Book Review: Words of the High Chief

Like the musings of Weavil that I looked at last time, today's book is also a diary. The Words of the High Chief is the diary of High Chief Winterfall (whose grammar is not as polished as Weavil's), who lives in Winterfall Village in eastern Winterspring.

The Story

The diary immediately sets the scene for the reader: "Attackers... from all sides." The High Chief is referring to his enemies the Timbermaw, who hold the tunnel connecting Winterspring, the Moonglade, and Felwood. High Chief Winterfall is obsessed with the idea that he must protect his tribe and drive the enemies off their land. He muses that he must make his tribe strong in order to survive. By page 3, he has found the answer: Firewater.

The High Chief's new obsession is to make firewater, lots of firewater, always more firewater, to make his tribe strong. Feeling that he is alone without allies in the blinding snows of Winterspring, the paranoid High Chief struggles to produce enough firewater to fend off attackers. The diary ends with the High Chief's insatiable appetite for firewater and the insistence that his tribe is not weak.

* * * *

The High Chief's diary is really a heartbreaking story. Driven by paranoia, fear, and the need to survive, the furbolgs try to reinforce their strength with the help of Winterfall firewater, which perhaps is the cause of their downward spiral. The firewater upon which the Winterfall become dependent and obsessed is a fairly transparent allusion to alcohol; the Winterfall civilization's fall to the evils of firewater is itself a recollection of alcohol's devastation of Native American culture. The interesting difference is that whereas alcohol was introduced to Native Americans by European travel and trade, the Winterfall produce their firewater by themselves—their dependence appears to be self-inflicted. However, the Words of the High Chief do not mention firewater until page 3; previous to that, he merely frets about the attackers and expresses a need to find strength. Could it be that firewater was introduced to his tribe from an external source in that time? If so, who brought firewater to the Winterfall? Or, on the other hand, did the High Chief create experimental alchemical concoctions until he himself discovered a potion that could save the tribe?

To an outsider, there does not appear to be much difference between the Winterfall and the Timbermaw furbolg tribes, which if anything adds to the tragedy of the story. It seems arbitrary that a questing player should choose to aid the Timbermaw rather than the Winterfall (though more strategically important, considering the Timbermaw hold the passage of Timbermaw Hold). Yet, we are not given the opportunity to aid the Winterfall—perhaps even help to cure them of their firewater dependence—even if we would like to.

Book Review: The Diary of Weavil

The holidays are all about family, which for me means flying back to my hometown for three weeks. Incidentally, this also means I only have dial-up internet access at the moment, which in turn means no WoW! Though I'm saddened that I'll be missing out several weeks' worth of raids and dozens of Frost Emblems, I can't really begrudge Christmas.

All of this is just a way of excusing the next few weeks' posts, which will probably all be book reviews. I love the multimedia WoW experience, but in its absence I have to resort to the good old reliable standby of books (albeit virtual ones).

By far the most epic experience I've had so far in WoW was the Scepter of the Shifting Sands quest chain (though the fact that the Scepter isn't wieldable is the single greatest disappointment of my WoW life), and I can guarantee there will be future posts relating to it. Today's book consists of the memoirs of Dr Weavil, one of the targets of the involved Blue Scepter Shard chain. Being level 80 when I undertook the questline, Dr Weavil was one of only two or so encounters where I actually needed help (mostly because he would mind control me with his Mental Domination and then resume his nap while I stood at attention).

The Story

The diary begins with Weavil complaining about the treachery of Narain Soothfancy, who has tried to trick Dr Weavil by sending you (the player) in a Narain-disguise. Weavil is irate that his plan to execute Narain has been thwarted; so angry, in fact, that he has to leave off writing for the moment. "Redesign[ing] his minions' uniforms to better reflect [his] angst" somewhat lightens Weavil's mood; subsequently beating one of them until it "wept like a little girl" doesn't have the cheering effect he intended and Weavil begins to admit feelings of regret. He leaves off writing again to go give the beaten minion a hug and some encouraging words.

Reminded of his anger toward Narain, Weavil confides that the two of them had been classmates at the Gnomeregan Institute of Tinkering, that Narain had been an ace student, and that Weavil had failed out. At this point, Weavil signs off for the night.

The next day, he resumes telling his diary about Narain's deception involving you as a decoy. The last you and Weavil saw of each other at this point in the diary was when he saw through your disguise and flew off in a huff, leaving his gorilla Number Two to deal with you. (Presumably, if you are reading the diary, you have bested Number Two.) After a spontaneous nap, Weavil explains how his anger prompted him to rip up the Draconic For Dummies volume that you're after (and will have to reassemble). Conveniently, Weavil thoroughly describes the devious ways in which he disposed of the eight chapters, so you will be able to follow his footsteps to collect them again. Wrapping up the itinerary of his book destruction, Weavil says he's going to go to sleep. It is in that state that you find him when you come to collect the chapter that he retains.

* * * *

The overriding element in Weavil's Diary is his intense hatred of Narain, which comes across as having jealousy at its root. Narain "destroyed the curve on every exam" during their stint at the Tinkering Institute, and given that Weavil failed out of the program he must have been more than a little resentful. Pure spite motivates Weavil's destruction of the Draconic book; he recalls that Narain spoke well of Molten Core, which is why he chooses it as the dumping ground for one of the chapters. We'll see how much Narain likes MC after he has to pry the book out of Ragnaros's dead hands!

Just as spite motivates Weavil's actions, anger in general seems to motivate his outlook on life. He uses one chapter of the book to destroy an innocent demon, creating a tornado out of the pages to "shred its body into a million pieces." Weavil's malevolence is a source of joy for him: destroying the demon "made [Weavil] pretty happy." Despite his anger, Weavil does reveal a soft spot in the regret he voices over beating his minion (not to mention the hug he later bestows upon it).

One might also consider the very fact that Weavil is keeping a diary. It's not even a mere recording of events, but a conversation between Weavil and the diary as a thing. He starts every entry with "Dear Diary" and even addresses it, almost seeking a response with questions like "Can you believe it?" and "you know what?" and beseeching it to keep his confessions "between you and me, diary."

The other obvious characteristic of Weavil that arises in his diary is his abnormal sleepiness. He seems to require a nap several times throughout the day. It could just be that he writes a little before he goes to bed each night, but he only explicitly mentions that the day is over once. His contributions for that day are split up into several entries; sometimes he leaves to let loose his anger (or apologies) on his minions. He manages to fall asleep mid-entry while his emotions are at their angriest:

What a show-0ff? Who reads Draconic? I hate [Narain] so much!

Dear diary,

Sorry, I fell asleep.

Not only that, but he's still fast asleep after this last entry by the time you catch up to him. This means he's been napping since the day after you best Number Two; I know it took me several weeks to round up all the other chapters, and I came to retrieve Dr Weavil's chapter last, so that makes for a pretty lengthy hibernation.

I love Weavil's diary. It's humorous and looks right into the heart of his true feelings. It gives a nice backstory to his animosity toward Narain, and unlike some other in-game diaries, Weavil's is well-written in terms of grammar and style. It's a nice little memento capturing a specific moment during your epic Scepter adventure. Even though it's not a quest item or in any way useful, I still have it sitting in my bank in a special row between The War of the Shifting Sands and The Schools of Arcane Magic - Mastery.

Music: The Forge of Souls

There's so much to love in patch 3.3, but I felt that the music in the new 5-man dungeons should get first dibs on bloggage. I hadn't really played WoW with music enabled until fairly recently, for reasons ranging from the interference with vent during raiding to outright irritation in some zones. But like everything else about the new dungeons/raid, I love the new music! So much, in fact, that I was finally compelled to extract the sound files from the MPQ to listen more thoroughly to them (note: you can find a guide on how to do this here).

Although the Forge of Souls soundtrack is not my favourite, I might as well start right at the beginning. The Bronze Jam that plays during the Bronjahm (Godfather of Souls) encounter surfaces now and then throughout the whole instance. Not surprisingly, the Bronze Jam audio alludes to James Brown (the "Godfather of Soul"). The achievement associated with him is called "I Feel Good," and he drops (among other things) Papa's Brand New Bag.

The Bronze Jam begins with some tuneless blazing electric guitar noises, which gathers momentum and joins forces with some funky keyboards, drums, and saxophone, modulating into a cohesive moment of rhythm and grooviness. It certainly doesn't try to make Bronjahm a frightening figure.

The initial guitar noises from the Bronze Jam are inserted now and then in the music that plays throughout the Forge of Souls, and is heard against an ethereal and delicate line accompanied by a very rhythmic punctuation. The funky keyboards also wander in and out of the zone music.

The Forge of Souls wraps up with the three-faced Devourer of Souls (whose voice and model makes me think of insane clowns). I could have sworn some carnivalesque music played during the encounter the first time I ran it, but must have been mistaken. So in a nutshell, the music of the Forge of Souls is dominated by Bronjahm's groovy influence. It's not so bad a place with the Godfather of Souls in charge.

Book Review: Green Hills of Stranglethorn

Green Hills of Stranglethorn is the masterpiece of big game hunter Hemet Nesingwary (anagram of Ernest Hemingway, author of Green Hills of Africa). Though Nesingwary is the author, it is Barnil Stonepot who requests help in reassembling the epic book (*somebody* is a poor librarian). Hemet's tome has been manhandled and many of its pages lie scattered about Stranglethorn Vale; the player must retrieve them from the pockets of trolls, the bellies of tigers, and the clutches of murlocs.

The Story

The book begins with Hemet establishing a base camp by a freshwater inlet. His companions are Ajeck Rouack (the daughter of Hemet's old battle comrade), Sir S. J. Erlgadin (whose father lobbied for improved working conditions for the Stonemasons Guild during the restoration of Stormwind), and Barnil Stonepot (Hemet's servant). Hemet goes on a tangent about Sir Erlgadin's disenchantment with the nobility, mentioning Stormwind's betrayal of the Stonemasons Guild. He catches himself and asserts that "[t]he purpose of this story is not to act as a political treatise or a biography."

The very first morning, Ajeck gets the first kill by saving Barnil from a lurking River Crocilisk at their camp. The group sets out in search of prey and eventually comes across a male Stranglethorn Tiger. Before Hemet can cock his rifle, Erlgadin wounds the tiger with his crossbow and Barnil finishes it off with a thrown axe. A blood-curdling growl spoils their new mead-enhanced festive mood. Hemet unleashes a "clumsy volley" on the Panther but it vanishes, so the hunters head back to the base camp. Apparently these panthers are part of a booming fur trade in Azeroth:

I had promised the expedition that we would spend the next day hunting panthers, as their furs are in high demand throughout Azeroth. It only makes sense that such demand should exist with all of the able-bodied hunters, trappers and fur-traders off giving their lives so valiantly in the name of the Alliance.

Though Hemet has so far been a lousy shot, his Human friends are eager to learn how to use Dwarven rifles rather than their own "primitive range weapons." The next day the hunters follow some panther tracks southward, coming upon a huge rope bridge that compels Hemet to comment on the local inhabitants:

So often it was assumed that the native Trolls were a primitive and uneducated race yet as I gazed upon the master craftsmanship of the bridge I was able to recognize the skill with which the Troll builders overcame the seemingly impossible feat.

At the sound of snapping twigs, Hemet lets his Human friends try for the kill, seeing as how he has already bagged countless panthers; a "beautiful specimen" of a black panther darts out. Being their first time using rifles, the kickbacks surprise the Humans and Erlgadin inadvertently jostles Ajeck just as she pulls her trigger; fortuitously, her shot hits a large branch which falls upon the fleeing panther's back, killing it. Within weeks, Hemet's camp has stockpiled an immense amount of furs, and they decide to try their luck on the Raptors. They set out southward; Barnil is concerned about Trolls, but Hemet is confident they are too busy with their tribal skirmishes. Besides, he has faced Infernals and the Burning Legion army, and is unafraid of trolls.

The hunters find and kill an unsuspecting raptor, which prompts a celebratory pipe-smoking break; the celebration is cut short when a pack of angry raptors begin to pursue them. The hunters find themselves cornered at the top of a sheer cliff over the sea, and prepare for a fight to the death. Miraculously, a great white tiger (presumably King Bangalash) intervenes, scattering the raptors and giving the hunters a chance to escape back to the base camp.

* * * *

This book was more engaging than I expected. It ranges from the sheer monotony of trudging through humid jungle undergrowth to the euphoria of a hard-won kill. Hemet knows how to tell a good tale and keep you reading: each chapter ends with the hunters about to be pounced upon by Something with fierce eyes and sharp teeth, so that you need to find the next chapter in order to find out how they make it out of that scrape. WoW books also have the virtue of being fairly short.

I like how the fur trade made its way into this narrative. Apparently there's high demand for animal furs because of the great danger with which they're obtained. I know I've faced grisly death at the hands of Stranglethorn wildlife (mostly when I walked as a level 8 Blood Elf through the zone in order to reach a neutral Auction House), but what's a death or two to someone who doesn't really die? The infinite spawning of beasts doesn't really support a high demand either—infinite supply should make for negligible demand—but I suppose Hemet has to justify his hunting rampage somehow.

Hints of colonialism also crop up: Hemet is surprised at the technological capability the local troll inhabitants—whom, as he mentions, are often considered primitive and uneducated—show in the construction of bridges. The abandoned docks near the base camp prompt Hemet to wonder what original inhabitants might have built them—perhaps an ancient and forgotten civilization that was displaced by the trolls. Even the weapons that the Humans prefer seem "primitive" to Hemet, who relies on his Dwarven-technology rifle. He tries to introduce them to gun usage—much like early explorers bestowed their own technologies on the "primitive" inhabitants they encountered—but they prove clumsy (if absurdly lucky) with the rifles. In the end, though, the Humans revert to their own technology. I guess they don't even want the weapon that Hemet seems to need; what one culture sees as a lack is maybe not even translatable (as either a need or a want) in another culture.

Given all these little tidbits, I love the part where he denies any political or biographical content. Primitivizing peoples (whether by outright calling them "primitive" or by belittling their tools/weapons/architecture) quite obviously sets up a hierarchy of cultures, in which the simpler one is depicted as inferior and backward; in essence, they are seen as being in an early stage of civilization, and we modern Dwarves (or what-have-you) have already forgotten more about building and weaponry than they have yet discovered. Anyway, this is what I saw in Green Hills of Stranglethorn and I assume it is because the book is meant to be in the Colonialist style.

Nice profound closing to this book: "Such are the risks of the big game hunter," writes Hemet. "We toy with fate by delivering it. Yet each of us, at some point, will face fate's razor sharp teeth." If you're lucky like Hemet, a big tiger will chase away those nasty fate-teeth.

Land of Plenty

Last week was Pilgrim's Bounty in Azeroth, paralleling American Thanksgiving. Azeroth is certainly a world of unlimited and self-replenishing bounty; what better way to celebrate than sit at a feast-laden table and partake of turkey and pie that seem to increase in quantity the more you pass them around. Or, combine ingredients from bottomless Bountiful Barrels that conveniently appear in major locations, to create holiday-themed foods. Since this new holiday is far and away the cheapest and most efficient way to develop cooking skill, I know I'm not the only one who ended up with 360 portions of assorted feast components sitting in my bag waiting to expire untasted. With great bounty comes great waste!

The Azerothian turkey is a special breed of fowl that turns into plucked, cleaned, and (to all appearances) fully cooked turkeys ready for the eating. They already run wild in Northrend's Howling Fjord, where their population defies all attempts at extermination. During Pilgrim's Bounty their range extends to Elwynn Forest and Tirisfal Glades. Their only purpose appears to be hunting quarry, either for the regular 'Friend or Fowl' achievement, or for the Pilgrim's Bounty 'Turkinator' achievement that rewards wanton turkey-slaying. I expect I wasn't the only one who rampaged through those zones tossing moonfires left and right at every frolicking turkey, leaving their perfectly roasted corpses unretrieved in order to save time (and even so, it took me several failed tries and hundreds of slaughtered turkeys to attain my achievement). Perhaps most people don't feel compelled to pity the turkey, widely considered to be one of the dumbest animals on earth. Even more than that, they're just pixels, so it doesn't matter (right?).

As a side-note, early medieval monks also thought self-cooking fowls would be a great invention. In The Land of Cokaygne (a fanciful medieval vision of utopia), flocks of roasted geese fly right into your mouth:

Ȝite I do ȝow mo to witte:
Þe gees irostid on þe spitte
Fleeȝ to þat abbai, God hit wot,
And grediþ: ‘Gees al hote, al hot !’ (ll. 101-4)

Animal studies happens to be my particular research interest these days, so I always keep a keen eye out for critters and beasts in the digital realm. One theme that always crops up is factory farming and the distance it allows us to have from the gory side of eating. There's nothing non-gory about factory farms, of course, but that side of food production goes on far away from where we live, and the chicken that we eat comes to us in tidily plastic-wrapped parcels . (Having grown up on a farm myself, I know all too well the smell of boiled feathers and singed chicken skin, and the sound of a chicken squawk emitted through a severed throat—though my experience is only in a free-range setting.) Sure, we're aware of the terrible conditions of factory farms, but we really don't have to confront it even though we use their products.

The digital world being one that we can completely control, it is in many ways our own utopia—a place where everything happens just as it is coded to. Nature and civilization—and their relationship to each other—are perfected to reflect society's ideals. Turkeys that transform themselves into nicely packaged morsels and who reappear minutes (or seconds) after they've been killed? Perfect!