"

"Because a single person was responsible for facilitating this 'tit-for-tat' looting behavior. And they've put the finger on you."

"That's completely unfair!"

"Actually, let me back up a step, Crasian. Here's where it gets great. The official word from Eh Team is actually...nobody! Nobody is the ringleader. Nobody was in charge of the decision making. Which is extraordinarily convenient. But what they do say, individually, when questioned...is that when it came to working out 'deals' on who got what and when and who should take the next turn and who should step back...they all agree that you drove the conversation."

Jungard shares his opinion on the possibility of
allowing Crasian to return to DoD (2/3),
Vashj'ir

Regarding Officership

Crasian was stunned. He scrambled for the words to explain his behavior in Eh Team, making every attempt to draw attention to the group as a whole, rather than his own personal behavior in the matter. But before he had a chance to gather his thoughts in his defense, I shifted into Round 2.

"The problem, Crasian, is that you're greedy. Your focus has been on loot for a very long time, but you've played the political landscape very well, chumming up against folks, offering to help with dungeon runs and heroics and achievements and all that...so you gave off this great perception of being a super awesome guy in DoD. Meanwhile, you're making deals behind closed doors to ensure you have a steady stream of loot funneling your way."

"Hanzo, I genuinely did not do this with ill intent. Honestly. I never meant to wrong you or go against the guild rules."

I doubt you've even read the rules.

"Oh? So it wasn't your intent to break the rules when you stormed off in a huff when you lost your shot at Shadowmourne and officership?"

I waited a moment for him to process the topic shift. He'd have to build up an entirely new defense; it was only fair to pause for reconstruction. And I'm all about being fair. Being fair is my middle fucking name.

"I admit that I was pretty upset about losing out on Shadowmourne to Jungard. It was shitty."

"Yes, it was. But see, here's the thing, Crasian. You were an Elite. Remember? Elite! That means you're expected at every raid. You're raiding. You're signed up and showing up every Friday, every Sunday. Without question. Not just when it was convenient for you. Not just 'until skiing season starts'."

"Right, but I told you I was planning on skiing, didn't I?"

"No, no you didn't. And even if you did, and I just forgot -- because, it can happen, right? I miss things, sometimes. So, let's say I did forget, and you really did tell me you were planning on skiing in December, effectively taking you out of the 25-Man...then why would you have ever accepted your promotion to Elite? Why wasn't the very first thing out of your mouth, 'Hanzo, thanks so much for the promotion, but I have to respectfully decline as I'm going to be flying down a mountain in a couple of months'?"

"...I...see your point. That was a bad judgement call on my end. I guess I was a little more upset about losing the officer position to Jungard than I thought."

"So, as you can see, the case building up against you is not good. You made deals for loot in private chat channels. You took a promotion to Elite, a rank that mandates your presence, knowing full well that you'd be taking off in December. And you have the nerve to be offended that I chose a player over you that has been here longer, proven himself to be more objective, and more concerned about the long term health of the guild?"

Crasian was silent, processing my diatribe.

"Y'know, Jungard confided in me that he did actually try to work with you over a couple of items. So, even he isn't perfect. But, at the risk of making you look worse, Jungard claims that you never even bothered to follow through."

"Which items?"

"The cloak off Vezax was one. He passed to you, with the agreement that you would squeeze him into an Eh Team Algalon run. It never happened. As long as you get what you want, there doesn't really seem to be a huge priority for you to make time for others to get their stuff...even though the guild sees you as this 'super helpful guy that loves assisting with achievements'. Or is it really that you're assisting with achievements that you yourself still need?"

"That's not fair."

"Neither is loot council. Jungard says you tried again in ToC, to barter with him on passing for Death's Choice, with the plan that you'd then let him get Dual-Blade Butcher if it dropped. What's really great about that story is you already had a ilvl 245 weapon out of 10-Man heroic ToC. So it must have been just such a huge sacrifice for you to offer up a weapon you didn't need for an item you did."

Crasian still had no response to the repugnant claims being vomited into vent. It was time to wrap this up.

Jungard shares his opinion on the possibility of
allowing Crasian to return to DoD (3/3),
Vashj'ir

Regarding Bheer

"So, before we conclude this conversation detailing the many reasons why I cannot, in good faith, extend you a re-invite to the guild, I have to ask: what was it exactly that you said to Bheer to make him leave the guild?"

He paused a moment, then replied, "You mean when we were re-assembling Eh Team? He left because of that?"

What do you think?

"Yes."

"Bheer and I never really got along all that great to begin with..."

No shit?

"...and I was just getting tired of dealing with him. A lot of us were. He was very combative in vent, always arguing about a particular strat, how we were doing things. He'd bitch and moan during repeated wipes on some of the really hard stuff, and constantly question how we'd do things. It pissed me off and really just didn't have the patience for it...for him."

Carry on.

"So, I came back, and was like, look, we're going to do this ToC shit, and we don't really want you along this time around. Y'know? I mean, no offense, Bheer, but you're annoying the hell out of me. And if you decide that you're going to stay with Eh Team, well...then I'm just going to go ahead and start a brand new 10-Man, and there's a pretty damn good chance that the majority of Eh Team are going to come with me."

Wow.

"So, you squeezed him out."

"I mean, I personally didn't tell him to hit the road...I'm pretty sure it was Taba that gave him his marching papers."

"...but under your order. Under your very strong recommendation."

"I guess so."

"I have to say, Crasian, in a team without leaders, it sure seems to me like some people called the shots more than others."

"I guess when you say it that way, it really does make me out to be the bad guy. Which is totally unfair."

"Well, in my mind, I have the word of folks like Jungard and Bheer, both of whom I trust, both of whom are loyal to the guild. Both have made sacrifices to make this guild what it is today. Versus you. A player that's constantly demonstrated two sides: this wonderful make-believe side that everybody loves and thinks is awesome, and a second side, carefully navigating his way through loot tables to get what he wants until he's the #1 geared death knight on Deathwing-US...and then leaves the 25-Man progression team in the midst of its work...to go skiing. Now. Put yourself in my shoes. I decide to favor you and your story vs. theirs. What do you think DoD would make of that? Do you think they'd think I was being fair?"

"Look. Let me at least talk to them. Will you do that? Can I at least send them some kind of apology or message or something? I mean, I really want to fix this. At least let them hear my side of the story, before you make any final decision."

I stared at my screen and shook my head in disgust.

"Sure. Whatever. If you think that'll make a difference. Why not? I haven't disabled your forum access, you're clearly still able to get on Vent...though I don't know for how much longer. But yes, I think it's perfectly fair for you to try to make amends. And I'll see what the officers say. But I wouldn't get my hopes up."

Word on the street was that there was some finger pointing going on in the old Eh Team chat channel. A private message did go out later that evening, sent to the entire officer core, and as many members of the 25-Man progression team that phpBB would allow Crasian to jam into the CC: field. It did little to change people's minds. The court of public opinion had already cast its verdict, and the sentence was for Crasian to find a new home, far enough from Descendants of Draenor so that his selfish behavior became someone else's problem.

---

The next day at work, I fired off an IM to Bheer.

"Crasian won't be a problem anymore. We can rest easy."

"I appreciate it. Can you do me a favor, though?"

"Of course," I typed back, "Ask and ye shall receive."

"You have administrative privileges on the forums, to do things like delete threads and posts and such, right?"

"Yup, I can pretty much do anything."

"Can you go ahead and just delete Crasian's message out of my inbox for me?"

I furrowed my brow, "Um...why?"

"I just don't want to have anything to do with it. I don't even want to look at it."

So...why don't you delete it yourself? It's just a message.

It was no secret that Bheer wasn't Crasian's best friend...but full avoidance behavior? It struck me as very odd. Very surprising.

Very...red flag...ish.