Let’s address this little myth before it continues to perpetuate. Yes, Batman is cool because he doesn’t have any inherent super-powers and still manages to hang with the superhero ilk, but let’s not confuse that with Batman being born out of sheer will. We’ll disregard the purpose of the article that prompted this rant, and go straight to the quote that irked us:

While many superheroes come by their superpowers through genetic blessing or freakish accident, Batman is a regular guy who gained his superhuman abilities on his own. He studied science, perfected his body, sharpened his mind and powers of deduction, and utilized technology. He became superhuman through his own effort, adding to his powers element by element.

This may all be true, but why conveniently forget that Bruce Wayne was among the top 1% of wealth, and so after his parents were murdered, he was able to channel his rage through his amazing inheritance of raw cashola? Can we imagine Bruce Wayne as a poor orphan with no connections to the wealth that would later spawn the Batcave? Wayne may still have emerged as a vigilante, but without access to money, Wayne would never have had access to the training and gadgets that made him into Batman.

The reality is that Wayne is still not Joe Average who, through vast willpower, created a crime-fighting alter-ego; Wayne was just as reliant on fate as the next superhero.

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There’s a special place in Hell for those who destroy good lore. Sure, some lore tweaks are necessary now again just to keep a back-story consistent, and fluff moving in the right direction. Yet some designers, like George Lucas, take things too far when they butcher Star Wars by introducing midichlorians and other such nonsense. Yet we forgive even some grievances, like when Blizzard decided to arbitrarily split races in the World of Warcraft along rigid lines of Alliance versus Horde. Sure, they put the usually-peaceful Tauren up against the similarly nature-loving Night Elves, but made up for it by making a druidic stronghold where both races got along peacefully. But then Blizzard did very little with actual factional warfare, so like many other things WoW, the whole idea went to shit fairly quickly.

Let’s be honest: Blizzard ignoring good lore has become ever more frequent over time, to the point where we seriously wonder whether Azeroth will just be one big hodge-podge of confused races and classes, where no one is truly unique anymore because being different is bad, even if it’s only bad because the game’s developers can’t figure out a good way to balance things effectively. Look what happened to the only two classes unique to the respective factions upon WoW’s release: by the time WoW’s first expansion came along, Paladins were offered to the Horde, and Shamans to the Alliance. One of these we could have argued as reasonable, but bringing a holy order to the typically shamanistic Horde?

There’s clearly a lack of communication between those who developed WoW’s fluff, and who’s making the game’s design decisions today. Maybe that’s because many of WoW’s original developers are no longer with Blizzard, or maybe it’s because the company has just “sold out”. But clearly, there’s a discrepancy between what’s sensical in-character, and what changes have been made merely to keep millions of subscribers hooked to a grindy enterprise, particularly when any semblance of perpetuity of a character is thrown asunder when paid character modifications result in race, faction, and aesthetic changes. Simply put, a character rolled in 2004 may look totally different today, with the only consistent factor being class, and the role of that class may have changed over the years as well.

So what’s bugging us this time around? Well, with the Cataclysm expansion announced, Blizzard is adding two new races to WoW: Goblins for Horde, and Worgen for Alliance. We’ll even disregard any objections to these inclusions by the truly hardcore lore zealots, but instead move directly on to class/race combinations. When we began writing this, we thought we’d do a run-down of every class and prod at the allowable races upon Cataclysm’s launch, but that exercise quickly became too painful to finish. But we’ll still mention some highlights, just to illustrate the sheer stupidity of it all.

• Everyone can be a Death Knight. Nice, dumb precedent, Blizzie.
• The Undead now commune with the animal kingdom. Undead druids next?
• Holy Cows. LOL.

On the one hand, we can now create guilds based almost entirely on one race, though arguably that was doable before. So that leaves us with the other hand, which points at the same old sad story of Blizzard watering down WoW in order to appeal to the lowest common denominator. Five years ago, not only was WoW a well-polished DIKU, but it was a well-polished DIKU with unique toons, limited by their choice of race, class, and spec, not to mention slight aesthetic tweaks. Today, everyone of a given class is practically the same, with some racials no longer being unique (ala the Priest racials), and players able to settle on easy race decisions because there are too many race options for most classes. Compounded with the fact that existing players can funnel funds from WoW’s broken economy to new toons for an enormous advantage over new or returning players, and the stage is set for the casual WoW player (“the grinder”) to have too much say in WoW’s continued development. Never mind that dual-specs further water-down the character building process.

It’s sad, really, because while Cataclysm is a snazzy attraction to everyone who’s played WoW before thanks to the focus on “evolving” old lands, WoW as a whole is still on the slippery slope to trashville. It’s like the X-Files of the video game world, with a strong start, a great following, and an ultimate decline into obscurity.

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http://mendax.org/?p=569 The final of three recovered Deadhorn documents is now online, outlining the rank requirements for guild advancement.

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http://mendax.org/?p=567

Information about the Deadhorn Tribe, as it was initially conceived as a guild, is now online. Re-reading the old information makes me wish it had continued, and I may be inclined to bring it back if there is any reasonable interest in helping run it. Ah, the memories…

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http://mendax.org/?p=565

I recently received an e-mail asking for information about the Deadhorn Tribe, a concept I came up with for the Tauren and Undead races in World of Warcraft (WoW). The concept became the basis for a guild I ran on the Maelstrom server, and I once intended to flesh the idea out more for the WoW paper/pencil RPG, but never got around to it. When I took an eight-month hiatus from WoW, the Deadhorn Tribe was mostly forgotten, though the guild remains on Maelstrom, albeit now with only a couple non-active members. Nonetheless, the snippets of information I still have on the idea is now online.

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People occasionally ask me what class in World of Warcraft (WoW) I play, but the focus of my WoW-time has changed dramatically over the years. To give one an idea of my more popular characters, however, I’ve compiled a quick list of toons I’ve played since 2004 that, at one time or another, were destined for end-game. Sadly, most never made it.

• Tiara Thorin – My second character post-beta (first for Alliance), Tiara was a Rogue that reached the 40s, and was modeled after one of my beta characters. Her first name is borrowed from a character I developed for Starshield, while her surname hints at lineage from William Thorin, a thief character I developed many years ago. She spent most of her time as an assassination build, and before retirement became a stun-lock rogue. She was founder and leader of the Shadow Cartel, and would not have been relegated to “alt” status were it not for the fact that much of my WoW-time was spent playing in groups, where we were in dire need for classes that were not DPS-centric. (Not to mention, groups had no idea how to party with a stun-lock rogue.) Tiara, like most of the following characters, was rolled with a degree of RP in mind, but in most cases, this aspect of the character rarely materialized.
• Ruprecht Thunderpants – With his black lion companion Knecht, Ruprecht the Hunter was my first “true” alt, and was started in an effort to keep Tiara from leveling faster than her friends. Well before Big Red Kitty came along, Ruprecht was a die-hard Beastmastery Hunter who lectured on the proper use and flexibility of his Hunter brethren. Fact is, proper pulling techniques and crowd control were utilized by some Hunters since the end of WoW’s beta, even though few groups would let Hunters do anything but DPS. After Tiara was retired, Ruprecht’s leveling suffered significant setbacks while I focused on other characters, but by the time I came back to him, he quickly earned my praise.
• Leonhardt – After witnessing an offensive, casting Druid in Gnomeregan, and knowing that my gaming group could use a healer, Leonhardt was rolled and based loosely on a schizophrenic character I developed for the Starshield project years earlier. What better class to illustrate a personality disorder than a Druid? As this was back before the Feral spec was viable (when cat form had no DPS to speak of), Leonhardt was leveled to 60 under a painfully slow-leveling hybrid spec, and later converted to Feral once it became a true DPS variant. As with Ruprecht, I forged new territory with Leonhardt, using the class in a manner most of its players refused to. Given gearing pre-BC, Leonhardt’s DPS was significant, but non-World-PvP was difficult. The character was only briefly revisited when I returned to WoW post-BC. My love for the Druid class was built around its dynamism in group settings, where a Feral spec meant adjusting to how a scenario plays out, but when I returned to WoW, everyone and their mother was playing a Feral Druid. Nonetheless, Leonhardt was arguably my most enjoyable character to play, and nothing compares to my multi-form fight in Stratholme, where Leonhardt was forced to solo the last fraction of the Baron’s life. Before he was retired, Leonhardt was founder of the Pandaren Foreign Legion.
• Drognan Dreamweaver – My first post-beta character was a Shaman, and he was ultimately retired when I moved to a PvP server to play Alliance. When the PvP-RP servers opened, I re-rolled my Shammy and specced Enhancement until 60, when I switched to Elemental for PvP goodness. This was back when Enhancement and Elemental were both powerful builds, when one could dish out unbelievable damage using spells, and then relying on pre-nerfed kamikaze Windfury procs before respawning and repeating the dishing out of pain. When Enhancement was nerfed, Drognan became an Elemental master, retiring only when I left WoW. He has since been mostly untouched, though respecced to Restoration, which coincidentally mirrors his aging self from a young warrior, to wise sage. As the character I PvP’d with the most, Drognan was unbelievably fun as an Elemental battle-mage, but with only his current spec seemingly viable, he likely won’t be revisited anytime soon. Before retirement, Drognan (whose name is borrowed from a character in another creative project of mine), was founder of the Deadhorn Tribe.
• Ayeleya – Though I dabbled around with various classes when I returned to WoW post-BC, Ayeleya became my main character. As a Protection-specced Blood Elf Paladin, she was my first serious foray into tanking, and was quite a blast to play using the crazy AoE grinding technique. Unfortunately, Paladins of this build are only really good for tanking, and give a group marginal benefits when playing any other role. Currently in her 50s, she’s on-hold for the time being.
• Krimshaw – The spiritual successor of Ruprecht, Krimshaw was rolled because I so missed the Hunter class, and likely would have come to be earlier if I could have mustered the courage to re-level a Hunter and deal with the enormous overpopulation of the class sooner. While I intended (and started) to level Krimshaw as a Beast Master, like Feral Druids, everyone and their mother is choosing this spec nowadays. Thus, I’ve since become intrigued with the changes to the Survival tree, and am going with this spec for the time being because of the additional flexibility (and complexity) it offers.

Interestingly, if one were to draw some sort of conclusion about the characters I lean towards (especially factoring in some other alts and my beta characters), it’s easy to see that I’m a fan of the hybrid classes. Perhaps more accurately, I’m drawn to resilient survivors that are not necessarily straightforward to play, and require some learning to play well. Of the DPS classes I’ve played, both the Druid and Rogue are appealing because of their ability to escape from, and stealth around, enemies. The lack of adaptability pushed me away from the latter class, however.

I’ll have to factor in some of these play-styles when Warhammer comes around. Still, at the moment, the Squig Herder still sounds promising,

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As Drognan stood before the enclave, he heard the whispers behind him. “He is old,” the voices said. “He is ready to die.”

Even as an infant born into the Deadhorn Tribe, Drognan heard the whispers. “He is dead,” said his father. And the rune of Death was etched into Drognan’s flesh, and Drognan, stillborn, was taken from his weeping mother. Only Drognan would not be dead for long.

When he was a strong calf, it was the Elders whose whispers puzzled the young Drognan. They would look his way and smile, speaking to one another in hushed tones. He would begin his studies early, and study under his shaman father. They would teach him of the Deadhorn ways, for who would understand the dead better than one who has been there before?

By the time Drognan became a brave of the tribe, he had proven himself a noble warrior and seer. Yet it was the visions that haunted him, the visions of the shadows of death. His tribesman called him “deadwalker”, and suspiciously eyed the runes he bore on his body. He was young to adorn such runes, for few of his tribe saw the full pantheon of Deadhorn spirits at such a young age. Few less were met by Quorugardth himself, the Key Spirit, the very embodiment of death. And Quorugardth whispered to him, “You are my chosen. And you shall die.”

As the dark moon crossed the sky on the day of sacrifice to the spirit Sejemussis, Drognan was made an Elder. The camp celebrated his life and told stories of his many conquests, but one they would only speak of in whispers. Quietly, the braves would gossip to the younglings, “He bears the mark of death itself.” “But how does he bear such a mark,” the calves would ask, “if he has not yet died?” And the champions among the Deadhorn would shush the braves and bow their heads, recounting the tales their parents passed to them.

On the eve of Drognan’s birth, it was said, the shaman Dragan Dreamweaver, who bore no lineage from the three great Deadhorn Clans, spoke to the spirits. So adept at peering into the spirit world was Dragan, that the Clans referred to him as the Spiritwalker. So adept at the rites of death was he, that Dragan bore the rune of Sejemussis proudly across his chest. So adept at his communion with spirits was he, that all three great Clans sought his advice and teachings. But it was Dragan who sought out advice from the spirits, for he had foreseen the death of his only son. “He is meant to die,” they told him. “But in his death, the Deadhorn teachings will be passed from Deadhorn father, to Deadhorn son.” And Dragan Dreamweaver knew what needed to be done.

The funeral procession brought a grave silence across the camp. The dead would be celebrated, but before the revelry for the dead began, Drognan’s mother cried. She did not cry that day over the loss of her child, but for the loss of her husband. On a stone altar, the aged body of Dragan Dreamweaver lay. Were it not for the infant calf snuggling on the chest of its father, the dark rune of Sejemussis would have stood out brilliantly against the gray fur reflecting the sun’s light. “You will tell your mother I loved her,” a voice said. It would be a voice whose whisper would haunt the child for many years to come.

“He is old,” the voices said. And Drognan was old. He had achieved the age of eleventy-one, and had witnessed the resurgence, and ultimate decline, of his tribe. He had fought alongside the Boneshield Clan against the rise of the Scourge, and had traveled with the Ashenhoofs to the Undercity to bring his people and the Forsaken together. He had lead his tribe as Sagamore and Cacique of the Dreadbare Clan, spreading the teachings of the Deadhorn Tribe to all who might listen.

“He is ready to die,” the voices said. But Drognan only smiled, for these whispers had become his friends. What the voices did not know is that Drognan was ready to die the day he was born, and die he did.

“I live in death,” the Sagamore said, “for I am the last of my ilk. And when Quorugardth takes me, I will follow willingly. But until then, I have more to teach you.”

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Most people simply thought he was a poor old man losing his mind to some mental disease. The cops certainly did, keeping their eye on him whenever he crossed the road to his favorite pizza parlor. Every day, as though programmed into his simple mind, the old man would walk down South St. at 2pm, and again at midnight. He never looked anyone in the eye, walking with his arms swinging a bit too far forward, and a bit too far back. There was always a faint trace of a smile on his face, as though he were recollecting some fond memory, or remembering an old joke. The only words anyone ever heard him utter were when he walked into the American Pizza parlor, approached the counter, and said, “A slice and a soda.” He’d pull out a dirty one dollar bill, hold it with a shaking hand for the cashier to accept, and would silently wait for his food. Every once in a while, instead of a dollar, he would accidentally hand the cashier a small, tin figurine, only to spend a minute and a half staring into the cashier’s eyes as he was made aware of his mistake.

There were many rumors about the old man. The residents of South Street watched him for many years. When the old man approached, the children playing in the streets would quiet down and stand still, whispering that the Puppeteer was back. Young mothers would keep a steady eye on their infants, and the drug dealers in front of the nightclub would stop their transactions, as if they needed to watch their back.

The employees of American Pizza served the old man quickly, not only because he was a local legend, but because he was there twice a day. No other customer could stomach their pizza every day, whether it was mid-week or on the weekend. No one but the old man came in on the holidays, and no one, not even Old Lady Gertrude who was afflicted with Alzheimer’s, would stop by when American Pizza was closed, pacing back and forth, peering into the windows past the “Closed” sign. More than once, a cop came by, raising a gentle hand and placing it on the old man’s shoulder. “They’re closed,” the cop would say, feeling sorry for the elderly man. Of course, there was never any verbal response, but rather a look of confusion, sometimes accompanied with a shake of the head. It didn’t matter when the police officer would appear; the old man would stay for exactly thirteen minutes, then head back the way he came, with the same old stride, and the same old smile.

How long he’d been living in the city, no one knew, but it certainly seemed like forever. Teenagers remembered when their parents scolded them. “The Puppeteer will get you if you don’t eat your salad.” “Tell a stranger your name, and that scary old man will make you disappear!” Even the grandparents recalled similar tales, as if the old man who strode down South Street had been there forever. Only once in a blue moon would someone bring this fact up, only to be laughed at. “Afraid the stories are true, Billy?” someone would ask, followed by the inquisitor’s weak smile.

Had people bothered looking, though, they might have seen the old man’s paranoid stare in the annals of history, from photographs dating back to the early 1900′s, to the descriptions written in the logbooks of early settlers. Etchings in buildings throughout the city held the old man’s drawings. Small, cubic figures drawn into the clay of early houses reminded the owners of their abode’s historical context, etchings over a hundred years old. And, had people bothered to look, they would have found similar drawings elsewhere in the city, from the sewer canals beneath the city to the graffiti on the Green Island Bridge.

Perhaps it was these drawings that connected the old man to the city so well, whether or not people realized the connection. His old clothes, tattered with age, fit the man perfectly, hiding the tattoos that covered his back and legs. The lump in his pocket, made from a tin figurine that he so often left behind, was like a part of the man. And, though his figures often ended up in the collection of a small child, whose mother would later lecture the child in fear, they often ended up elsewhere, like the figures neatly placed behind a sheet of glass at the local museum, relics of the civil war. The only thing that didn’t end up behind glass was the old man, who frequently forgot to comb his long, silver hair, which blew in the wind down South St, twice a day.

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