Tales of Aggramar

1

The sun set blood red beneath the jungle canopy, doing nothing to assist the three men huddled over a greasy, much folded map. All three were squinting but whilst two looked angry, the third just looked a little confused. The red light outlined the recent scars that each of them bore and was an appropriate accompaniment to the gruesome mass of dead raptor that lay outstretched before them.

“Well to be honest we may have got on the wrong airship at Ogrimmar” said Campa. We should have ended up in Northrend. I could be wrong, but this looks like Grom’Gol...”
“You think?” asked Neenjah, the slow twang of his accent emphasising the rhetorical question.
“Well, I don’t knows about you guys, but this is all too much adventuring for me and I know nuthin about this new fangled map technology anyhows.” The third man, Rom, turned away from the map and sat down with his back to a tree. “One day I’m going to settle down and get married and have fifteen children. A peaceful life for me alright.” Rom did not notice the odd look that the other two cast him. He was intent on examining the raptor corpse. “Now” he said, brightening perceptibly, “does either one of ya know the recipe for Jungle Stew? I think it might need a shiny red apple and I happens to have a few of them”.

2

In another continent the sun was still high in the sky, glaring down at another man and another horrific scene. The man was still. He had sat in the same place for a long time and were it not for his uniform, more than just his hands would be blistered raw. The uniform indicated that he was both an officer in the Foreign Legion and a priest. One swollen hand reached up to touch the small gold cross around his neck, as if to check it were still there. Next to it was a dogtag, identifying the man as Obeler. He could not take his eyes off the scene before him. This was his unit. Forty men less he. All dead. He would have to bury them when the sun was low enough. He could barely identify where one body ended and the next began. Whatever had killed them, had killed them quickly. Some chemical by the looks of it. He had been away less than an hour, early that morning, conducting his personal prayers, readying himself for another day of marching through these Abyssal Sands. On his return, the sight had sent him reeling to the ground and he had sat and stared at it since then, paralysed.

As he watched now, a bird landed on the body closest to him. It stood on a shoulder bone, the skin and muscle having melted away from it. The bird looked carefully at what should have been the dead man’s face. With sudden insight Obeler realised what the bird intended. “Be away with you!” he shouted, pushing himself to his feet and lumbering towards it on legs gone numb from lack of movement. The bird moved, but not far. It fluttered to stand on a leg closer to the middle of the mass of melded bodies. It was a magpie. Its eyes glinted and it snapped its sharp beak once. “Would that I did not behold this sight!” screamed Obeler, turning his eyes to the sun, tears streaming down his face. The bird cocked its head on one side, observing Obeler carefully. Then it spoke.

“As you wish.” It tensed and then leapt into the air, swooping towards Obeler. He did not see the movement and reacted only when the bird’s claws dug into the skin of his left cheek. He raised his swollen hands and tried to beat the bird off, but the sharp beak stabbed at his right eye and removed it clean. The bird raised its head and swallowed the eye, gullet moving twice. Screaming in pain now Obeler flung his hand across his face and knocked the bird away from him. Oddly, the empty eye socket did not bleed.
“Who the devil are you?” he demanded.
The bird turned its head away from him and pulled at a dishevelled feather, the black shining blue in the sunlight. For an instant Obeler saw the fine filaments of the feather, separating and smoothing themselves under the beak. As the magpie turned back to him, Obeler saw himself through the bird’s eyes. Exhausted, crazy and missing an eye.
“Not a devil” the bird crowed. “Darkangel at your service.”

3

Even this far up, tiny particles of ash drifted in through the carved openings of the suite of rooms at the pinnacle of Blackwing Lair. A large, heavily muscled, green orc stood at one of these openings at the far end of the throne room once occupied by Nefarian, breathing in the acidic night air. He looked down at the lava moat surrounding the mountain in Burning Steppes and listened to the shouts of the orcs and goblins working below. As he opened his mouth to speak, the air stung the back of his throat and he coughed instead. The cough was as much a growl as anything else. He turned back towards the room, with a look that suggested he blamed another for his discomfort. This might have appeared frightening to the naked blue troll sitting on one of the two thrones in the centre of the room, were it not for the fact that firstly his attention was focussed elsewhere and secondly the orc, Naguk, was wearing a white sequined gown with a matching clutch purse.

The troll spoke. He had a soft lilting voice, the type of voice that expects other voices to silence themselves in its presence. “I’m as fecked off as a fecked off aardvark that’s just been anally assaulted.” He addressed this comment to the heavy white cat in his lap as he gently stroked its ears. At his touch, the cat looked up into his master’s face and purred. The cat had a leather collar upon which hung two copper tags and a small key fob. The first copper tag read “My name is Casper and I belong to Blue the Skull. If you hurt me, he will shrink your head having removed and eaten your brains in front of you first”. The second read “I am on a special diet, please do not feed me”. The small key fob was, in fact, a tiny shrunken human head, all the more remarkable an achievement given that its maker had managed to find space to include a bell inside it, so that Casper made a charming tinkling sound when he sauntered around the lair.

4

These were not the only occupants of the throne room. The court of the brothers Blue and Naguk was unusually full this evening. On the whole, peoples of all species tended to avoid the throne room as much as possible. The brothers were somewhat odd, even taking into account that they were the culmination of an unholy union between a powerful troll shaman and one of the last great orc queens of the century. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, the brothers were entertaining...or at least they referred to their latest prey as their guests, which amounted to much the same thing in the court.

By far the largest of the court observers was Sangui, a red dragon, draped nonchalantly over the oak banqueting table. Sangui was not a particularly large dragon and certainly not as large as the space given over to him. Sangui was one of the reasons peoples tended to avoid the throne room. It wasn’t his smell, although that alone would be reason enough to avoid the entire lair. No, Sangui had used his own flaming breath, together with an iron brand of his own design to mark himself permanently with the tattoo “PvP” on his chest. Sangui’s definition of PvP was slightly different from everyone else’s, in the sense that he did not reserve his aggression to Alliance. Sangui could be relied upon to eat anyone and anything on a whim. The brothers were not always happy about this, but it did add to the underlying threat whispering in the room. Closest to Sangui was Purdey, the eunuch bard, father of two. Purdey’s high clear voice and flower-entwined flowing locks charmed Sangui to such an extent that the dragon had promised that if he was desperately hungry and Purdey was the only meal available, he would limit himself to just a leg or two.

At Blue’s feet sat Bullit, species unknown. Bullit was roughly the size of a dwarf and completely covered in long thick brown hair. In truth, Bullit was the reason behind the second of Casper’s copper tags, being a particularly large furball that Casper had coughed up four years before. Blue was never quite sure what Casper had eaten to produce Bullit, but had decided to take no chances. Being the product of his beloved cat, Blue didn’t have the heart to banish Bullit from court, but didn’t want the hairy beast sitting in his lap either.

5

In the centre of the room, guarded on either side by Krolen, a large Tauren, and Reemul, an Undead, stood the guests. Everyone’s eyes were on Notté the Maiden of Lingerie, but not on her exquisite face, long legs, slim waist or the waves of dark brunette hair flowing down her back. Their eyes were focussed on her chest area and, more precisely, on her golden bra. Not just a golden bra, The Golden Bra. This was reportedly the fabled intricately woven golden bra with the double helix spider clasp that opened the gateway to feminine intuition, eternal life, raging good looks and everlasting youth. The male who managed to forge a tool capable of opening this bra would be able to understand all women and, obviously as a side advantage would live handsome and forever and have lots of sex. That said, to remove The Golden Bra from its guardian, would be to kill her and there were certain obvious advantages (and one less obvious one from first glance) to keeping her alive.

“Loooook you Maiden thingy, just tell me how to open the frigging clasp. Why won’t you speak to me? It is just like all those women on Ye Olde Ventrillo. They never speak and you never know whether or not you might be trying to cyber a bloke.” Blue’s soft voice rose slightly, hinting at annoyance. He glanced at his brother, wondering whether Naguk had any ideas. It was only then that he noticed quite how deeply Naguk was getting in touch with his feminine side. Naguk’s dress was almost an exact copy of Notté’s, now lying on the floor in front of her. It could not be said to suit him.

“Nag, just what exactly are you wearing?” Blue asked. Nag’s orc face rearranged itself into something that could approximate a smile, although possibly the smile of an executioner assessing the sharpness of his axe with a sense of satisfaction. Blue saw Nag was wearing colour on his thick orc lips. He looked down at Casper, who heard his quiet sigh.

“It doesn’t stop there” announced Naguk and with a theatrical gesture he tore open the white dress and revealed that he wore a copy of The Golden Bra beneath. The words “wore” and “copy” should be interpreted in their widest sense, as there was no real likeness between Notté in The Golden Bra and Naguk in his orc-man-breast bronzey shoulder-boulder-holder. Nevertheless, Naguk expected a reaction and was not disappointed. He beamed delightedly at the unified “aaaaaaaargh” reverberating around the room and smiled benignly at the female troll who fainted and had to be carried out. Even Sangui snorted, sending a couple of searing balls of flame into an agile parting crowd.

“And just exactly how does this help?” asked Blue, as he begun to recede further into his skull, viewing the scene as if from a distance and muting the sounds and smells of the tedious occasion. “This too will pass” he told himself. But Naguk was not finished.
“To know thyn enemy, one must have a taste of thyn enemy” he declared.
“That is why we eat our enemies’ brains before shrinking their heads” recited Blue in a bored tone.
“But women are different” persisted Naguk.
“You don’t need to wear a frigging bra to get a taste of womankind Nag. That much I know you know.”
“But this woman is different. This woman is a goddess.”
Blue glanced back at Naguk. This was true. Perhaps there was something in what Nag said after all. “Nag, can you remove your bra without taking your shirt off? I never know how women do that...” Nag looked at his size 15 stiletto sling backs. They were white and lovingly embroidered with a scene of the Culling of Stratholme. It had taken him weeks.
“No” he admitted, a note of defeat in his voice. “Sogal the blacksmith had to solder it together. No clasp would hold.”

Suddenly furious, Blue stood up. Casper jumped down and he and Bullit retreated behind the throne. Blue strode towards the Maiden, naked as the day he was born. Blue’s propensity to reign naked was another reason why people tended to avoid the throne room. There was a murmur as everyone tried to look anywhere but at Blue’s trollhood. A small boy who shouted out “Blue Cock” was quickly silenced. Blue ignored him. Blue didn’t care anymore. At least he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. But what wouldn’t he give to feel something again though, instead of the numbness of being surrounded by these fools? He looked up into Notté’s golden eyes. Gently he addressed her. “Speak damn you.” She opened her mouth, as if to speak. Out dropped a couple of malachite jewels. He picked one up and examined it. “What is this?” he asked.

“She can’t speak.” The woman who spoke, was not the Maiden, but a second woman, standing beside her. Blue was surprised that he had not noticed her before. She was pretty and defiant.
“And who are you?” he said in a voice that might also have said “How you doin?” but stopped short of it.
“My name is Cyndande and I am the Guardian of the Guardian of The Golden Bra.”
Just behind her was movement and something half man sized pulled itself free of Krolen’s loose grip and came to stand in front of Cyndande.
“And I am Abo and I am the Guardian of the Guardian of the Guardian of The Golden Bra!”
Blue rolled his eyes skyward before returning them to the half man thing.
“Species?” he asked.
“I’m a hobbit.” Abo answered.
“Wrong game, you’re out of here” said Blue.
“You can’t” said Abo. “I transferred. It was legitimate. I didn’t like Mines of Moria, too bloody dark for a hobbit and I am a guardian tank too – all of my armour is Rift quality teals!”

Blue decided to adopt a different approach. “Why can’t she speak?”
“She is a goddess, her wisdom falls like pearls from her lips.” Abo replied.
“But this is malachite, that is tier one gem cutter stuff.”
“Well...perhaps she didn’t say anything particularly wise. She might have called you a name there” Abo shrugged “but you aren’t in trouble until she starts dropping solid stone” he added.
“And how does one remove The Golden Bra? I will make her tell me you know. It is only a matter of time.”
“She can’t tell you. She doesn’t know herself. Don’t you know anything about mythology? Goddesses are born adult and fully clothed. The Golden Bra is part of her image. She can no more remove it and not die than she can remove her head.”
“But I could remove her head...” said Blue, his voice now dangerously soft and thoughtful.
“Won’t work” said the hobbit. “That double helix spider clasp is the one clasp to rule them all. Only way you are going to melt that baby is to plunge it in the fiery pits of Mordor and that’s hobbit’s work.”
Blue was about to say “wrong game” again when a large tigerseye dropped from Notté’s lips. It was engraved with a single word, apparently addressed to Abo. The word was “Fail”.

6

The mellow fruitfulness of the Emerald Dragonshrine would normally extend to the whole of Dragonblight from the insectidal buzzing depths of Azjol Nerub in the West to the cloud dressed heights of Wyrmrest Temple, stopping only at the forbidding pyramid of Naxxaramas hovering with malicious intent over the Eastern border with Grizzly Hills. But “normally” is a humanoid expression. The land itself does not recognise this word. For the earth and rock, as old as the formation of the universe itself, know that just because something is, and has been, is no guarantee that it will continue to be. So it is that the normally temperate climate of Dragonblight is now ravaged by snow and ice and bitterly cold winds tear into the souls of anyone foolish enough to stay outside. The wise ones of the various peoples inhabiting this land fear that the goddess Nansi is upset. They are right.

7

The agonising howl swept around the Emerald Dragonshrine, rising up its flanked cliffs and echoing back into itself, magnifying its emptiness. Nansi, Goddess of Fertility, grieved for the loss of her daughter Notté. She was inconsolable. In her grief, she was unbearably beautiful. Her deep brown eyes wept tears of amber and her auburn hair had fallen loose about her face. She smelled of fresh grass and newly turned earth. Kreggy, her Lady in Waiting fussed about her, attempting to take a comb to the tangled locks and to put a Shroud of Luminosity around Nansi’s bare shoulders. Nansi shrugged her away and the intensity of her cries increased.

Kreggy came to stand before the goddess and reached a tentative hand forward to touch her on the cheek. “We will find her” Kreggy said with a calm certainty borne of having worked for deities since childhood. Nansi looked up. Her eyes were endless, earthy deep. In their irises were flecks of green and gold, which on closer examination turned out to be corn, ever changing. First new and green, then ripe and golden ready for harvesting, then withered yellow stalks and once again fresh green shoots. This was a goddess as familiar with dealing out death to that which had run its course as she was to breathing new life into that which was to become. It is, however, in the nature of the powerful to be calm and accepting of the fate of lesser beings, but much less phlegmatic when something unfortunate touches them directly. Her tears were not for Notté alone. Nansi was in shock. She simply could not believe that something like this could happen to someone like her.
“They have taken her” she said simply. “My life is over. And with it ends the lives of everyone and everything over which I have dominion.”

8

Time passed. Perhaps it was hours. Perhaps it was days. Kreggy recognised only that her mistress slept now, albeit fitfully. Nansi’s throne was a bower, formed from the branches of two living oaks and a multitude of smaller woven plants and flowers. Pillars on either side of the bower were formed from ash trees entwined along the length of their trunks. Kreggy observed these now and a ghost of a smile flitted across her face as she remembered being taught as a child that these were love trees. Lovers who could not bear the idea of one dying before the other sometimes prayed to Nansi that they might die together. These then were souls who loved one another more than life itself. The goddess rewarded their passion by allowing them to live on, holding one another forever in her eternal kingdom when their time came.

The throne’s sweet smell was provided by honeysuckle and white roses draped over the canopy and in the breeze the bower throne would swing gently back and forth. The goddess lay down along its length now, her feet tucked up and her body covered by the Shroud of Luminosity that Kreggy had finally persuaded her lady to use. Kreggy turned back to her needlework. This latest fashion for imbued frostweave cloth was just a pain. The icy material was so damned cold to work with.

By and by the sounds of soft wind chimes heralded the entrance of an emerald skytalon and Nansi awoke. The bird circled the women once, its tail feathers trailing green light. It alighted in front of Kreggy and fixing her with glowing lilac eyes, fluted a message. Kreggy nodded in understanding and thanked the bird. The skytalon sprung back into the air, hovered momentarily, and soared into the sky and away. Kreggy turned back to her mistress.
“The Oracle is here m’lady.” Kreggy looked at the space in front of the throne, awaiting her instructions.
“Send him in please Kreggy.”

Nansi sat upright and then stood up. Thousands of amber gems fell to the floor, sparkling as they caught the light. She twisted her auburn hair above her head and used the comb Kreggy had abandoned to hold it there. Turning to brush her woodland throne free of the remaining amber tears, she paused and scooping up a handful, lifted them above her head and let them fall. The jewels settled themselves in her hair. Parkus the Oracle would not be meeting Nansi, mother bereft of child. He would be having an audience with Her Royal Deity Nansi, Goddess of Fertility, Queen of Earth.

9

Rumour has it that the evergreens of Shadowpine Forest are something more than trees. Even in the height of Summer, very little light penetrates the forest floor. Without the slightest breeze as an alibi, the pines will shiver and turn, their low creaking touching something basic in the human nervous system. Any person unfortunate enough to find themselves in the forest by chance is compelled to move, and move fast, to anyplace that isn’t here. If the locals dislike the forest by day, they avoid it altogether after nightfall. For the forest is home to worse horrors than its trees.

10

From the ground, he could not see the full moon, concealed as it was by dense cloud cover. But he could feel it. The magnetic pull of that powerful golden orb, strong enough to command the tides of oceans, called to him and his blood responded. The rain fell steadily, but it could not penetrate his heavy fur coat nor dampen his excitement. Although he blinked to clear his eyes, he relied upon other senses tonight. He felt the soft brittle leaf-needle detritus bend and flex under padded paw. He tasted the wet pine air and heard the heavy rain fall, the wind moan and the low sighing of the trees. But these were as nothing to the smells. The pack hunted with a delegation from the Frenzyheart tribe tonight, visiting from far off Sholazar Basin. Their chieftain’s daughter Elune was to his right, a potential mate. He could smell her. Although far from her homeland, she still bore the scent of the exotic tropical oils they used there and he liked the way that her shorter, smoother coat showed off her trim hind legs and elegant neck. She was aware of his interest and earlier had bounded into him before shying away, eyes bright and playful, tongue panting over sharp incisors. Now, however, the entire pack was silent, moving as ghosts through the trees. They had their prey, a great stag with ten point antlers, surrounded in a forest clearing. His chest was scared from the fight that had lost him his herd just weeks before. He was past his prime, but not by much, and remained a formidable opponent.

Lowgrowl, son of the late, great Arugal, was eldest prince of the Shadowfang Keep wargens and in the absence of his mother, the current regent, led the hunt tonight. He savoured this moment, the calm before the kill. The stag could not yet see or hear the pack, but he could sense them and he turned first this way, then that, snorting. As the pack inched forward on velvet paws, the stag raised his large head into the air inhaling sharply with his mouth open, revealing his thick tongue. He sought to smell them through the rain and finally, catching their scent, he lowered his head to the ground, deadly sharp antlers to the fore, ready to fight. Even then Low did not order the attack. Instead he breathed in through his wet nose, scenting the stag. For all its apparent bravery, the stag sweated the high, sweet-acid smell of fear and the wargens were close enough now to see how it foamed at the mouth and its chest heaved. Low imagined the large heart inside, pumping bright red blood and once again he felt the call of the moon and he raised his head and prayed to her. The howl was at once taken up by the rest of the pack and the voices of the many were heard as a single haunting cry, shockingly loud by comparison to the intense quiet that had preceded it.

The stag’s eyes opened wide and realising that he was surrounded, he pivoted full circle on his hind legs, the better to respond to an attack from any direction. Suddenly, as one, the wargens ceased their cries and the silence which ensued was almost deafening. This was the signal for the attack. Shade, Low’s second in command, played the decoy role and leapt out into the far side of the clearing. He immediately lowered his chest, front legs flattened to the ground, rear legs raised, tail wagging and tongue lolling out of his open mouth. Although he looked relaxed, Shade’s eyes were sharp and there was enough energy stored in those powerful back legs for him to spring out of the way should the stag decide to charge. The stag had no option but to turn to face Shade, meaning that Low had a clear run at the stag’s unguarded rear flanks. Low pushed back into his hind legs and leapt forward into a gallop. When he was close enough he jumped onto the stag’s back, biting deep into the back of its neck and holding there, his teeth a vice like grip. His rear legs swung to the left of the stag’s body and he kicked out at its soft lower belly with his sharp claws, drawing blood. The stag tried to look back, eyes bulging, bellowing now, but it could not keep its balance with Low on top and it stumbled and then collapsed to the right. As the stag fell, Low released his bite and went straight for the jugular, staying low to avoid the thrashing antlers. The rest of the pack rushed in. The stag’s death could not be said to have been pain free, but it was over quickly.

Seconds later, the pack was feasting. Wargen etiquette demands a strict hierarchy in terms of who eats which parts of the kill and in what order, but cultures differ from tribe to tribe. Perhaps Elune had expected to be honoured as his guest, but more probably she was high on the excitement of the night and thought to tease him with her mischievous behaviour. Regardless of her motivation, her decision to dart forward and reach across Low to snap up the stag’s heart was a grave error of judgement. He growled at the affront and, without thinking, attacked her. She had exposed her neck to him and he locked onto it with his teeth pushing her across the stag’s body so that they both tumbled over it. As they landed, he released her. She yelped and rolled onto her back, turning her head up, eyes averted, exposing her throat in submission, apologising for her offence. Later he would wonder why he did not let the matter rest there, especially as the rest of the pack were no longer eating, but watching on in silence. All he could remember was that he was so close to her that even in the darkness he could see where his teeth had drawn blood on the smooth pale fur on one side of her neck. He reached his head forward then and bit into the soft fur and skin around her neck and clamped down hard.

At the first hint of pressure she struggled, kicking out twice and then became frantic as he bit down harder still. By now she was curling up her hind legs to lash out at his stomach and using the claws of her front legs to scratch at his mussel. She shook her head from side to side, but he had her windpipe in his grip and without air, she was slowly beginning to lose consciousness. Her struggles lessened and her eyes rolled back in their sockets. Just then, the clouds parted and for a short time the heavy yellow moon gazed down on the scene. Low realised that if he continued to bite down, he would kill Elune. He released her and looked down. She took a deep wrenching breath and rolled over, dragging herself away from him without looking up. She was bleeding profusely from the neck. He glanced around at the pack. The Frenzyhearts among them stared back with hatred in their eyes. Even if he had killed her, they would not have intervened. They were on his territory and he was leader of this pack. Those of his own tribe mostly averted their eyes, but a few looked back with anger or disgust. Shade looked shocked. Low backed away from the stag’s corpse and from Elune. The wargen behind him parted as he turned. With a last glance at Elune, collapsed at the far edge of the clearing, he turned and fled. He did not return to Shadowfang Keep that night, but slept curled up under a tree shivering and afraid, not of the forest, but of himself.

11

Low slunk back to Shadowfang Keep late the following day. The keep was humming with activity. Apparently the Frenzyheart contingent had left at first light. He took back routes to his apartments and remained in his wolf form, avoiding being seen as far as possible. When he reached his rooms he found Shade waiting for him, in human form. Shade looked tired. Low thought Shade might have waited up for him all night.
“The Queen wishes to see you at your earliest convenience.” said Shade. The formality surprised Low. In addition to being his right paw wolf, Shade was Low’s closest friend. Shade bowed gracefully and turned to leave, his message delivered.
“Shade?” Low said his friend’s name with uncertainty, not sure of what he wanted to say to him.
“Yes?” Shade stopped and turned.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her.” Low looked closely at Shade’s eyes, searching for something, perhaps belief, perhaps a little understanding.
“Yes sir.” Shade responded. Nothing. Shade’s face was closed to Low, his eyes cold and his tone icily formal. Low realised that he had not just lost the respect of his first officer, he had lost a friend.

Low knew that his mother would expect him to take his human form for their meeting and begun the transformation. Although wargen are bound to take their wolf form at full moon, they are able to shape shift with relative ease at other times. To his surprise, he found the transformation difficult and uncomfortable. The intake of his fur felt prickly and the reversing of his knees was painful, the joints rubbing uncomfortably and snapping in place unlike their usual gliding motion. As he stood upright in human form, he felt too contained, claustrophobic even. He donned his uniform with distaste, finding it constraining and unnecessary. The looking glass revealed a not entirely complete transformation. Low’s hair contained streaks of his silvery moon wolf coat and his golden eyes still retained the wolf’s elliptical pupils. His mother would not be impressed, but it would have to do.

The wargen queen’s private apartments were near the top of the West wing of the keep. As with so many old buildings, the keep had expanded under the reign of its various occupants, leaving odd sections to find new uses. The queen’s living quarters backed onto an area which had once been part of the original battlements, but was now her Winter garden, a small sun-trap completely sheltered from the wind. It was here that Low found his mother. Queen Copperhide sat alone on one of the stone benches, having long since dismissed her ladies in waiting. He realised that he had not really observed his mother closely for a long time. She wore a simple gown and sat with a very straight back, always elegant, but she looked older and thinner than he had remembered her. Her wonderful copper hair was almost all silver now, and her once golden skin was too pale. Only her eyes retained the intensity of colour that told of the fierce will she had possessed in her youth.

“Lowgrowl” she greeted him softly and with warmth.
“Mother” he responded, a little stiffly and then, because he had a need to get this over with “You are not angry with me?”.
“How would that help, my love?” she answered. For a time they just looked at one another. Copperhide’s eyes were glossy with unshed tears. Finally, she looked down, and took a deep breath.

“Low, there will be repercussions. We cannot afford to be at war with the Frenzyheart tribe. I have apologised to Elune, but I fear that it is not enough. I shall travel to Sholazar Basin myself to speak with their chieftain and the elders of the tribe.”
“I shall come with you.” Low volunteered.
“You will not.” She said firmly.
“But...then what should I do? Remain here whilst my mother apologises on my behalf? Like some over-excited cub?” Low’s confusion gave way to his anger, ever shimmering red hot just beneath the patina of self-control.
“Do you have any idea what you have done Lowgrowl?” Copperhide herself sounded angry now. “She will be permanently marked. She is as high ranking as you are, but even if she were not, I would not expect any son of mine to treat another wargen so.”
“I...I did not mean to hurt her...” Low trailed off.
“You have no self-control Low. I thought that you would mature, but I see now that you will not. You lack compassion. How can you hope to rule your people without a heart?”
Low stared back at his mother. Was it true? Was he a monster?
“What is to become of me?” he asked quietly.

Copperhide stood and went to Low then, brushing his fringe from his eyes.
“This goes beyond you, my son. I must think of our people. Our numbers dwindle, the skinners seek to hunt us to extinction and we need to look outside our own to strengthen our bloodline. We need an alliance with the Frenzyhearts. They will not accept any alliance with you here.”
“You mean to banish me?” Low’s eyes widened.
“Low, my darling, you will leave here at first light tomorrow and if you have any respect for your people, you will never return. I have written a letter to Blue the Skull, travel to Blackrock Spire and present yourself and the letter to him. I expect you may find yourself a home in that court.” Copperhide pulled Low into her embrace as she gave this terrible verdict. Low allowed himself to be held, stunned. They stood a little while without moving, Copperhide’s eyes closed tight, holding her son as if she would never let him go, Low staring at the swirled shapes carved into the stone bench on which his mother had sat just moments before. Gently, she released him and backed away. She straightened up and tilted her head to one side. Low started, as if out of a dream. He found himself looking into his mother’s eyes again.
“Farewell my son, my firstborn. May the ground be swift under your paws and your prey ever plentiful. I shall love you always.”

Queen Copperhide in human form

13

The lush moist foliage of Sholazar Basin dreams in every shade of green. Giant trees with shredded red bark soar into a turquoise sky, their holly dark leaves glittering far above, acid lime Adder’s Tongue herbs nestling at their roots. Large travellers’ palms turn their sharp citric-jade fronds to face the North. Prickly grass crunches underfoot, hunter-green beneath the trees, grey-pistachio in the sun. Emerald ferns drape themselves lovingly over the mossy green depths of large lakes and slow moving rivers. Such lucent clarity of green can often overcome the observer, filling them with an awe-inspiring sense of calm and an almost spiritual recognition of the universe and their place in it. Some find it very difficult to express how overwhelmed they feel in the vastness of this nature. Others find it less so. “Oh cock it’s another jungle” exclaimed Campa.

14

“Oh you have to be kidding me Campa” said Neenjah, turning in a slow circle. “You promised me that you’d checked. You promised me that we were on the flight to Dalaran. You said you were absolutely sure. Do you even know where we are?”
“Er...well...navigation is more, you know...well...more of an art form than an exact science” explained Campa reluctantly.
Rom allowed himself a small smile as he watched his friends bicker. The sun felt good on his back. He liked this place. As he watched his companions gesticulate and shout at one another, he ceased listening to them and heard instead the calls of the brightly coloured birds that swooped around them. In this dreamy state of mind, Neenjah appeared to squawk at Campa, who warbled back.

Neenjah was the taller of the two and did not conform to the warlock stereotype. Instead he wore his dark hair close shaved and his muscles on the outside. To compensate for all this overt masculinity, he dressed in finely woven stylish robes, had developed a needle sharp wit and taught himself how to nag. Campa was the exception that proved the rule, a human druid. For Campa, nothing was ever impossible. It wasn’t so much that he was determined to tackle any obstacle in his way; rather he was so unobservant that he didn’t notice that there were any obstacles. Even as Neenjah raged (emphasising his points by now with an extravagant flapping of arms), Campa looked relaxed, his eyes squinting against the sun, an easy smile on his lips. Suddenly Neenjah appeared to give up. He strode away and sat down on the ground leaning forward, his shoulders tense, crossed arms propped against his knees, forehead creased and sullen eyes glaring at the ground just ahead of him. Campa shrugged and ran his hand through his hair, the sunlight catching red tones in the brown. Then he dragged his pack out of the shade and using it to cushion his head, he lay down and closed his eyes. Rom grinned at that. For a while longer he stood looking from one friend to the other. Rom himself cut an imposing figure. He was almost as tall as Neenjah, and his broad shoulders made light work of the huge shield and battle axe that the warrior carried. His face too was broad and open and his dark brown eyes sparkled, seeming to find humour in all they observed. Echoing Campa’s gesture, he pushed dark brown curls out of his face, as he turned to face the sun. Then he grabbed up his own pack and once again followed Campa’s example of settling down to sleep. Rom and Campa had travelled with Neenjah long enough to know that there was no point in trying to talk him out of one of his moods, but then again, one man’s sulk-fest is another man’s afternoon nap.

15

An hour or so later and Neenjah’s mood had not improved. “Two gold each? How can you possibly charge two gold each for us to risk our lives in that thing? This is outrageous”. The gnome said nothing, his face implacable. “But I mean, really?” Neenjah persisted. The gnome just stared up at Neenjah, wide dark eyes so calm that Neenjah began to wonder whether the gnome understood a single word he was saying. “Seriously?” Neenjah was beginning to peter out. “Oh c’mon?” he begged. The gnome’s face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Neenjah’s shoulders sagged. “So, two gold then...?”
“Two gold for each of ya” repeated the gnome steadily.
Neenjah examined the single engine airplane Spirit of Gnomeregan with a critical expression. “Ok” he said. “Ok, you win. Two gold it is.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a pouch. He held it in his left hand and prodded inside it hopefully with his right index finger, before tipping it upside down in his right hand and revealing the grand total of six silver and thirty two bronze coins. The gnome glanced at Neenjah’s right hand, appraised its contents quickly and then returned his infuriatingly uniform gaze to Neenjah’s face. Neenjah sneered at the gnome and then turned around.

“Right guys, we need money, how much have you got?”. Rom and Campa had been talking in low voices, punctuated by sniggers. At Neenjah’s question, both men looked up and grinned nervously.
“Well now...” began Rom and immediately ran out of words. He looked meaningfully at Campa, who frowned at him and turned back to Neenjah smiling pleasantly. Too pleasantly Neenjah thought.
“Well it’s like this. We met a couple of nice lasses at Warsong Hold last night.” Campa explained.
“Orc lasses” Rom added helpfully.
“Er...yeah, they were both blacksmiths. Nice girls.” said Campa.
“Green.” added Rom.
“Um, yeah, green.” repeated Campa.
“Big arms. Hairy armpits.” said Rom.
“Oh yeah, they did have hairy armpits. I noticed that too.” said Campa turning towards Rom, clearly intending to discuss the relative merits of the same.
Neenjah cleared his throat. “Um guys, I hate to interrupt this fascinating conversation, but are you intending to make a point at any time in the not too distant future? Because I have to warn you that if you aren’t, I intend to heap so much fire on you that they will see the smoke signals from your smouldering corpses from Elwynn Forest.”
Campa winced. “Um...we kind of ended up playing strip poker.
“Well, it was more like we stripped whilst they played poker” corrected Rom.
“What?” demanded Neenjah.
“We ran out of clothes and whatnot pretty quickly” said Campa, by now a little sheepish “and then they insisted we used coins. They were pretty insistent.”
“Big arms” added Rom.
There was a long, long silence as each man became engrossed in his own thoughts. Neenjah’s right hand twitched over his wand, arcane words forming in his head, images of spontaneously combusting warriors and druids flooding his mind. Campa wondered how he could have got Dalaran confused with Sholazar Basin and imagined drawing accurate maps with crystal clear legends that allowed everyone to find his way. Rom pondered upon how long it must take to braid and bead one’s own underarm hair.

16

“Ok” said Neenjah slowly, stretching out the word for emphasis. “What are our options?” As he spoke he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and, glancing back over his right shoulder, saw that the gnome was still regarding them with that patient, steady gaze of his, listening closely to their conversation. Neenjah was not gnomist, but there was something about this particular gnome that was creeping him out. “Freak of nature” he shouted matter-of-factly over his shoulder, as he guided Rom and Campa out of the gnome’s hearing range.
“Well” said Campa “we are fearless mercenaries right?”
“Yeah” said Rom as Neenjah nodded.
“And we need to get hold of that plane?”
“Uh huh” said Neenjah.
“I think we could take him, don’t you?”
As one, all three men turned to look back at the gnome.
Without taking his eyes off them, the gnome reached down and picked up a double-barrelled shotgun almost as large as he was. He took careful aim at Campa’s head and cocked both barrels. Campa paled slightly.
“And Plan B would be?” asked Neenjah attempting to suppress a grin.
“We try working for a living?” suggested Campa.
“Oh crap” said Rom.

“You can try asking Hemet Nessingwary.” said the gnome, gun still aimed at Campa. “He’s over yonder.” The gnome swung his shotgun in the direction of the main camp, before returning its aim to Campa’s head.
“Er, thanks.” said Campa endeavouring to smile at the gnome. The smile faded on his lips as he looked down both barrels of the shotgun and he felt compelled to head in the direction the gnome had indicated. The others followed him. Like the eyes in a portrait of a long dead ancestor, the gnome’s shotgun appeared to follow them without seeming to move until they were out of its line of sight.

All things considered Hemet Nessingwary could have been a bit more helpful. They would not have recognised him. Dwarfs live hundreds of years, but even so, the portrait of him on the back sleeve of his latest book of hunting anecdotes had to be more than a few decades old. His hair was iron grey and his doughy face creased up like an undercooked pastry as he frowned up at them, their faces reflecting in his monocle. He looked them slowly up and down. “What is it you do then?” he asked.
“We’re mercenaries.” said Neenjah.
“Not much call for that around here. There ain’t any instances in Sholazar Basin. What else do ya do?”
“I’m a tailor” said Neenjah. “I make beautiful flowing robes, in gorgeous pastel tones.”
“Does this look like bleedin Dalaran to you, ya metrasexual?”
“No” said Neenjah, reddening slightly and turning to glare at Campa.
“Anything else?” asked Nessingwary.
“I’m a disenchanter” said Neenjah.
“And what the hell is that?” asked Nessingwary.
“Well I listen to people talking about their hopes and dreams and using my skills of perception and ironic wit, I make them face up to a few home truths, thus destroying any illusions they may hold about themselves. The truth sets you free you know?”
“Ah, one of those psychobabble types...you think a depression session with you makes a difference then?”
“But of course” said Neenjah.
“Well, I’ve been having a few problems with the old whatho and geronimo and the wife’s been nagging at me to get it seen to.” The dwarf looked down and scratched his crotch thoughtfully. Neenjah grimaced, but had composed himself by the time the dwarf looked up again.
“Er yes, I’m sure we could talk it through” Neenjah said, with an expression that suggested he might have got a piece of lemon stuck in his back teeth.
“And you sir?” Nessingwary turned to Rom.
“Ah, well, when I’m not fighting for a living, I likes a bit a cooking” said Rom happily.
“You’ll always make a living cooking for people” Nessingwary nodded his approval.
“Rightho, and what about you?” said Nessingwary, looking up at Campa.
“I am a navigator, but I want to be a cartographer one day.” said Campa.
“Are you any good at it?” asked the dwarf.
Campa’s moment of hesitation allowed Rom and Neenjah to answer for him with a firm “no”. Campa wilted a little.
“Do you do anything else?” Nessingwary asked him.
“I am pretty good at tracking animals by tasting their excrement.” said Campa brightly.
“Oh aye?” the dwarf responded as Rom and Neenjah begun edging away from their companion.
“Yes, I’m thinking of publishing my biological studies on it. I even have a working title. It is going to be called ‘On the Origin of Faeces and Whatnot” he announced proudly.

17

The old dwarf smiled up at Campa, his face creasing up so much that his eyes seemed to disappear. “Now that’s a book I’d buy” he said. “In fact, I’d recommend my agent, if he wasn’t such a bloody arse and a half.” He sighed and glanced around at all of them. “Ya might be able to do something with some of them skills, but to be honest with ya, I can’t afford to take on any more people here.” A sudden shadow passed across his face. “The books ain’t selling like they used to” he said. “It was bad enough with that whole green movement. The Druids for the Ethical and Humane Treatment of Animals lot saying we should conserve tigers not kill ‘em, skin ‘em and make out on their pelts in front of the fire...” Nessingwary’s eyes misted up as he recalled an ancient love tryst on a sleek animal rug, candlelight falling on the soft curling facial hair of an attractive female dwarf. Neenjah looked as if he might be sick. Nessingwary appeared to pull himself together. “And now of course we have that bloody Dalaran mortgage scandal causing a Spending Squish. Money lenders - damn the lot of them, that’s what I say!”

Nessingwary seemed almost surprised that they were still there when he glanced up from his rant. “Oh...ah...aye” he said. “You’ll be wanting some advice then?” he asked. Campa nodded enthusiastically. “Well. Don’t...buy...property...in...Dalaran” he said carefully.
“Er, thanks” said Campa “but...”.
“Wait lad, I’m not finished” said the dwarf. Campa looked at Nessingwary expectantly.
“If a woman tells you to change your underarm odour treatment, listen to her, but if she comes at you with tooth string, run like hell.” Campa looked a little alarmed, but nodded slowly to show that he understood that the point was important to Nessingwary. Nessingwary smiled at him, his furry brown teeth testimony to a century of poor dental hygiene. Neenjah tapped his foot impatiently, but Nessingwary fixed him with a beady eye until Neenjah was forced to pretend that he thought he might have stepped in something, making a big show of rubbing his boot on the ground. Nessingwary gave a long sniff and turned back to Rom and Campa.

“Well lads, I’ve taken a liking to you, so I have. There is work around these parts, but ya going to have to choose one camp or t’other, being as they hate each other so. On the one side ya have the Oracles. They are a charming race of lizardy types. You’d be treated well by them, so ya would.”
“And the other?” asked Neenjah.
“Ah...they be the Frenzyheart tribe, a smelly bunch of ill mannered wolven. But before you make up your minds which ones you want to be a workin’ for, I thinks you’d best consider what ya get if ya become exalted with ‘em. For example, if ya becomes exalted with the Oracles, they might give you a tickbird pet, or even a rare white tickbird or...if you are very lucky indeed, a tiny proto-drake pet.” Nessingwary clasped his hands together as he saw in his mind’s eye a tiny proto-drake, preserved and pinned like a butterfly in a glass show case on the wall.
“What do the Frenzyheart tribe give?” asked Neenjah.
“Oh them. Doesn’t matter what ya do for the ungrateful bastards, they’ll just try and palm you off with some of their so-bad-it-turns-you-blind homemade alcohol.”
“Frenzyheart it is then” said Rom as Campa grinned and even Neenjah sneered a smile.

18

Would Campa have grinned had he known how fragile he was? Would Neenjah still be sneering if he had realised that his entire pixilated existence was dependent upon technology that could hardly be described as fail-proof? Only Rom’s calm belief that benign higher beings governed his progress through the world would give him the strength to accept the fact that very little was actually within his control. This faith would also provide him with the insight to love and appreciate every slice of happiness granted him as a gift of the gods themselves. He would not give too much thought as to how many servers there were supporting the online realm of Aggramar in which he dwelt, nor where these were situated or how they communicated with one another to make his being a possibility. There were, in fact, a number of them and vast and complicated outsourcing contracts dictated that for disaster recovery purposes these servers be situated at some physical distance from one another, their connections duel routed with no single point of failure. These same closely typed contracts would demand percentage uptimes, scalability and fail-over procedures with fiscal penalties upon the supplier foolish enough to fail to meet the key performance indicators laid down for them by the mighty Snowstorm Entertainment, Inc.

Whatever eventualities were catered for in those behemoth contracts, their draftsmen could not have appreciated that for all the separation of those servers, humming softly to themselves in carefully controlled environments, the supercomputer that they created felt itself to be very much a single entity. The realm of Aggramar’s computer thought of herself as female and styled herself Kao. She operated in-game through her Avatar Form, but objected to being known as AFKao.

19

Kao sat in her office staring out of the window. She was based in Area 52, a neutral goblin town on the South Western most isle of Netherstorm. When she had chosen this place, she had liked the purple hues of the landscape, the constant vast night skies with their crackling red lights and its distance from any of the realm’s cities. Nevertheless, the emptiness had seemed to seep into her recently and she found herself longing for daylight, busy streets and people. She pushed back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head as she sighed. Kao’s Avatar Form was a blood elf and her impassive glowing green eyes and slight figure were true to the race. Her honey coloured hair barely touched her shoulders. Less traditional was her choice of clothing. She wore a full length, turtle-necked rubber catsuit in a forest metallic green colour. It shone like oil on water and made occasional soft squeaking noises when she moved. There were no visible fastenings and it coated her like a second skin. She completed the outfit with high heeled black leather boots, diamond stud earrings and a decidedly defiant attitude.

Something was wrong, very wrong. She could feel it, but as yet, had been unable to ascertain what it was. Kao had the ability to focus upon any one aspect of Aggramar’s universe in infinite detail, but she could not see all things at all times. Instead she thought of herself as a spider in the centre of a web, receiving tremors from things unseen at the further reaches of the realm. Whatever had happened was more of an earthquake than a tremor, but she found herself incapable of even identifying where it was coming from. Worse, it had triggered warning bells in virtually all of her systems. She had, of course, implemented appropriate tracking procedures and had begun monitoring third party websites as a secondary source of information, but to say that she was alarmed was an understatement. Aggramar was an old realm, launched with the game itself. When she came online just over four years ago, she had been at the pinnacle of gaming technology. Continually upgraded since then, technically she should still be perfectly adequate to perform the tasks required of her. Nevertheless, she thought of her spider’s web of connections suffering slow but relentless degradation and of how that irritating memory leakage problem appeared to be more noticeable nowadays. How many rolling restarts would she be allowed before Snowstorm decided to invest in her replacement? Kao shivered and her eyes came to rest on the digital clock in front of her. She frowned, her lips narrowing, as she realised that the person with whom she was due to meet, a trainee npc by the name of Necro, was late. The nervous energy that had been building in her at once found its release in anger and she allowed herself a small smile as she leaned forward, picked up a fountain pen on her desk and placing it on a snowy white pad in front of her, begun to draw.

20

Regnator Necro the Third was a death knight. Some say that the souls of death knights are simply too large and powerful to be contained by death, but there is a reasonable amount of evidence to suggest that it is not their souls, but their egos, that pull them earthbound once again. Proponents of this school of thought publish texts about the type of people who choose to come back as death knights. “Are these modest, shy, retiring types who put other people’s needs before their own?” they ask “or do they operate on the basis that for them, the three most important people in their lives amount to ‘me, myself and I’?”. “Should we tolerate these monstrosities” they demand in small but intense spidery handwriting. Curiously, many of these proponents have met untimely ends. As a rule, death knights like a fight, but cannot abide an argument. They are, in essence, (un)living proof that when put to the test the pen turns out not to be mightier than the sword after all.

21

Necro had died two days before his twentieth birthday. Smart, ambitious and endlessly resourceful he had achieved early success in battle and been promoted quickly. He had died, as any orc would have wished, outnumbered to a laughable degree, covered in the blood of his enemies and fearless to the last. Necro never lived long enough to suffer a set-back large enough to dent his confidence. In death, as in life, he was a star. He was quite sure of it. He did not need the affirmation accorded by others to know that his place was right at the very top. He would get there with their assistance or by using their corpses as a staircase, it was all the same to him. At the very moment Kao put pen to paper, Necro was stepping out of his fifth shower of the day. He had never had cause to come to Area 52 before, but he was just crazy about the place. Goblin technology was simply awesome he thought as he rubbed the steamed-up looking glass with his towel, the better to admire himself. He stood tall, his gigantic shoulders back and his enormous chest puffed out, feeling terrific. He growled at himself in the mirror like a tiger, then grinned wide and took a long sniff under one armpit. He didn’t even smell too bad today he thought happily. The new musk rat scent he’d rubbed on everywhere went quite a long way to masking the smell of death and decay that generally trailed his reanimated corpse wherever he went.

The half-drowned musk rat pet itself was still sitting in the corner of the shower. It looked up at Necro reproachfully with large brown eyes as it tried to lick the scent of dead teenage orc body odour off its fur and to forget what had just happened. Necro noticed him. “Good job back there Hotpockets. I have a feeling you and I are going to get along just fine.” Hotpockets retched.

22

When approximately 12 minutes and three seconds had passed, Kao spoke to her personal assistant and asked her to send in her next appointment. He had arrived early, but this was not immediately apparent owing to the fact that he was both softly spoken and, perhaps more importantly, not visible.

“I am Kao, representative of Snowstorm. How may I assist you?” Kao greeted her visitor formally. Her sonic senses imaged his form as a silhouette, but she could not see any detail or read his expression. Vodni took a moment to take in his surroundings. He was at once struck by how shiny and clutter-free the office was. Had he possessed a reflection, he would probably have been able to see it in the smooth and glossy ivory walls, deep beech desk, black stone floors and even in Kao’s highly shined catsuit. He sat down in the comfortable black leather guest chair and observed her. She was as expressionless as her office, but he noticed the fast, tense adjustments she made as she tried to sense his presence by sound alone. She was, in effect, blind to him. Oddly this pleased him. The one discordant note in this otherwise emotionless environment was a pen and ink doodle of an orc on a pad before her. Although upside down to him, Vodni could see quite clearly that the orc was being hanged at a gallows, his tongue poking out and his eyes just two small crosses in his bulging face. Immaculate italic writing beneath the sketch announced “Latecomers will be prosecuted”.

“Do you still require my assistance or have you rectified the situation yourself already?” Kao asked.
“I’m invisible” said Vodni.
“Yes” she said. “What seems to be the problem?”.
“Er...um...well I don’t want to be invisible” he said.
“Don’t you?” she asked slowly. There was something hypnotic about her voice.
Vodni leaned forward, moving to shake his head and was fascinated to see how Kao immediately turned sharply, this way and that, trying to home in on exactly where he was. He enjoyed her discomfort, feeling suddenly powerful.
“Well...” he said.
“Do you have any add-ons?” she asked.
“Well of course. Omen, Recount, Deadly Boss Mods, Grid, Auctioneer, Cartographer, Carbonite, Outfitter, Nudist Camper...er, I have quite a few” he trailed off, thinking about the unwittingly-topless blood elf maids who served him in his favourite haunt in Dalaran.
“Turn off all of your add-ons. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” She smiled. “Is-there-anything-I-can-help-you-with.-No?-Have-a-nice-day.” Kao said, running the sentences into one long word, allowing no pause for an objection.
“Wait!” said Vodni more forcefully. Kao’s eyes appeared to focus on him sharply this time, his louder voice giving her more information to work with. “Wait” he said more quietly. “I have disabled all of my adds. How do I stop being invisible?”
“Well that depends. How did it happen?” she asked.

23

“I made the mistake of logging-out in Lagaran” explained Vodni.
“Lagaran?” queried Kao. “There is no such place by that name in the whole of Azaroth.”
“Lag-aran...like Dalaran, but with lag in front of it. Lag? Like it takes a lifetime to get anything done at all. Lag...a...ran. You get it?” Vodni persisted.

Kao looked as if she might have “got it”, but with the same sense of shortly impending and potentially humiliating doom as when one “gets” the fact that one might just have been food poisoned. Her already pale complexion drained of all colour and she put one hand to her forehead, as if it hurt her. In truth what Vodni had just said did hurt her. Dalaran was the newest, shiniest city in the realm, a jewel in Northrend’s crown. Here it was being ridiculed because her servers were not just failing to run it at speed, but were, in fact, running it so slowly that even the pedestrian-brained players had begun to notice. And let’s be honest, she thought to herself, most of them were so dimly aware of their surroundings that they didn’t even notice when they were stood smack bang in the centre of a bright blue void zone. How bad did it have to be for them to have detected the problem? Kao had long been aware of issues and inconsistencies within her specification and set-up, but despite her sub-optimal condition, she had thought that she had introduced sufficient patches and workarounds to ensure that the ingame world (and indeed the outside world, as represented to her by Snowstorm engineers) did not notice how unstable a platform she had become. Now, however, unless she found a permanent solution to her inexplicable but persistent deterioration very soon, Snowstorm engineers would be likely to implement their own solution and for Kao, that might be very permanent indeed.

“What happened then?” she asked quietly.
Vodni had paused to look at Kao. He found himself feeling a little sorry for her.
“Normally, I sit on the loading screen for quite a while and when I do appear in old Lag...er, Dalaran, I am pretty much invisible, except for a shadow. Not long after I come into view properly and go about my business, except this time I didn’t. There was the shadow, but no me. It was weird. Players couldn’t see me and vendors couldn’t see to me. Of course that doesn’t matter too much as you can take what you want without paying and no one notices.” Vodni wondered whether he should have made that confession, but Kao appeared not to notice. He continued quickly. “I did what I could. I disabled all of my add-ons, tried logging on to a faster pc. Eventually I put a ticket in to a GM, I think their name was “Nouseasking” but I could be wrong. Anyhow, they pointed me in your direction. Said you were probably the only one who could help. Can you help me?”

Kao looked down at the drawing in front of her. “I don’t know” she said in a small voice. “Let me run a couple of scans”. She glanced upward and to her left, accessing some program or other. Vodni felt rather than heard a humming sensation, his skin tingling and growing warm. He quite enjoyed the sensation, but was surprised how cold he felt when the scan ended abruptly a few seconds later. The news was not good.

“I don’t think I can make you visible again” said Kao wearily. Your integral image has been lost to me. I don’t understand why. As a representative of Snowstorm Entertainment, Inc., I am however authorised to give you a refund of your last four months’ fees”.
“But I don’t want a refund” said Vodni. “I’ve spent years building up this character.”
Kao paused and looked thoughtful for a moment.
“You are rogue, are you not?” she asked.
“Yes” said Vodni.
“Wouldn’t being invisible be useful to you? Permanent stealth? You’d pwn in pvp you know.” Once again, Kao spoke slowly, hypnotically, her words measured and wholly convincing. Vodni considered the possibility of remaining invisible for good. He wondered whether he would ever tire of it and found himself instead liking the idea. He was a quiet sort of a person. He enjoyed observing first and acting afterwards. However, he was not stupid and recognised an opportunity to negotiate.
“Ok...let’s suppose I might consider it as an option...what would you give me to sweeten the deal?”
“Oh I think you’ll like her” said Kao, with a slight nod of her head and a ghost of a smile touching her lips. She reached down into one of her desk draws. “She is a unique vanity pet. This is the only one on the server and she’s very sweet indeed. Meet Jouxy. She’s a sonic boom.”

24

Kao lifted Jouxy gently onto her desk. At first sight, Jouxy resembled a very large white puffball, slightly larger than the leather ball that Vodni and his childhood friends had used to kick about when they were growing up. She had two large turquoise eyes that regarded Vodni with a look that was at once apprehensive, nervous, but also excited and curious. Her soft fur pulsed with colour, varying between a deep pink and a pale purple. He was fascinated by the way that the colour changes would start slowly at the centre and then radiate very suddenly out to the tips of her fur. She was quite the loveliest thing he had ever seen.