[Alternate Title: Tips for surviving on an RP Realm]

I’ve been enjoying my time on Argent Dawn.  So much so that I’ve hit the “You cannot create any more alts, you crazy person!” mark for the first time ever.  Would have gotten there earlier but I tend to delete characters if I get bored with them before they hit level 30.

The only exception to this is the Night Elf rogue that was my first character ever.  He will continue to wallow in his perpetual n00bishness as a reminder to me that we all have to start somewhere.

Which brings us to today’s lesson on how to behave on an RP server.  I’ve encountered far too many people on Role Playing servers who don’t have any idea what RP is.  I’m not talking about the people who think RP involves things taking place upstairs in Goldshire, either – I mean people who honestly don’t know what role playing is in any sense.  This list* is for them.

1. A definition

Role Playing involves improvisational (and often unscheduled) acting.  Anything that fits that description counts.  The rest is details.  Details like “good RP” and “bad RP.”

2. Remember where you are.

Telling someone to not RP on an RP realm is like telling someone to not PvP on a PvP realm.  If you see someone doing this, they’re either ignorant or a troll.  If you’re RPing, ignore or report these people (depending on how belligerent they are).  If you’re one of these people, you’re doing it wrong.

Conversely, there’s no requirement that says you HAVE to RP on an RP realm.  Plenty of people don’t.  So long as they’re respectful, think of them as your audience as you act out a part.

Oh, and name choices go along with remembering where you are.  RP servers have stricter name requirements than PvP or Normal servers.  “Ipwnhorde,” “Lolkittydrood,” and “Sirtanksalot” are perhaps not good ideas for names.  You can and will get reported and may be forced to change your name.

3. Have pity, they’re trying.  Really.

Behind every “half-demon, half-dragon, half-vampire, half-werewolf (Yes, they add up to two people now. I’m bad at math.), long lost illegitimate love child of Medivh and Chromie” is someone whose inner child just wants someone out there that’s strong enough to stop all the bad things in the world.  Such characters don’t make for good storytelling, but it helps to understand the motivation behind their creation.  Feel sorry for them.  Try to steer them in the right direction.  Don’t just point and laugh.  (At least, not where they will see it.)

4. Don’t write reactions for someone else.

People in the game are going to do things you don’t like.  Hunters will roll need on gear with strength on it, and RPers will have characters that you find offensive.  You can ignore it, avoid it, or react to it, but even then there’s a right and wrong way to do it.

WRONG: “Elumi gasped in horror as she stepped into the room, nearly tripping over the discarded clothing.  She quickly cast Entangling Roots on the Draenei and escorted the gnome out the door by the ear. ‘What were you thinking?!’ she demanded.”

RIGHT: “Elumi gasped in horror as she stepped into the room, nearly tripping over the discarded clothing.  She quickly backed out the way she came, blushing furiously at what she had seen.  ‘I … I didn’t think that was physically possible…’ she whispered faintly, before rushing to find the nearest bucket and losing her recently eaten meal.”

In both of these cases the person playing Elumi stumbled upon something that was less than pleasant, for the character certainly and probably for the player as well.  In one case Elumi “forced” the situation.  If your character attempts to interact with someone else’s character, your writing should be open ended enough for them to choose their own reaction.

A better response would have been “Elumi attempted to grab the gnome by the ear and escort her out of the room.”  That would have allowed the player playing the gnome to decide if the attempt was successful or not without hijacking the story completely.  I like the scenario I labeled “right” because it allows the love birds to ignore Elumi’s actions entirely if they so choose.

At one point I saw a male Draenei priest in Goldshire complaining that he could not study with the priest trainer because the room was “in use” and had been so for some time.  That player took a situation many RPers (and non-RPers) like myself find distasteful and was able to create a story for himself based off of it.

(And since ERP in a public channel is technically against the TOS, you may want to report it if you encounter it.)

5. Create a back-story, but don’t broadcast it.

When was the last time you met someone new and immediately told them everything about yourself?  Likewise, your character shouldn’t be walking up to random people and saying “Hi, I’m a half-demon, half-dragon, half-vampire, half-werewolf, long lost illegitimate love child of Medivh and Chromie! How are you?”

OK, bad example.  You character should never say that under any circumstance that isn’t a joke.  The point is, you should use your character’s back-story to decide how your character will react in certain situations.  A Blood Elf whose family was slaughtered by trolls might not be so trusting of his large-tusked allies.  A human who was raised by priests or paladins that were overly strict might have a certain disregard for organized religion.  You don’t have to explain why your character is making every decision (at least not right away), but you should still have a reason beyond “That’s what I would do” or “That’s how the coin toss went.”

6. Tragic pasts are like noses.  Everyone has them.

OK, maybe some of the Forsaken don’t have noses, but it seems you can’t learn someone’s back-story without discovering that their parents, siblings, significant others, children, best friends, and pet gerbil named Bob were all killed in a war, jungle expedition, boating trip, or freak accident involving enchanted tweezers.

I’m not going to say you should avoid tragedy altogether.  Anyone who knows anything about the lore of Warcraft knows full well that there’s been a lot of that spread around.  What I am saying is that you shouldn’t think that the “tragic past” angle will make your character stand out.  (“Look everyone, I have a nose!”)  For crying out loud, the only way to be a Forsaken is if you’ve already DIED once.  That’s an entire race full of tragedy right there, and let’s not get started on the massacre of the Blood Elves or the loss of Gnomeregan.

To make a back-story stand out in Warcraft, it’ll have to have as little scary nasty stuff in it as possible.

7. How often do you run, really?

You may notice people walking around more on RP servers.  It’s incredibly inefficient compared to running when you understand that your characters never get tired, but if you’re playing a role chances are your character is not someone who feels the need to always run everywhere.  Sometimes this is called “RP Walking” or some variation.  While I hesitate to use the term in regards to a fantasy themed video game, walking is simply more “realistic.”  Well, it’s as realistic as you can get in a world where elves, gnomes, and goats from space can coexist peacefully.

(*Please note: since this is my blog this list is heavily influenced by my opinions.  You have the right to your own opinions, of course.  If you disagree with mine, feel free to leave a comment or – better yet – write your own blog post.  Blogs are pretty much free these days.  All the cool kids are doing it.)

So did I mention Argent Dawn is an RP server?  I did? Good.

Of course every RP server I’ve been on has had its naysayers.  The ones who don’t RP and find it offensive that you would try RPing on an RP server.  I, however, intend to spend some time RPing.

And not in Goldshire, either.  That place creeps me out.

In any case, meet Grampah.

And no, he’s not related to Gramma Stonefield.  There can be more than one grandparent in the game, people!  So far as back story’s concerned he’s a widower, unless my wife decides to come over to Argent Dawn as well.  Then we’ll play things by ear and maybe retcon his history.

Oh yeah, his back story.

Grampah was a foot soldier for Lordaeron during the Second War.  Afterward he headed south to help rebuild Stormwind, picking up a trade as a blacksmith and starting a family.

Years went by, and eventually he retired from his 2nd career to become a priest at a local abbey.  (He figured at his age he wasn’t going to be around much longer, and by gum he might as well prepare for the trip.)

Then a bunch of things happened.  In the aftermath of the Third War his oldest son Klei went insane.  Klei is worth a whole post by himself, but suffice to say Grampah blamed himself.

In the Second War he’d risked his life to protect friends and family.  Sure, he hadn’t made a name for himself like some others had, but he’d been there.  He’d helped.  And he was certain that had he not done so the world would be a worse place for it.

During the Third War, he spent all his time cloistered away.  Sure, he helped tend to the injured when they were brought in, but from his point of view (at least after the son going crazy incident) he should have been out there smashing heads together.

So out came the old sword and armor, which he then promptly sold.  (After a couple decades it just didn’t fit, and the sword at some point had apparently been used by his son-in-law to chop wood.)  Instead, he made new armor with his blacksmithing skills.  He was rusty, and anyone who knows anything about blacksmithing knows there’s a different level of skill required for making chain mail compared to making a horseshoe.

But he’s learning, even if he occasionally has to ask someone half his age for advice.  He may be old, and his reflexes aren’t what they used to be, but this time he has the Light on his side more than ever, and he intends to use that to the best of his ability.

Fizzl Blastedspanner really wished people would stop calling him that.

It wasn’t even his name, really.  His name was Fizzle Torquespanner, but after an unfortunate incident back in Gnomeregan (No, not THAT incident.  This one involved a 99.9% smaller radius of destruction, 50% more scorch marks, 100% fewer leper gnomes, and one very disgruntled sheep that may or my not have been the result of a polymorph spell.) it seemed anyone who knew him insisted on calling him that ridiculous mockery of his moniker.

He sighed, and not for the first time today.  His temporary accommodations, as he liked to refer to them, consisted of the second floor of a modest two story building tucked away in one of the cozier pockets of the Forlorn Cavern in Ironforge.  The rent was affordable, and the location convenient enough for the dwarves who wanted guns, ammo, fuzes, and anything else the tinker could manage without risking an eviction notice.

His reputation had proceeded him upon his move to Ironforge, it seemed, and he was warned that a single explosion in his shop would be dealt with harshly.  As a result all of his … riskier … experiments needed to be hauled outside in pieces and tested in areas where only the local flora and fauna would be in harm’s way.

A trumpet fanfare sounded, announcing that a potential customer had just entered the shop.  Fizzl made a mental note to change the trumpets to a bell sometime in the near future, and in a brief moment of inspiration scribbled down a few ideas for how he might be able to simulate a bell sound and modify his current steam-powered trumpets to play it.

Wiping the excess ink from his fingers, he strode out of his back room to see a night elf examining one of his automated self-winding time measurement devices.  One which had, to the gnome’s dismay, been damaged by a  previous customer this morning. The drunken dwarf culprit had taken it for a still, of all things, and had volunteered himself to improve upon the design before the tinker could stop him.

Behind the newcomer was a large feline, or at least the shadow of one.  It was there, clearly, but at the same time the door frame was fully visible behind it.  Fizzl felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when the beast looked at him, but cleared his throat to announce his presence anyway.

“Y-yes, is there anything I can help you with?  W-we have a full selection of ammunition, firearms, f-hey!  P-please don’t touch that, it’s not a working model!  D-display purposes only!  A-are y-”

The gnome’s protests were cut short when the night elf closed the lid of the automated self-winding time measurement device (always pays to call something by what it is, Fizzl’s papa liked to say…) and a series of rhythmic ticking sounds began emanating from it.  In fact, from the movement of the indicator arms on the face of the device, it seemed to be back to normal!  It would take some more in-depth calibrations and measurements to know for sure, but …

“H-how did you do that?”

The night elf shrugged.  “It seemed simple enough.  The only way those tubes would have worked in that setup was if you wanted it to be a still.”

The gnome frowned at that, then quickly explained.  “Y-yes, a previous visitor decided to ‘improve’ my design.  If he hadn’t been a regular paying customer … but no matter!  M-my boy, what you just managed was a marvel, really!  I’d put off fixing it myself because I thought it would take too much time from my other p-projects.

The tinker approached with a hand extended, still somewhat weary of the ghost cat behind the elf.  “Oh, b-but where are my manners? Fizzl Bl- er, Torquespanner, at your service.”

The night elf accepted the gnome’s handshake.  “Splat.  And my companion behind me is Daisy.”  The large cat yawned at the mention of her name, showing a mouth full of teeth that, while translucent, still seemed sharp enough to tear through any man, beast, or gnome with little effort.

“S-splat?  Forgive me, I haven’t met many of your race, but that doesn’t sound much like a kal’dorei name to me.”

Another shrug.

“I’ve learned your name is whatever people call you.  For now, I feel like being called Splat.  Let’s just say it’s a childhood nickname that stuck.”

Fizzl nodded, and thought little more on the subject.  Whatever reason the elf had for not going by his given name (something Torquespanner wished with all his heart he COULD do), it was his reason and he’d share it if he wanted to.

“W-well now that introductions are out of the way, tell me:  How did you know how to fix my automated self-winding time measurement device?”

“Hm?  Oh, the clock!  I ran into a gnome in Auberdine named Wizbang Cranktoggle.  He offered to teach me a thing or two about engineering if I helped him fix some of his inventions, but …” Splat trailed off, as if hesitent to speak ill of a former teacher.

Fizzl nodded that he understood – he wasn’t the only gnome with a reputation, after all.  “I-if we’re thinking of the same Wizbang then it’s most likely he couldn’t teach much because he was plastered the whole time, the lush.  W-well at least he got you started.  I-in fact, knowing that old Cranktoggle’s the one that taught you makes me even more impressed!”

“Well, occasionally his inventions would all stop working for some reason, and he’d have to teach me something new so I’d have the skill to go out and fix them for him.  The wilds of Darkshore are far too dangerous for a master tinker to risk his life, you know.”

“T-they all stopped working at the same time, huh?”

“Well,” added Splat, with a wry smile, “They may have had a little help.”

-=-=-=-=-

So Splat found an engineer who would train him how to make things that weren’t alcohol-based, Fizzl found an assistant and apparently the only person in Dun Morogh who would call him Torquespanner (even if he kept getting called “Shan’do Torquespanner,” which always seemed odd to him.  Yes, he knew what that meant.), and the next dwarf who tried to “improve” one of Fizzl’s inventions left in a hurry, certain that he was being haunted by the spirit of a nightsaber he’d shot during a hunting expedition to Kalimdor last Summer.

But that’s another story.

(Note: This is me RPing as another player in a somewhat exaggerated parody.  I do not react this way when the server is down, and certain … errors … were intentional.  Honest.)

What, server shutdown in 15 minutes?  Gah! Why didn’t anyone tell me it was Tuesday already?

… hm, I probably should be getting ready for my Summer School class right now.  And yesterday.  Sheesh.

Fine, lemme just hand in these daily quests and find an inn quick.

*A quick logout later, and we find…*

Three AM to ELEVEN?!  That’s like, 12 hours!

Er, wait.  No.  That’s … (*Counts on fingers*) 7 hours.  Wow, using math to find out Warcraft stuff?  I never thought that would be useful.  And I’m on the East coast, so it’s already 6!  Only (*Counts on fingers again*) Um, a few hours to go!

• 7:00AM – This isn’t so bad, you know.  Got myself a bite to eat, watched some TV, even started my homework!  (Looking at it counts as starting it.)
• 8:00AM – Tried logging in just to see if Blizz was ahead of schedule this time around.  They’ve really made a mess of things!  I mean, my server isn’t even on the list!  Of course the ones that ARE there are all grayed out… Oh well, I’m sure it’ll be up soon.
• 9:00AM – Went for a walk.  Birds were singing, the sun was shining, and I even saw a few squirrels!  This is the part where, if I was really addicted to Warcraft, I’d be talking about the pixel resolution of “Real Life” or trying to /love all the critters for the achievement.  Well I’m NOT addicted, so there!
• 10:00AM – Onemorehouronemorehouronemorehour C’MON ALREADY!
• 11:00AM – This is it!  The moment of truth, when I can log back in and … oh.  Server’s still down.  That’s OK, they must have just taken a little extra time picking up all those dropped packets or something.  I hear that’s hard to do.  I’ll just keep logging in every 5 minutes or so just to see if they’re up yet.
• 12:00 Noon – Come ON, Blizz!  Don’t make me go all Angry German Kid on you!  The servers need to be back up NOW.  For the love of Elune, WHO WILL SAVE THE SPOREGGAR?  THINK OF THE SPOREGGAR!
• 1:00PM – Blackness fills my soul, coloring it an inky black shade of blackness.  I have painted my fingernails black and tried dying my hair black using a Sharpie I found in a kitchen drawer.  I spend my days soaking in the blacky blackness of the Hot Topic website wondering which ironic t-shirts I should purchase on my next trip to the mall.
• 2:00PM – Oh, hey!  Servers are back up!  Game on, people!

(Continued from yesterday.)

The old dwarf cursed under his breath as the blue skinned troll closest to him hefted his axe and lunged forward, but then stared open-mouthed as a burst of blue light reached out and pulled his assailant away.

As Jagar grew more aware of his surroundings, it became obvious that most of the trolls didn’t even know he was there.  There attention was focussed almost entirely on a figure dressed in black armor and wielding a large sword bathed in an eerie blue aura.  The figure pulled another troll to him with that strange magic, then placed a hand on it’s forehead.  Instantly the troll screamed as it’s skin broke out in hundreds of boils, but stopped suddenly when the stranger beheaded it with a single blow and moved on.

The stranger laughed, and his voice sounded like it came from a frozen tomb.

“Well, um … Ah see ye have the situation well in hand, lad,” Jagar said as calmly as he could (though not quite as loud as he’d need to be to actually be heard) while backing away, “If’n ye don’t mind, Ah’ll just be goin’ th-”

The old dwarf saw stars as the world spun around him and a sharp pain appeared on the side of his head.  He landed on his back and managed to see two trolls – no wait, that’s just double vision – standing over him.

The chaos in he camp had made him totally forget the last troll who had been chasing him, an occurrence that he immediately regretted.

A long blue skinned arm reached out and pulled Jagar close.  “I’m gonna make you into mojo,” The troll whispered with a heavy accent, it’s breath washing over the dwarf like the stench of a thousand rubbish piles.

(To be continued.)

(Continuity alert! This story takes place before the last one.)

Jagar did not like trolls.

But then again, most dwarves didn’t like trolls.  The animosity between the two races was not as strong as the one between trolls and elves, but whenever you have multiple groups competing for the same resources there’s bound to be some conflict.

Jagar himself had grown quite philosophical about it in his 190 years stomping through the woods looking for game.  Dwarves needed food. Trolls needed food.  He couldn’t really fault them for wanting to stay alive.

That being said, he had no intention of lying down and playing dead for them.  As a dwarf his side was chosen, and if there got to be too many trolls in an area, well….

Well there just had to be something done about the surplus population.

And that’s exactly what brought Jagar skulking through the woods south of Brewnall Village.  Why a hunter of his advanced years was trying to take on a sizable troll camp was beyond him, but …

Oh yeah.  Senir Whitebeard had called in a favor.  Jagar really didn’t have a choice in the mater, if he wanted to keep his reputation.  Oh well.

The crunch of multiple footsteps in the ankle deep snow pulled the old dwarf away from his thoughts and into the situation at hand.  Judging from the amount of noise he heard as he found a tree to hide behind, there were three or four trolls talking to each other.  Their jovial mood and lack of stealth gave away that their own hunting expedition had been successful long before they came into view with their prize.

Jagar raised an eyebrow at the sight of a young black bear hogtied to a tree that looked as if it had been hastily ripped from the ground.  The odd thing was that those bears usually did not roam this far west, as they had a hard time competing with the much stronger ice claw bears that made their homes here.

That either meant that the bear had gotten lost or, more likely, that Senir was right about troll hunting parties getting far too close to Kharanos for comfort.

In either case, the four Frostmane trolls were sufficiently distracted by the weight of their good fortune.  Indeed, it took all of them to carry the bulk of the young bear across the frozen landscape.

“This will do nicely,” the old dwarf thought to himself.  Biding his time until they were almost out of range, he stepped forward, aimed, and fired his rifle.

The shot was not perfect, but it hit nonetheless.  One of the two trolls in the back screamed and clutched his leg with both hands as blood began to gush from the wound.  The other three turned to see what had happened, but struggled under the extra weight.  The other rear troll went down first, with the bear landing soundly on top of the one Jagar had wounded.

At that moment the bear, whom the hunter had presumed to be dead, took advantage of the situation to bite one of the remaining trolls on the ankle.

Jagar took no time to celebrate his good fortune – he knew that while the surrounding mountains had done a decent job of causing his shot to echo and therefore obscuring his location, trolls could be just as good at hunting as dwarves.

By the time the 2nd rear troll was rising to his feet, the only member of the party not injured was pointing in Jagar’s direction and yelling something.

Of course, by that time Jagar had already reloaded.  He fired again, rewarding the observant troll with a bullet to the shoulder, then took off running as he grabbed his ammo pouch to reload on the move.

You wouldn’t expect an old dwarf to be able to run very fast, but Jagar’s years in the woods and mountains had conditioned him well.  In a race he was sure he could run just as fast as any troll.  Of course, one does not turn to fire a gun every couple of seconds in a race.  Jagar knew he had to get enough shots in to finish the job before they finished him or ran off to warn the rest of the trolls.

Two more shots took down the one he’d injured in the shoulder.  Jagar smiled as he turned to run again, jumping over a small hill …

… and into a troll camp.  Apparently he’d been closer to it than he thought.

(To be continued.)

Like all good tales, this one starts in a bar.

The old dwarf drank alone.

He was not alone because he was old or because he was a dwarf.  There were plenty of dwarves in Kharanos that were showing signs of advanced years long before he’d ever been born.

No, he drank alone because of the large bear sleeping directly behind him, it’s occasional snores rumbling like low growls.  This was not enough to send anyone fleeing from the tavern, of course, but at this time of day there was plenty of room at other tables just the same.

Dwarves weren’t cowards, but they weren’t stupid either.  No reason to sit next to a large animal of unknown state of domestication unless you had to.

“Ah, there’sh a dwarf who likesh ‘ish drink!”

The old dwarf looked up from his pint of Thunderbrew to see another tavern patron stumbling his way.  Not able to come up with a good excuse to leave, the elder sighed and resigned himself to his fate.

“Hey, hey, lishen.” The younger dwarf slurred as he leaned heavily on the table.  At some point his long hair had come out of its ponytail, and in the act of bending forward he managed to get most of it into his stein.  “Ahm shtartin’ a guild!  Got the charter an’ everythin’, just need the shigat … shiginini …,” He paused, stood up straight, took a deep breath, and tried again one syllable at a time.

“Sig-na-tures!  Gots two of’em already!  Wanna be the fifth?”

“An interestin’ prospect,” said the older dwarf as he patted the still sleeping bear.  “Never been in a guild before.  Been solo fer years.  What would ye be callin’ this guild of yers?”

The younger dwarf burst into a fit of laughter, spilling his own ale over what had probably been some nice robes at some point.  He looked longingly at the spreading wet spots as if he wanted to suck the alcohol out of his clothing so as to not waste a drop, but then remembered the conversation at hand.

“Get thish…” The lush leaned forward and beckoned with his finger for the old dwarf to lean in as well.  “It’sh gonna be the besht guild ever, y’know,” he wispered, “An … an  we’re gonna call it …”

There was a gasp of air quickly entering lungs.  Not being unintelligent, the old dwarf backed away to save his ears as the drunk hollered “THE TOWN DRUNKS!” as loud as he could, then laughed so hard he fell over onto the straw covered stone floor.

He was still chuckling when two other dwarves broke away from the other patrons to half drag / half escort the would-be Guild Master out for some fresh air.

In the meantime, the old dwarf went back to his drink.