If you happen to read my blog with any regularity (and I apologize if you do), you may remember that a couple months ago, I announced I had grown tired of WoW and was going to stop playing.
Well, I’m back.
Basically, I was bored and needed something to play. FreeCell, as much as I love it, was not doing it for me. So, I dusted off my Blood Elf Paladin and hit the road with a vengeance. Well, as much vengeance as a Protection Pally can (Fights take forever, as I don’t do much damage, but on the plus side, I’m nigh unkillable).
So, in my travels through the lands of Azeroth, I came upon a wounded Tauren warrior who asked me to aid him. I obviously said ‘yes,’ as I’m a virtuous paladin (and I needed the xp). He then spun a tale about diseased wolves and asked me to murder a bunch of them in order to ‘help’ them.
Which brings me to the subject of the blog: Why is it that whenever ‘nature is out of balance’ or ‘the wildlife is stricken with some disease’ the answer is to slaughter double-digits worth of animals?
“The animals of this region have been infected with a terrible disease! Please, oh mighty adventurer, help us heal the land!”
“Of course! Would you like me to deliver medicine, inoculate some of the animals, or even hunt down those responsible?”
“Ummmm, no. Just go kill 20 Limping Wolves, 10 Suspicious Badgers, 7 Myopic Snakes, and 27 Enraged Meerkats.”
“. . . . why?”
“’Cause I asked you too?”
“But will that actually solve the problem?”
“Well, no.”
“Are you even a Druid?”
“I took a correspondence course. Plus, I really, really hate animals.”
I realize that ‘kill X of Y’ is an easy quest and it works wonderfully in terms of an MMO. However, I would really like to see a quest where I got to be nice to the wildlife (as vicious as it is). I want a quest where I need to deliver picnic baskets to bears or ‘Pet 20 Wolves’ rather than just maiming and killing them all the time. It would, at least, be a nice change of pace.
Granted, in return I’d like them to stop attacking me all the time, but there you go.
Cheers,
-Jason
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
I Think Something Melted
Last week was pretty quiet. Blogs were written, a page went up, and the forum was inundated with thoughtful and insightful posts.
No, really.
We are still looking for a colorist, an inker, and a cartoonist. We could also use a masseuse, someone who can rhyme in futhark, and a ferret juggler (either a ferret who juggles or someone who juggles ferrets, we don’t really care).
The only real thing of interest is that the weather decided to make up its mind and went with a ‘death by heat’ theme. It was nearly 90 today, which meant that those of us without AC quickly made friends with those that did. Or we went to the mall, whichever.
I don’t really mind the heat too much. I lived in Fresno for a while, so you kind of get used to sticking to things like car seats, trees, and random livestock. It kind of made me feel nostalgic, like I was back in college, only I didn’t have to eat dorm food.
Anyway, tomorrow, there will be a blog about WoW and murdering animals. Stay tuned.
Cheers,
-Jason
No, really.
We are still looking for a colorist, an inker, and a cartoonist. We could also use a masseuse, someone who can rhyme in futhark, and a ferret juggler (either a ferret who juggles or someone who juggles ferrets, we don’t really care).
The only real thing of interest is that the weather decided to make up its mind and went with a ‘death by heat’ theme. It was nearly 90 today, which meant that those of us without AC quickly made friends with those that did. Or we went to the mall, whichever.
I don’t really mind the heat too much. I lived in Fresno for a while, so you kind of get used to sticking to things like car seats, trees, and random livestock. It kind of made me feel nostalgic, like I was back in college, only I didn’t have to eat dorm food.
Anyway, tomorrow, there will be a blog about WoW and murdering animals. Stay tuned.
Cheers,
-Jason
Thursday, June 26, 2008
The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue: Part 3
Von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt produced a pipe and began stuffing it. “We have fought many times, the Hippo and I. The last time, in Zimbabwe,” he paused and glanced over at Robert/Mangrove. “It was Zimbabwe, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” replied Robert/Mangrove. Then, with a sigh, he produced a piece of chalk and scratched ‘Yes’ onto the small chalkboard he carried and then held it up.
“Yes, Zimbabwe,” continued von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “I thought him dead, as I shot him forty-seven times at close range with an elephant gun.” He glanced at Detective Smitts. “I had to reload frequently.”
Detective Smitts cocked his hat back. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you are the famous detective Charles Alonso Credenza von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt the Third, aren’t you?”
“Here it comes,” said Robert/Mangrove.
“I am,” began von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “’a’ Charles Alonso Credenza von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt the Third, who happens to be a consulting detective, yes.”
Detective Smitts took a deep breath. “Officer,” he said, to the nearest Bobby. “Please escort this man outside the barricade.”
“You do not understand,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt, as the officer took him by the arm. “The Hippo will kill again! In fact, this is not his first victim!”
Detective Smitts raised his hand and the officer stopped. “You don’t say?”
“I know the Hippo and his methods well,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “He always begins his sprees on new moons and always kills in prime numbers.” He shook his arm from the officer and smoothed his sleeve. “Last night was a new moon and as this corpse is only recently deceased, it therefore must be the second. He will continue to kill, until either confronted or he gets bored and wanders off, generally to his summer home in Stockholm.”
Smitts nodded. “I see. Officer, arrest these men on suspicion of murder, loitering, impersonating a famous detective, and irritating me.” He paused. “Scratch that last part.”
“I must protest, Detective!” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt, as the nearest officer pulled his arms behind his back and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. “A man of my breeding would never commit homicide in such a manner! It would be undignified!”
Smitts motioned to the officer, who guided the still protesting von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt and the smirking Robert/Mangrove towards the curb. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Detective,” said the Sergeant.
“Yes, what is it?”
“We found something, well, odd.”
“Odder than a squished corpse and a madman with a non-mute, non-Turkish man servant?”
“I can’t say as to that,” began the Sergeant, after a brief moment’s introspection. “But it is passing strange.”
“Show me.”
The Sergeant led him to the back wall of the alley, where someone had thoughtfully scrawled ‘Up the Fishes!’ next to a pile of old crates. The butt of a cigar was on the ground, next to an extremely large footprint.
“My word,” said Smitts, as he leaned down to inspect it. The footprint was large, almost two feet across, with four toes. It was, relatively speaking, round.
Cheers,
-Jason
“Yeah,” replied Robert/Mangrove. Then, with a sigh, he produced a piece of chalk and scratched ‘Yes’ onto the small chalkboard he carried and then held it up.
“Yes, Zimbabwe,” continued von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “I thought him dead, as I shot him forty-seven times at close range with an elephant gun.” He glanced at Detective Smitts. “I had to reload frequently.”
Detective Smitts cocked his hat back. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you are the famous detective Charles Alonso Credenza von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt the Third, aren’t you?”
“Here it comes,” said Robert/Mangrove.
“I am,” began von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “’a’ Charles Alonso Credenza von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt the Third, who happens to be a consulting detective, yes.”
Detective Smitts took a deep breath. “Officer,” he said, to the nearest Bobby. “Please escort this man outside the barricade.”
“You do not understand,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt, as the officer took him by the arm. “The Hippo will kill again! In fact, this is not his first victim!”
Detective Smitts raised his hand and the officer stopped. “You don’t say?”
“I know the Hippo and his methods well,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “He always begins his sprees on new moons and always kills in prime numbers.” He shook his arm from the officer and smoothed his sleeve. “Last night was a new moon and as this corpse is only recently deceased, it therefore must be the second. He will continue to kill, until either confronted or he gets bored and wanders off, generally to his summer home in Stockholm.”
Smitts nodded. “I see. Officer, arrest these men on suspicion of murder, loitering, impersonating a famous detective, and irritating me.” He paused. “Scratch that last part.”
“I must protest, Detective!” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt, as the nearest officer pulled his arms behind his back and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. “A man of my breeding would never commit homicide in such a manner! It would be undignified!”
Smitts motioned to the officer, who guided the still protesting von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt and the smirking Robert/Mangrove towards the curb. He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Detective,” said the Sergeant.
“Yes, what is it?”
“We found something, well, odd.”
“Odder than a squished corpse and a madman with a non-mute, non-Turkish man servant?”
“I can’t say as to that,” began the Sergeant, after a brief moment’s introspection. “But it is passing strange.”
“Show me.”
The Sergeant led him to the back wall of the alley, where someone had thoughtfully scrawled ‘Up the Fishes!’ next to a pile of old crates. The butt of a cigar was on the ground, next to an extremely large footprint.
“My word,” said Smitts, as he leaned down to inspect it. The footprint was large, almost two feet across, with four toes. It was, relatively speaking, round.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue: Part 2
“Good god!” The detective snatched the card away from the Sergeant, reading it for himself. “You there!” he said, pointing at the young man who’d brought the card. “Bring Mr. von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt up immediately!”
“Sir,” the young officer said, saluting weakly, and then staggered down the alley, returning a moment later with a 30-ish man in a tuxedo and top hat, who was accompanied by a rather short man carrying a small chalk-board and wearing a red scarf around his neck.
The detective stood up, brushing off his trousers and straightening his tie. “Mr. von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt?” he said, holding out his hand. “Detective Smitts. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt, taking the proffered hand. “This is my manservant, a mute Turk I call Mangrove.”
“My name’s Robert!” said the decidedly non-mute Mangrove, in a distinct London accent.
“Yes,” continued von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “Utterly mute. Can’t speak at all.”
Detective Smitts stared, first at one man and then the other. “I think he just did.”
“Impossible,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “He’s been with me nearly 8-years and he hasn’t uttered a single word the entire time.”
“But-” began the detective, only to be silenced by a raised hand.
“There is more pressing business at hand, is there not?” asked von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt.
“Uh, yes, sir,” said the detective, glancing at Robert/Mangrove, who just shrugged. “A body found just an hour ago. Rather . . . squished.”
Von-Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt nodded. “As I surmised.” He strode over to the corpse, the waiting officers parting before him. He took only a cursory glance at the body. “Yes,” he said. “The work of the Hippo.”
“The what, sir?” asked the Sergeant.
“The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “The most fiendish ungulate ever to walk this earth. Well,” he amended. “That I am aware of. Certainly, other hippopotami of a criminal bent have appeared throughout history, though I would wager that few matched the Hippo of Indeterminate Hue in either cunning or savagery.”
Detective Smitts stared at the tuxedoed gentleman for a moment. “What?” he finally asked?
Later: A History!
“Sir,” the young officer said, saluting weakly, and then staggered down the alley, returning a moment later with a 30-ish man in a tuxedo and top hat, who was accompanied by a rather short man carrying a small chalk-board and wearing a red scarf around his neck.
The detective stood up, brushing off his trousers and straightening his tie. “Mr. von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt?” he said, holding out his hand. “Detective Smitts. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
“Likewise,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt, taking the proffered hand. “This is my manservant, a mute Turk I call Mangrove.”
“My name’s Robert!” said the decidedly non-mute Mangrove, in a distinct London accent.
“Yes,” continued von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “Utterly mute. Can’t speak at all.”
Detective Smitts stared, first at one man and then the other. “I think he just did.”
“Impossible,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “He’s been with me nearly 8-years and he hasn’t uttered a single word the entire time.”
“But-” began the detective, only to be silenced by a raised hand.
“There is more pressing business at hand, is there not?” asked von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt.
“Uh, yes, sir,” said the detective, glancing at Robert/Mangrove, who just shrugged. “A body found just an hour ago. Rather . . . squished.”
Von-Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt nodded. “As I surmised.” He strode over to the corpse, the waiting officers parting before him. He took only a cursory glance at the body. “Yes,” he said. “The work of the Hippo.”
“The what, sir?” asked the Sergeant.
“The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue,” said von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt. “The most fiendish ungulate ever to walk this earth. Well,” he amended. “That I am aware of. Certainly, other hippopotami of a criminal bent have appeared throughout history, though I would wager that few matched the Hippo of Indeterminate Hue in either cunning or savagery.”
Detective Smitts stared at the tuxedoed gentleman for a moment. “What?” he finally asked?
Later: A History!
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue: Part 1
A few tendrils of fog were beginning to drift lazily on the slight breeze, lit by the soft glow of lanterns. A group of men were huddled at the end of the alley, most dressed in the familiar blue of the English Bobby, the light flashing gold on their brass buttons. A few officers were keeping the growing crowd of civilians, mainly local shopkeepers, carters, and migrant mime hunters, clustered at the mouth of the alley and away from the scene.
“What’re you thinkin,’ Detective?” asked an older officer, with a fine moustache.
“Hard to say, Sergeant,” replied the only man in plain-clothes. “He’s sort of . . . “
“Squished?” volunteered the Sergeant.
“Yes, squished.” The detective glanced up at the roofs that lined the alley. “Hardly enough of a fall to do that kind of damage.”
“Perhaps he fell from a passin’ dirigible, sir?”
“I think that unlikely, Sergeant.” The detective stepped around a pile of crates, taking care to not tread on what was left of the victim’s leg, and squatted down for a better look.
“Flung from a trebuchet?”
“Also, unlikely.”
“If he, y’know, jumped, before he left the roof, sir, that might account for the . . . er . . . extreme state.”
The detective looked over at the Sergeant. “Are you suggesting that three-odd more feet of falling could have done this?”
“Hard to say, sir.”
“Pardon me, detective,” began a young officer, who hurried up from the mouth of the alley. “There’s a gentleman who wants to speak to- oh god!” The young man turned several shades of green, including celadon, chartreuse, myrtle, and other variations I found on Wikipedia. He was noisily sick in a nearby crate, though he kept hold of the business card in his hand.
“Sergeant, if you would?” asked the detective. The Sergeant leaned over and plucked the card out of the young man’s hand. He read it solemnly.
The detective waited a moment, before sighing. “Out loud, Sergeant.”
“Ah, right, sir.” The Sergeant cleared his throat. “Mr. Charles Alonso Credenza von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt the Third. Esquire. Consulting Detective.”
Tomorrow: Part II
“What’re you thinkin,’ Detective?” asked an older officer, with a fine moustache.
“Hard to say, Sergeant,” replied the only man in plain-clothes. “He’s sort of . . . “
“Squished?” volunteered the Sergeant.
“Yes, squished.” The detective glanced up at the roofs that lined the alley. “Hardly enough of a fall to do that kind of damage.”
“Perhaps he fell from a passin’ dirigible, sir?”
“I think that unlikely, Sergeant.” The detective stepped around a pile of crates, taking care to not tread on what was left of the victim’s leg, and squatted down for a better look.
“Flung from a trebuchet?”
“Also, unlikely.”
“If he, y’know, jumped, before he left the roof, sir, that might account for the . . . er . . . extreme state.”
The detective looked over at the Sergeant. “Are you suggesting that three-odd more feet of falling could have done this?”
“Hard to say, sir.”
“Pardon me, detective,” began a young officer, who hurried up from the mouth of the alley. “There’s a gentleman who wants to speak to- oh god!” The young man turned several shades of green, including celadon, chartreuse, myrtle, and other variations I found on Wikipedia. He was noisily sick in a nearby crate, though he kept hold of the business card in his hand.
“Sergeant, if you would?” asked the detective. The Sergeant leaned over and plucked the card out of the young man’s hand. He read it solemnly.
The detective waited a moment, before sighing. “Out loud, Sergeant.”
“Ah, right, sir.” The Sergeant cleared his throat. “Mr. Charles Alonso Credenza von Bueller-Smith-Ashfelt the Third. Esquire. Consulting Detective.”
Tomorrow: Part II
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Warm And Sunny, With a Chance of Misery
Not much happening on the Wayfarer's Moon front right now. I am really busy at work, but it's a good 'gettting stuff done' busy as opposed to 'doing stupid stuff' kind.
On a completely unrelated note, I really wish the weather would make up its mind. As I mentioned last week, Washington has been in an extended cold-snap, but recently, the sun has been spotted and things are generally warming up. Which means, with this being Washington, it is now hot and rainy, as opposed to it being cold and rainy.
NOTE: In Washington, we define 'hot' as 'nearly 80'
I'm fine with this, I really am. However, I would like a month, maybe two, of actual sun without rain, just for a change of pace. A counterpoint, if you will, to the general wetness that is most of the year. I just wish it would stop teasing us with the odd-sunny day and get on with it.
Tomorrow, I will beginning a new short piece entitled 'The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue.' It will feature detectives, murder, and strangely enough, no actual hippos.
NOTE: The Hippo may be invisible.
Cheers,
-Jason
On a completely unrelated note, I really wish the weather would make up its mind. As I mentioned last week, Washington has been in an extended cold-snap, but recently, the sun has been spotted and things are generally warming up. Which means, with this being Washington, it is now hot and rainy, as opposed to it being cold and rainy.
NOTE: In Washington, we define 'hot' as 'nearly 80'
I'm fine with this, I really am. However, I would like a month, maybe two, of actual sun without rain, just for a change of pace. A counterpoint, if you will, to the general wetness that is most of the year. I just wish it would stop teasing us with the odd-sunny day and get on with it.
Tomorrow, I will beginning a new short piece entitled 'The Hippo of Indeterminate Hue.' It will feature detectives, murder, and strangely enough, no actual hippos.
NOTE: The Hippo may be invisible.
Cheers,
-Jason
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