standing at the front in my macho platemail

Apologies for generally dodgy blogging over the past couple of days. I’ve had a deadline (don’t you just love deadlines – particularly the whooshing sound they make as they go by, thank you Douglas Adams) but thankfully it’s now dealt with so I can return to a life of idleness and WoW. I’ll be catching up with everything tomorrow, normal service resumed etc.

The main news on the horizon is that the unthinkable has happened. Given the tank shortage in our guild I did it, I defied my very sissy-robe nature and … yes … I rolled up a tank. I mean, I have a few potential tanks in my arsenal, an orcish prot-warrior at level (wait for it) 24 and a druid who could conceivably be a bear tank at level 67. Except Comfrey just isn’t a tank. It’s not his thing. He’s Brian Blessed. Or maybe a tree.

So that left only one avenue open to me. Oh the shame. I rolled a deathtard. A deathtard of my very own. I’ve played her through the Deathtard introductory area (which I’ve bitched about before) except this time I genuinely paid attention in an effort to learn how not to play like a dick. I think I’m getting the hang, it’s not unfun, despite the sad lack of standing at the back in a sissy robe. Also I think I like my deathcow. I spent a lot of time making the cutest, most adorable deathcow I could – she’s kind of zomfie green, with long plaits. Although as ever the Blizzard armour design makes it seem as though she put her platemail through the wash on the wrong cycle and now it’s shrunk:

Oh noes! It did not say dry clean only!

Although, the DK starting area also offered me the best laugh I think I may have ever had in WoW. There’s a quest, you see, called Grand Theft Palomino which, as you may intuit, requires you to a steal horse in order to transform it in into your personal dark steed. There’s a level 56 elite stable master hanging about in the vicinity for the horses, who can make mincemeat of a noobie deathcow. For some reason, despite having got past him on previous deathtards, my poor little girl cow is just not sneaky, and the guy was carving me up. Repeatedly. In the end, I managed to get away from him but the horses had all fled during the carnage … all except three, one of which was a tiny tiny colt. Mousing over it, I was surprised to see the cursor flash green. We’ll, it’ll probably scale, I thought, hopping aboard.

Scale. Right.

Come, my brave stallion!