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Monday, September 19, 2011

Whoops, forgot to refresh my Soul Stone...

In case you had not noticed already, this blog is dead. I have decided to keep it online since it was such a big part of my life for a short time, and led to me meeting a lot of amazing people and having some really great experiences. I'll probably never blog about WoW again. Much as I still enjoy the game, it comes and goes from my life. I probably spend more months out of the year without a subscription than I do with one.

If any of the few who are still following this blog (don't think I haven't noticed you!) would like to follow me elsewhere, I am still writing. I presently (as of September 19th 2011) maintain two public blogs.

Comma, Blank_ is my primary blog at this point. There's no focus to its content, I started it because I wanted to return to writing regularly. I figure I'll write there for six months to get myself back into good writing habits, then I'll set up a blog with an actual focus based on whatever I happen to be writing about the most.

I also post at Sailing The Garage Seas which is primarily a seasonal blog about Garage Sales, but I also post a few other bargain-hunting finds there as well.

To anybody reading who doesn't want to follow me further, thank you so much for being with me while I wrote Curse of Senility. I still look back on that part of my life very fondly. I learned so much, gained such great confidence, and feel like it really started me on a positive path in my life.

To any who might be joining me at one of the blogs mentioned above...thank you. Your support means a lot. I hope I can continue to entertain you.

Nick "Sentai Grehsk" Whelan

Saturday, May 1, 2010

The Dread Citadel: Prologue--Chapter 1

Tobias Whetstone felt ill.

Every bone in his body ached, his skin sagged, and most distressing of all, he was secreting a foul smelling, green liquid from his mouth. As he walked, or rather, shuffled, through the lamp-lit streets of Stormwind City's night, he spat another mouthful of the foul-smelling stuff into the canal. He'd always hated people who did that, but attempts to dispose of the spittle any other way had proven inadequate.

He started feeling light headed...what had done this to him? Surely, this was no simple sickness. A curse, perhaps. Something done by an Orcish warlock to that shipment of cheap grain he'd bought down by the harbor. Yes, that was it! He'd thought the merchant who had sold it to him looked untrustworthy. Probably came straight from Orgrimmar...nether blast the man.

He spat again, looking around. He needed to resupply his shop with better grain regardless of why his current stock was so bad. But even as cheap as the grain had been, he didn't know if he had enough money left to purchase a supply of better grain. Still, he couldn't EAT what he had, much less sell it.

One thing the illness didn't seem to affect was his appetite...he was so hungry. It'd been hours since he'd eaten, and thoughts of food seemed only to increase the amount of green puss flowing from his mouth.

This time he didn't even bother to turn towards the canal when he spat, spewing the green mess onto the pavement--just in time to catch the eyes of a beautiful young woman. Oddly, he didn't feel embarrassed for his crass behavior. He just stared at her, feeling something primal deep in his gut...and not the kind of feeling a lovely woman normally inspired in him. He began moving towards her.

His mouth hung open now, dribbling a green mess all over his chin. The woman's eyes widened when she saw it. She took a step back, and sputtered

"By the light, are you okay? What's that on your face!?"

Tobias' eyes were fixed on her now, as he responded;



"And the parrot says, 'Durotar, they've got em' all over the place!" Fent burst into laughter at his own joke, slapping his fellow patrolmen on the back with a 'clang' as he did so. "Come on, you can't tell me that isn't hilarious!" he shouted as the two of them walked through the streets of Stormwind.

"Sorry" Garrik responded, "I'm I little preoccupied with this story I've been thinking's about a couple of gnomes who find this bracelet and--"

"What is that?" Fent interrupted, suddenly serious. Garrik looked over to see a woman lying in the street, with Tobias leaning over her.

"Hey! You there! Step away!" Fent shouted, drawing his sword and rushing forward, Garrik close on his heels. Tobias spared them only a glance, but that was enough for the two young guards to recognize what they saw. Enough for decade-old memories of their childhood, and the third war, to rush back to them from their nightmares.

"Ghoul!" shouted Fent, falling backwards and dropping his sword in terror. Garrik, meanwhile, drew his own sword and swung it with all the his strength, but the nimble undead easily leapt away, evading the blade, then sprang forward onto his attacker. By the time Garrik hit the ground, the ghoul's teeth were already biting into his throat, causing his howl of terror and pain to take the form of a gurgling sputter.

All his courage having fled, Fent made a scrambling dash to his feet, and set off at a mad dash for his life. But the ghoul was too quick for him, leaping again, landing on Fent's back and taking hold there with a grip like iron.

Facedown, pressed into the hard pavement, Fent began to hyperventilate, knowing he was about to die. Any second now he would feel the teeth of the creature sink into his spine, and he wouldn't feel anything ever again.

Instead, he heard a shout, and a crack, and an instant later, his head still pressed to the pavement, he saw the ghoul's head rolling along the ground to his side, harmlessly snapping its jowls at the air. For a heartbeat Fent just lay there, unmoving, unable to believe that he was safe. Then a powerful hand forcibly rolled him over, and he knew he was right to disbelieve in his safety.

A massive pile of muscle and rage stood over him, red skin barely covered by the bit of armor it wore. In its hand, it held an axe with a blade as large as Fent's torso. Before he could even scream, two more of the creatures appeared, spreading out to either side, as though they were securing the area.

A moment later, a woman stepped from behind the creature on top of Fent, and into his field of view. She wore long robes of fiery crimson, with hair to match. In her hand she carried a green, leaf-embossed staff, with a yellowing worgen's skull atop it. Her green eyes seemed afire with the emerald flames of the twisting nether. She ignored Fent, walking through the grisly scene as though it were perfectly ordinary, to look down at the ghoul's head. She stared at it quietly, as if contemplating how it got to be there. Then, with a motion too quick for the young guard to follow, she raised her staff and brought the butt straight down on the dismembered head, crushing it flat, and spattering the base of her robes with a green mess.

"Adequately done, Jhuughun. Next time, though, do try to be quick enough to save both of them." the woman said, speaking to the monster standing on Fent's chest. The creature growled at her, and Fent thought for sure it would tear her head from her narrow shoulders. But the woman merely raised an eyebrow, as if she was amused by the monster's implied threat, and carried on.

"Thaamon, Malateric," she said, looking at the two other demons in turn, "Take this young man back to his barracks. Ensure he gets there safely, then rejoin me at the meeting. Jhuughun, you will continue to accompany me as my escort. And get off the boy already, you're terrifying him."

Without another word, she turned and continued walking down the street. Jhuughun took one last snarling look at Fent before reluctantly resisting the urge to crush his skull underfoot, and following his mistress down the street.

Fent continued to lay there for several breaths. He was so surprised to still be alive that he couldn't think of what to do next. Then he scrambled to his feet to run after the woman, only to be stopped by two muscled, red arms blocking his path. The Thaamon and Malateric had been ordered to escort him to the barracks, and they didn't seem interested in any delays.

"Who are you?" he called after her, at a loss for anything better to ask. She was much further down the road now, and in the light of the moon he could only see her silhouette. But she turned, and he could swear he still saw her bright green eyes within her dark form.

"I am called Moreven...the Corpseseeker."

Then she continued on her way, and Fent allowed himself to be pushed in the direction of the barracks--so bewildered by her stare that he forgot to be afraid of the two demons herding him home.

Monday, August 10, 2009

A Life Tap Too Far

Earlier this morning, it was announced on that a new Warlock columnist is required. The brilliant among readers of this proclamation deduced that I am no longer filling that role. And, since I'm the kind of talky-fellow that likes to blather on endlessly when nobody is listening, I figured I'd give an explaination to the endless tubes of the internet.

Working at has been one of the coolest experiences of my life thus far. The people I worked with there were not my coworkers and bosses; they were my colleagues. The work I did there was not drudgery; it excited and challenged me. And even the flames and trolls directed at me are not something I will look back on with scorn; they were my teachers. They gave me some small glimpse of what it means to write professionally. I would be lying if I said they never got to me--I remember a handful of comments which continued to mock me within my own mind for days after they were posted. But looking back, there's not a single one that I regret.

In fact, has absolutely nothing to do with me resigning from my position there. Rather, I resigned because I had to accept that my disinterest in World of Warcraft wasn't going to go away anytime soon. In fact, I haven't played the game for its own sake since patch 3.1 dropped. I won't try to explain why I'm not interested any longer--attempting to express what it is about the game that keeps me playing would be a seven thousand word digression from a five hundred word post.

I kept playing, and I kept writing, because I loved working with I loved the people, I loved the challenges, and I loved what I learned. But over the last few months I've run dry. One can only keep writing about a subject they don't care about for so long before they need to recognize that their apathy isn't the passing phase they wish it was. So I regretfully informed my editors--who are far cooler than any bosses I'll ever have again--that I couldn't write anymore. And that, is that.

In a way its a bit of a relief. The biggest barrier between me, and writing actively, has always been guilt. It's the reason I stopped writing on Live Journal several years ago, and it's largely the reason I've been writing so sparsely lately. The guilt I was heaping upon myself because of columns I had failed to finish was like a vice on my brain. Now, perhaps, I can get back to basics, and start producing some things worth reading again. Probably not here at Curse of Senility of course--though I actually do have a few non-Warlock related WoW posts that I might pop out over the next few days.

I wish only the very best of luck to in the search for a new Warlock writer. And to whoever gets the job: don't forget how lucky you are, and try to learn from those who degrade your work, rather than allow them to wound you.

Thanks for giving me a place to put my words.