I stepped on Darkshore. Boy, do these elves have psychological problems. I did not pass my history lessons often enough not to know about their fault in everything falling-apartedness, but come on already. To live that long you have to forget about things, not to drag them along for thousands of years. If our Tinker was that nervous, he would kill himself the next day Gnomeregan was irradiated.
There are elves, who seem to stop caring about the past and turn their attention to the present. Silverwing forces in Ashenvale were formed to keep Horde from cutting trees. They tend to speak about ancient powers and nature calls and fauna suffering, blah-di-blah. Forest is fortress for kaldorei, orcs are slowly turning their fortress into planks and logs. It's obvious, as obvious is the need to strike back. It's a war.
I heard, that you can earn quite a lot, fighting for the gulch which controls southern orc camp. Not money, but experience- and gear-wise. So I decided to lend them a gnomish hand.
It was exhausting. There is not that much space in the gulch, more than 10 people is too many — because if the enemy can hold off 10 people in this trench, thay can hold off a small army. But 10 soldiers (escpecially “soldiers” like me) cannot hold the entire base without being everywhere — which means running and running and running around. I was taught to run fast, but not for half hour, dammit. And my stealth quite often let me down, but Subtlety training is not what I can handle right now. It requires steady hand and agility which I lack. So down with Combat for now.
By the end of the day we took and lost the lumbermill four times, my wounds were screaming with pain and head was dizzy from paladins' hammers. Maybe another week.
Not bad
I admit, going to Anvilmar I was ready for quite a bit of pig-grazing and floor-sweeping. I can't do anything besides some basic mechanic things that go “boom” and waving wooden sword frantically. But as I always knew, the less you expect the better you feel afterwards.
There were not almost any training per se, but people in charge saw that I'm not a baby who can't stand her ground. I told them about my... distrust for purely intellectual exercises, so they got me a job that has thicken my muscles and steadied my hands. Daggers I hold are no more valuable by itself but rather are instruments like my spanner or pick.
I slashed wolfs, I eviscerated boars and troggs, I stroke until my body ached. But I am no clumsy pretty gnome any more. I hold my balance, I see weaknesses in my opponents, I have got tools to exploit these weaknesses. Far from perfect, of course — I need strength to put in my strikes, I need fair constitution to hold longer against my enemy, I need expertise to hit more reliably. I need to use «I» less.
Anyway, in that time, like 2 months, I outgrew boar-hunting. I'm sent to Lock Modan now where troggs and cobolds are much more a threat than trolls of Dun Morogh who just need a major kick in the nuts besides occasional rogue thining out their ranks.
Cya.
There were not almost any training per se, but people in charge saw that I'm not a baby who can't stand her ground. I told them about my... distrust for purely intellectual exercises, so they got me a job that has thicken my muscles and steadied my hands. Daggers I hold are no more valuable by itself but rather are instruments like my spanner or pick.
I slashed wolfs, I eviscerated boars and troggs, I stroke until my body ached. But I am no clumsy pretty gnome any more. I hold my balance, I see weaknesses in my opponents, I have got tools to exploit these weaknesses. Far from perfect, of course — I need strength to put in my strikes, I need fair constitution to hold longer against my enemy, I need expertise to hit more reliably. I need to use «I» less.
Anyway, in that time, like 2 months, I outgrew boar-hunting. I'm sent to Lock Modan now where troggs and cobolds are much more a threat than trolls of Dun Morogh who just need a major kick in the nuts besides occasional rogue thining out their ranks.
Cya.
Big cold world
My mother is a mage, my father is a mage, my brother became a warlock, so naturally I chose the path of the rogue. I mean, obviously, right.
Pa and Ma were a little bepuzzled by this. They thought, okay, so she likes wooden swords more, books less, but it's just childhood. Gnome, slashing throats open — not exactly everyday occurence. But what can I say. I am pretty special.
***
Jokes aside, I did not dig into magic that deep. I mean yes, it works wonders if you can handle it, but I found no particular pleasure in such handling. Things need to be more real than some arcane or elemental powers. Things like bombs and swords and tanks. They are not going to vanish the second I forget about them. They work as they should until breaking for some reasonable reason.
What I did dig in, was art of subtlety. At about 20 years old I saw myself as a swift predator in gnome form, hiding in the shadows of our house, waiting patiently for prey and striking fiercely, but silently.
First thing which I learnt to hunt down like this were pies. I remember putting a whole blueberry pie under my dress on Ma's one-hundredth birthday. Invisible warrior strikes again! And eats the pie all by herself.
Then there were books and stuff from Pa's cabinet. Things I hated to be lectured about seemed quite amusing in my very own hole by the lake in the Forlorn Cavern. But alas, not more than just amusing.
Taking book from a library and pie from a kitchen sound ironic by itself, I know, but I was twenty years old. However, it only went down from there.
On my fortieth, when I already felt like a Real Grownup, I wanted to seize something magnificent, something absolutely gorgeous and adorable. A sword, maybe.
I moved as a grey ghost among treasures of the Commons, gravely realizing that even the smallest sword would not fit under my clothes even if I came wearing a blanket. I immediately settled for a dagger and casually put my elbow on one especially shiny while my oh-so-experienced fingers ran along the blade of another one. Sigh a little louder than needed, «maybe some other time» look in my eyes and gracious departure. With the dagger's guard piercing between my ribs.
Well, I certainly did not see any beginner's luck there. Pa got a little mad, when I was brought to him being “a little mischievous”, as the dwarf merchant said. Pa insisted on buying the dagger, and after dwarf merchant was gone he asked what I did this for. I said I wanted to test my skills. He doubted that such skills would be of much use if I planned on staying part of the family. I said, great.
I didn't exactly slam the door. When Ma understood that I was really going to leave and not be home for dinner, she started offering help and “acquaintances”. Several understandings later I left for Anvilmar where recruits like me, useless in battle, were of some use. Pa gave me one more dagger to wield heroically and some gold not to die starving, but being the proud lass that I am I refused money.
For Gnomeregan! I guess.
Pa and Ma were a little bepuzzled by this. They thought, okay, so she likes wooden swords more, books less, but it's just childhood. Gnome, slashing throats open — not exactly everyday occurence. But what can I say. I am pretty special.
***
Jokes aside, I did not dig into magic that deep. I mean yes, it works wonders if you can handle it, but I found no particular pleasure in such handling. Things need to be more real than some arcane or elemental powers. Things like bombs and swords and tanks. They are not going to vanish the second I forget about them. They work as they should until breaking for some reasonable reason.
What I did dig in, was art of subtlety. At about 20 years old I saw myself as a swift predator in gnome form, hiding in the shadows of our house, waiting patiently for prey and striking fiercely, but silently.
First thing which I learnt to hunt down like this were pies. I remember putting a whole blueberry pie under my dress on Ma's one-hundredth birthday. Invisible warrior strikes again! And eats the pie all by herself.
Then there were books and stuff from Pa's cabinet. Things I hated to be lectured about seemed quite amusing in my very own hole by the lake in the Forlorn Cavern. But alas, not more than just amusing.
Taking book from a library and pie from a kitchen sound ironic by itself, I know, but I was twenty years old. However, it only went down from there.
On my fortieth, when I already felt like a Real Grownup, I wanted to seize something magnificent, something absolutely gorgeous and adorable. A sword, maybe.
I moved as a grey ghost among treasures of the Commons, gravely realizing that even the smallest sword would not fit under my clothes even if I came wearing a blanket. I immediately settled for a dagger and casually put my elbow on one especially shiny while my oh-so-experienced fingers ran along the blade of another one. Sigh a little louder than needed, «maybe some other time» look in my eyes and gracious departure. With the dagger's guard piercing between my ribs.
Well, I certainly did not see any beginner's luck there. Pa got a little mad, when I was brought to him being “a little mischievous”, as the dwarf merchant said. Pa insisted on buying the dagger, and after dwarf merchant was gone he asked what I did this for. I said I wanted to test my skills. He doubted that such skills would be of much use if I planned on staying part of the family. I said, great.
I didn't exactly slam the door. When Ma understood that I was really going to leave and not be home for dinner, she started offering help and “acquaintances”. Several understandings later I left for Anvilmar where recruits like me, useless in battle, were of some use. Pa gave me one more dagger to wield heroically and some gold not to die starving, but being the proud lass that I am I refused money.
For Gnomeregan! I guess.
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