DAY TWENTY: THE FINAL DAY OF WOW
I have been a gamer for a long time, and the games that have hooked me have been many and varied. The Civilization series, Subspace, Counter-Strike, Command and Conquer, Dune 2, Quake 2 & 3 have all, at one point or another, been the focus of my gaming affections. World of Warcraft is merely the latest. It will not be the last.
“So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending.” - J.R.R. Tolkien
WoW is different in one major way, however. There will come a day when I make the conscious decision to stop paying for it, which will mark a fairly definitive end for me.
With all the other games, which were free to play once you owned them, my interest would fade from a bright, burning desire to a cool ember over time - sometimes a period of months or years - and the time I spent playing the game would ebb and diminish along with it. With WoW, however, a month spent not playing the game is $15 wasted, so I suspect the disinterest period in the game will be much more abrupt.
WoW has been a part of my life for a long time - and I don't really even want to think about how much time has been spent wandering the wilds of Azeroth - so I imagine that there will be a lot of wailing and gnashing of teeth before I finally pull the plug on it. Once the decision is made, however, there is no "popping back on" for a quick game or for nostalgia's sake, because that requires resubscribing.
I wonder if this Blog is going to keep me playing longer, or contribute to and accelerate the Burn Out process? I love writing for this blog; it has reignited a long-dormant passion in me, but will the pressure that I put on myself to keep churning out content make me feel less like playing? Already I find that there are times I have to choose between playing the game or writing about it. And as the demands of the Dwarfling continue to grow, it may feel easier to sit down with my laptop and grind out a post than it would be to log into the game and get something accomplished.
My final day playing WoW will be sad, but I think my final blog post will be even more emotional. As brilliant as the game is, it is a story written by someone else that I'm experiencing, while this blog is my own voice; my own story that I get to tell.
But as with all things, old things wither and die and are replaced with something new and vibrant. So it will eventually be with WoW and with Battle Medic. I can't wait to see what will come along that is amazing enough to top this game.
DENOUEMENT
The Dwarf stood on the shoulder of the mountain and gazed over the white, snow-draped landscape as the sun slowly sank behind the western mountains. The last, red streams of the dying sun bathed the ridge where he stood in light and beneath it, the the tops of the spruce trees were lit with fiery brilliance like a thousand flaming torches swaying slowly in the gentle breeze.
In the valley below a horn sounded, mournful and pressing, calling the Dwarves of Ironforge to yet another battle against impossible odds and implacable foes.
The Dwarf scowled, the deep lines etched on his face hardening. Numerous vicious scars marred his visage, telling the tale of a hard life of heroic adventure. Under his bushy, white eyebrows his steel grey eyes were set with a grim look and yet the sagging sides and craggy wrinkles around them betrayed his age.
In the valley below, the troops of young dwarves efficiently formed themselves into their battle ranks. Faintly, the barking orders of the commanders could be heard, as the dwarven soldiers prepared themselves for the long journey to the battlefield.
The Dwarf let out a long, slow exhale, his breath crystallizing in the air in front of him, and let his shoulders relax. He reached up, his fingers stiff from the cold, and unfastened the clasp of his bulky shoulder armour and let it fall to the snow, landing with a muffled thump. He then grasped his great staff with both hands and plunged it's end into the frozen ground at the edge of the shear precipice.
In the valley below, the dwarven troops stomped their boots and clashed their axes on their shields in unison as they made their final preparations to depart. The din echoed and reverberated ominously throughout the valley. Then, a short, piercing bark from the commander and the troops began to move as one, marching off to war.
The Dwarf stared at the sun until it dipped behind the distant peaks, casting the valley and the mountainside into shadows. He closed his eyes - still burning from the brilliance of the sunset - and a tear lazily slid down his large, pitted nose, finally freezing on the end before it could drip off. To his deathbed, he would always claim that it came from the pain of the intense sunlight and nothing else.
In the valley below the dwarven formation began singing a traditional marching song, perfectly matched to the cadence of their precise footfalls. Their voices, lifted high with youthful vigour and excitement, rang clearly. In what seemed like mere moments, the soldiers moved through a pass between two peaks and out of sight, their song fading until the valley was quiet and peaceful again.
The Dwarf looked out over the dark, silent valley that has been his home for so long and thought about the hardships and sacrifices that he had made to protect it. A part of him - a very dwarvish part - longed to summon his trusted ram and race down the mountain to join the war effort. To once again fight with ferocious determination. To be a hero again.
In the house behind where the Dwarf stood, a piercing cry cut the crisp night air and pulled him out of his daydreams. He turned and picked up his now sodden shoulder armour and walked back to the house, leaving a trail of footprints from the staff that remained, watching over the valley.
