Ambriana and the Case of the Mysteriously Disappearing Hair

[SamIam]

I'm reposting this, since it, too, mysteriously disappeared after the server crash. Make sure you give Sheri grief until she pulls her hair out.

Ambriana was in a panic. No, the famous merchant, Tarjay, was not having a year-end clearance sale. It wasn’t that kind of panic. It was a tearful panic. Well, to be precise, a steamful panic. Bright Wizards don’t cry. In fact, they can’t cry. Their fiery core instantly turns their tears into little puffs of steam. It is amusing, actually, in a rather humid sort way. And steaming was exactly what Ambriana was doing as she careened down the crowded streets of Altdorf, heedless of all in her way. She ran pass gawking onlookers and bounced off rat-infested barrels as she sped through the streets. Puff, puff, puff. Hiss, hiss, hiss. It is not every day that one sees a Bright Wizard steaming. They take the utmost care where and when they let their emotions show. But this was not one of those times. Oh, no, it wasn’t. Disaster had struck. The sky had fallen. No, it was worse than that. Much worse than that. She was ruined. She could never show her face in public again. Especially her face. Ambriana steamed as she sped for home. Puff, puff, hiss, hiss.

Ambriana threw open the front door and ran madly through her manor, searching for her husband, seeking consolation. “Durruck!” she wailed. “Durruck where are you?” Not finding him, Ambriana dashed upstairs to their bedroom, taking the steps two, three at a time. Puff. Hiss. She skidded through the bedroom door and spied Durruck in their closet.

“Oh, Durruck!” she sobbed. “I’m ruined. My life is- Durruck, why are you wearing my dress?”

“Eek!” shrieked Durruck, spinning around. His long flowing hair fanned out behind him. Ambriana’s dress fell to the floor, having slid off his slender shoulders, leaving him standing there in all his effeminately elfish glory.

“Ambri, dear. What are you doing home?” He began quickly fanning himself with his hand. “You gave me such a fright! I nearly jumped out of-“

“My dress,” Ambriana finished for him. “And you did.” Puff, puff. Hiss, hiss.

“It’s not your dress,” whined Durruck as he picked up the fallen apparel. “It’s mine. I mean, it’s my new robe. It is crafted from the finest snow-white silk with beautiful gold brocade to accent the gorgeous red trim. Isn’t it just scrumptious?”

Ambriana was speechless. Well, nearly so. She was a woman, after all, so she was never completely speechless. She was only mostly speechless, and, like being mostly dead, one miracle is all it takes to recover. In this case, it was Durruck coming out of the closet.

He then sashayed over to their plush bed and threw himself back on it, hugging his silk robe to his bare chest. “Mmm, it feels so divine. The way it caresses my skin and sends tingles all up and down when I move,” Durruck trilled.

“Oh, Durruck! Never mind that. Look at me!” Ambriana pleaded, puffing and hissing.

Durruck stopped squirming long enough to look at Ambriana. He looked up. He looked down. He shook his head, sadly, sympathetically. “Oh, my poor, dear, Ambri. I see what you mean. Your simple, russet and dull red dress is so…so…plain. Not to mention stiff and scratchy, woven from asbestos as it is. I would be steaming too, if I had to wear such a horrid thing. Well, crying, actually. We Archmages have properly functioning physiologies.”

“No, Durruck,” Ambriana wailed. “It’s not my dress, it’s my hair. Look at my hair!”

“Uh, what hair, dear?”

“Exactly! It’s gone! My beautiful flaming orange, spiky hair is gone.”

Durruck stared. He continued to stare. At her bald head. Her bald shiny head. Durruck stopped staring and blinked. Then he resumed his staring. He was speechless. Well, nearly so. After all, you know what they say…

“Where did you put it, dear?” Durruck asked.

“I didn’t put it anywhere,” Ambriana wailed. “I dressed for battle this morning, rode out to Praag and roasted a few witch elves. When I came back, my hair was gone!” Puff, puff, puff. Hiss, hiss, hiss.

Ding dong. The doorbell rang. Ambriana ran to the window and peeked down to see who it was. “Oh, Durruck! It’s that old curmudgeon, Sam. Get rid of him. Please, please, Durruck. If he sees me like this I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Very well, my dear.” Durruck stood up and slipped into his robe, cooing with sensuous pleasure. He floated down the stairs and opened the door. “Good afternoon, Sam.”

Sam looked Durruck up and down. His wife, Shebaely, constantly admonished him for not being polite. She encouraged- if such a word could be used to describe frying pans alongside his head- him to be more sociable. Nicer. Sam decided now would be as good a time as any to start, so he settled on a simple compliment in lieu of a more traditional greeting.

“Nice dress,” he rumbled from deep within his barrel chest. His dwarfish brogue caused it to sound like drrress.

“It’s not a dress!” huffed Durruck. “It’s a robe.”

“Laddie, me wife be an accomplished seamstress. She has made many a dress fer her and our bonnie wee lasses. She has e’en made me a braw bathrobe to be wearin’ after I clean up from a hard day o’ killin’. If it be one thing I know, other than drinkin’ ‘n fightin’, it be a dress when I see it. And that, laddie, be a dress.”

“Ooh, you wear a bra? Um, can I see it?” asked Durruck eagerly.

“There be times I worry about ye, laddie. Truly there be.” Sam shook his head. He wished Shebaely were here, so she could see what kind of a mess politeness got him into. But, then, he’d been wishing she would get a nose ring to match the one in her eyebrow, but that would be a cold day in Thunder Mountain. Sam knew what the philosophers said about wishes: Wish in one hand and…we’ll ne’er ye mind. It was clearly time to revert to tactics tried and true.

“Where be yer better se’en-eighths?” Sam asked, trying to peek around Durruck's slender yet annoyingly tall shoulders. “I be havin’ a question fer ye both, then I’ll be outta yer hair.”

“WHAAAAA!” screamed Ambriana despairingly from the banister, quickly filling the upper half of the entryway with steam. “Sam, how could you?” she wailed.

“Oh, not good. Not good,” muttered Durruck.

Sam shoved open the door to see what was wrong. “Great empty kegs o’ beer, lassie! What did ye do wi’ yer hair?”

“She lost it in Praag,” whispered Durruck.

“It’s gone, Sam. It’s gone.” Ambriana sobbed. Puff, puff. Hiss, hiss. “Please, Sam, don’t make fun of me. Please. My life as I know it is at an end. I shall never leave the confines of my manor. I shall smash every mirror in the house and live out my life in seclusion.”

“Not the full-length mirror in the closet, Ambri. Please, not that one,” begged Durruck.

“Ne’er ye worry, lass. No dwarf would e’er make fun o’ such a thing. Hair be sacred to us, ye know,” Sam reassured Ambriana. “Now ye just sit there ‘n steam yer wee eyes out while I-“

Ding dong. The doorbell rang again.

“Oh, could this day get any worse?” beseeched Ambriana.

Sam turned and looked Durruck up and down again. “Nae, lass,” he muttered under his breath. “I be thinkin’ no.”

Durruck swung open the door. “Zeb!”

Zeb looked Durruck up. He looked Durruck down. “Nice dr-“

“Don’t ye be goin’ there, Zeb!” rumbled Sam. “We be havin’ bigger problems than Durruck’s choice o’ clothin’. Ye bein’ a Tinkerer ‘n all, ye can be helpin’ Ambriana wi’ a wee bit o’ a problem.”

Zeb stepped in and looked up through the ever-expanding steam cloud. “Great empty kegs o’ beer!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, Zeb. Woe is me,” cried Ambriana.

“Aye, Zeb,” Sam said. “The lass lost her locks. Mayhap ye can be doin’ somethin’ fer her.”

“Come here, lass,” Zeb beckoned. “Gimme a closer look at yer pate. I just so happen to ha’ a Gnomish Cranial Folic Overlay that just mayhap do the job.”

“What be that?” asked Sam.

“It be a wig,” replied Zeb. “O’ sorts.”

“Zeb, please don’t make fun of me,” pleaded Ambriana. “There is no such thing as a wig in these lands. We’d have to travel all the way to the Eastern Kingdoms for those and I wouldn’t be caught dead over there- with or without hair.” Puff. Hiss. Ambriana knelt down so Zeb could get a closer look at her head.

“Now don’t ye be worryin’ ‘bout that none, lass,” Zeb assured her as he began poking and prodding. “We won’t be makin’ fun o’ yer- ‘ere now. What be this?” Zeb poked some more and prodded some more. He even did some picking. Then, oh so very carefully, he lifted something off of Ambriana’s head. Instantly, her flaming orange hair reappeared! In all its glorious spikiness!

“It’s…it’s…a hat!” exclaimed Durruck in awe.

“Oh, lass,” chortled Sam evilly. “Now that be funny.”

Puff. Hiss.

The reference to a Gnomish Cranial Folic Overlay is from an old story I wrote for WoW. So is the reference about Shebaely's nose ring. If you're interested in it, you can read the two-part story below.

 

[SamIam]

RAID ON ZUL'GURUB PART I

Stranglethorn Vale. A dark, foreboding jungle teeming with wildlife, trolls, and pirates. This vast jungle covers the southern peninsula of the Eastern Kingdoms and has long been a thorn in the underbelly of the Alliance. Stormwind has sent countless expeditions into the Vale, yet few have returned. Those who have, paint a bleak picture of death and disease. Outlaws, renegades, and pirates- as well as the Horde- have carved niches within the Vale; these they use as safe havens to launch attacks against the humans. Barbaric trolls, the lost descendants of a once great empire, inhabit ruins throughout the jungle; their black voodoo magic and cannibalistic rituals leave no room for mercy. And yet, as perilous as these peoples are, it is the wildlife of the jungle that is the true danger. Behind every tree, every bush, at the bottom of every ravine, on top of every crest, lurks a predator. And hidden in its shadow is yet another. Tigers and panthers. Raptors and gorillas. Crocodiles and vicious fishes. Every creature kills what it sees, and it is watching every move you make. This is Stranglethorn Vale, where the thick air is rank with rotting vegetation, the sickening tang or fresh-spilt blood, and the cold sweat of fear. Welcome to the jungle…


Tucked into the northeastern edge of the Vale are the ruins of Zul’Gurub. It was, long ago, the capitol of the great and mighty Gurubashi Empire. Long before man was rubbing two sticks together, this empire ruled the known world. And yet, like all mighty empires, it eventually fell to internal strife. Endeavoring to summon the blood-god Hakkar the Soulflayer, zealous priests, called Atal’ai, called forth his avatar. The Atal’ai were stopped, but not destroyed. The empire, however, was. The surviving Atal’ai fled north to the Swamp of Sorrows. There, they built a massive temple to Hakkar and began the long journey to summon him physically to Azeroth. That was a thousand years ago. Recently, the Atal’ai discovered that Hakkar could only be summoned from Zul’Gurub. Their temple destroyed by dragons, the priests once again returned to the capitol of a dead empire. There, they were able to summon Hakkar. The Zandalar trolls, the last remnants of the Gurubashi Empire, sent five powerful priests along with all the warriors they could muster to stop the Atal’ai. They failed. Hakkar bent the Zandalar priests to his will and, in so doing, made the blood-god stronger. Now the Alliance must reckon with this new threat; yet, the war continues to siphon away all the resources. Another army cannot be mustered to face this abomination. And yet, Hakkar the Soulflayer grows stronger by the day. Who shall meet this threat, hidden in the steaming jungle of the Vale?


Samage sighed. It was like trying to breathe while someone smothered him with his favorite silken pajamas, but he considered not breathing to be worse. He reconsidered as the dank air assaulted his olfactory senses with rotting vegetation. Gnomes may be lacking in many areas, but sense of smell was not one of them. Here in the Vale, unfortunately, that meant he suffered from every piece of rotting vegetation and the odoriferous fumes thereof. And there were many thereofs. He sighed again, slapped at some unseen biting insect, and returned to conjuring water.



Focusing his mind, Samage drew upon the arcane magicks, wove it around and through the air, turning it into a flask. Then, with just a slight twist of his will, the arcane forces began pulling the moisture from the air and filling the flask with pure water. Conjuring water is a skill learned early at the mage academy. Now, Samage did it by rote. It had a calming affect, allowing him time to reflect, ponder, and dream. Such as the irony in which he was currently involved: draining his mana to create the very water that is used to restore his mana. Everything, it seemed, followed the great circle of life.


It also allowed him time to consider the summons he had received. He had been lounging in his favorite casual attire, rose-colored paisley smoking jacket, white ascot, blue pajama bottoms, and plum slippers with white rabbit fur trim that tickled his ankles just so when he wriggled his toes. He was lying on the divan, a large tome, entitled “Frost Mages: 101 Ways To Deal With Their Envy And Cold Shoulders,” propped on his stout belly, when his divinely beautiful wife, Shebaely, entered his study.


She wore a pink dress that not only accentuated her hips, but also exposed them in such a sinfully delightful way that she could raise the dead. “Samage, dahling,” she purred, causing her husband to sit up, his tome forgotten as it fell to the floor. “Angus Og has delivered a plea for help. He says a great evil has been summoned in The Vale and wants us to help him destroy it.”


Samage, slack jawed and staring at her, uh, nose ring, was obviously lost in deep thought. Like the way her nose ring caught the candlelight and sparkled mischievously. Intoxicating. And then there was Angus. A warlock of no small repute, Angus was a long-time member of the adventuring guild. A long time member. In fact, too long for him to still have a head full of brown hair.


Shebaely knelt down to make eye contact. “Hello,” she called. “My eyes are up here,” she pointedly pointed out while pointing to her eyes.


Samage frowned, causing wrinkles to appear in his high, well, very high, forehead. “I have studied the human anatomy extensively, to include, but not limited to, the locale of said ocular orbs,” he lectured. “I was contemplating the exact phraseology of your informative statement and the understatement that lies therein. That being: The Vale is a great evil, thereby, any great evil summoned into it would not be noteworthy. Therefore, said evil must be called a greater evil, which must be several magnitudes of evil greater than great, which typically resides therein. That being The Vale. Did you know that Angus dyes his hair and wears a toupee?”


Shebaely heaved a breathy sigh. “I love it when you talk technical.”


Samage patted his wife on her, uh, cheek. “None of that, now. We must answer Angus’ summons post haste.” He jumped down off the divan and scurried toward his closet. “Since you, thankfully, deemed it unnecessary to replace your apparel after raising the dead, may I be presumptuous and humbly suggest that you endeavor to begin the journey in the immediate future? I, trained in the finer arts of teleportation, shall change into my, uh, battle dress, and meet you in The Vale.”


“Very well, love of my life.” Shebaely stood up and began swaying to the door. “Sam,” she called after her scurrying husband, “wear you blue dress, please. It matches your ocular orbs. And Angus does not wear a toupee. He had a hair transplant.”


The sharp clink of jostled flasks brought Samage back to the present. Over a hundred flasks lined the interior of his adventuring bags. Better to have too much than too little and be caught borrowing water from another mage. Especially an envious frost mage. The dank air was disturbed by the distinctive sounds of mounts tromping through the jungle foliage. The others had arrived. Angus and Shebaely. Billybob and Guilo. Reasonable and Wend. Just to name a few. Twenty, in all, had answered the summons. Samage sighed deeply. Or tried to, rather. The thick air would not cooperate. He did, however, manage to stretch a recently healed wound. That, in turn, gave him pause and compelled him to inspect the gaggle of heroes closely. Good, no Ryer. That, at least, boded well.


Angus stood up in his saddle so all could see him. He wasted no time with pleasantries or salutations. “Within the walls of Zul’Gurub, the Atal’ai have summoned their god Hakkar the Soulflayer. Five powerful troll priests entered the ruins with an army to destroy the god. They were defeated. The priests, however, were not slain but, instead, were enslaved by Hakkar and bent to his will. They now do his bidding and protect him. We are here to scout out the premises and determine how best to thwart this evil.” With that, Angus jumped off his mount and ran toward the gate. “This way to fame and glory!” he yelled, waving the heroes into motion.


Hair transplant my foot, thought Samage as he charged the gates of Zul’Gurub. He is using a Gnomish Cranial Folic Overlay, Model FO633-4 (in Brown), or I’m a frost mage.


To Be Continued…Maybe

 

[SamIam]

RAID ON ZUL'GURUB PART II

[Author's note: I finally found the second part of the ZG story. For those of you who weren't around back then, I leveled as a fire mage. About the time this story was written I had begun running MC and couldn't top the DPS charts with fire spec. Also, several guildies were beta testing TBC. Randy was a frost mage and Sheri was fire.]



It was all Angus Og’s fault, Samage thought as he sighed despondently. He ran his hand over the thick tome one last time before hefting it up off his desk and gently, reverently, placing it on the bookshelf. The gold lettering had flaked a bit on the spine, but the title was still easily discernable: “Frost Mages: 101 Ways To Deal With Their Envy and Cold Shoulders.” He sighed again, and then turned his attention to a thick package that lay on his desk. It was wrapped in fine sky-blue linen with a white silk ribbon holding it together. An elegant tag was tied to the ribbon, made of hand-stamped parchment. Gold lettering flowed across the tag, and fell straight to the pit of Samage’s stomach. It read, “To Samage The Switcher, From Your Friend (and now Mentor) Durruck.” Friend, indeed, thought Samage. He’s gloating. I know it. Durruck is, at this precise moment, howling with unabashed amusement and hilarity. And it’s all Angus’ fault…

Delaying the inevitable no longer, Samage untied the ribbon and opened the package. Within lay a tome. A brand new tome that still exuded the aroma of freshly worked leather. Gold lettering shone in the candlelight, their daunting message sending a chill down Samage’s spine. Samage stretched out his hand, not quite touching the voluminous “gift” that his “friend” had given him. Howling. Cackling. At this precise moment. And it was still all Angus’ fault. Just you wait, “friend” Durruck. Wait until Ambryana, your Fire-Mage wife, hears about your jocularity at my expense. We’ll see who’s howling and cackling then.

The soft patter of slippered feet intruded upon Samage’s musings. Shebaely had returned from raising the dead. “Samage, dahling,” she purred. “I’ve missed you so. It’s good to be home.” She threw herself at the diminutive mage, wrapping him in her arms and squeezing for all her worth.

“Ah…my…dear,” Samage gasped between hugs. “To what far ranging locales have you been?”

Shebaely looked furtively around the room. “I have been to the Outlands,” she whispered. “Esua invited several of our adventuring guild to scout the Outlands with him. Wend was there, of course. So were Reasonable, Osk, and others. Oh, Durruck as well. We were searching for bugs. I am uncertain of their family, but they are of the genus Glitches…”

Samage heard nothing after “Durruck.” The howling, cackling Durruck. The howling, cackling Durruck rolling on the floor, clutching his sides. The howling, cackling Durruck rolling on the floor, clutching his sides, while they split open and his guts ooze out between his fingers. Samage shook his head to clear the pleasant vision. “Do tell,” he replied.

“I did,” Shebaely said.

“You did what, dear?”

“Tell.”

“Tell what, dear?”

“Whom,” replied Shebaely.

“What?” asked Samage. He was beginning to think he had missed a critical element of this conversation.

“Whom, not what. You told me to tell, but I already had. Then you asked what I did and I said I told. Whereupon you asked what I told, when, in fact, you meant to ask to whom I told what I told. And the whom to whom I told it was you.”

Samage stared at her blankly. “You don’t say.”

“I just did.”

“Did what, dear?”

“Say.”

“Say what, dear?”

“What.”

“What?” asked Samage. He no longer thought he had missed a critical element of this conversation. Instead, he was pondering the possibility that his wife had misplaced a significant portion of her brain cells.

Shebaely rolled her eyes and heaved a frustrated sigh. “You said don’t say, but I already had, so I informed you of such. Then you asked what did I just do and I clarified by stating I had said what you told me not to say. At which point you said to say what, and being the selectively submissive and obedient wife that I am, I said it; it being what, of course. Are you OK, Sam? You look a little blue.”

Samage stared at her blankly. He had a terrible feeling that the misplaced significant portion of her brain cells had created a vacuum that was sucking the oxygen from his own cranium. “My dear, I never thought I’d live to see this day, but I must admit that you have thoroughly discombobulated me.”

“Perish the thought!” Shebaely gasped. “I eschew obfuscation at every opportunity.”

“Hmm,” Samage hmmed non-committedly, not wanting to deprive himself of any more oxygen. “Speaking of perishing,” he said, deftly altering the subject at hand. “I don’t suppose the next time you’re out searching for bugs with Durruck that you could ‘accidentally’ let him die a few times? Nothing too serious, just fake a sneeze in the middle of a heal or something.”

“Sam! How could you say such a thing?”

“Well, first you inhale several cubic centimeters of air into your- “

“No, silly. How could you suggest that I let Durruck die?”

Samage paused momentarily, uncertain how best to proceed. Shebaely’s vacuum had really taken it out of him. Whatever “it” was. “He sent me a sizeable tome wrapped in linen and adorned with a white silken ribbon,” he finally replied.

Now it was Shebaely’s turn to pause. “A gift? You want me to let Durruck die because he gave you a gift?”

Samage reached over and lifted the massive tome off his desk and showed it to his wife. The golden lettering sparkled in the candlelight…just like the sun reflecting off the morning frost. Shebaely read the title aloud. “Fire Mages: 101 Ways To Deal With Their Envy and Hot Heads.”

She looked from the book to Samage and back again. “I don’t understand,” she said haltingly.

Samage sighed. “It involves a rather lengthy dissertation ranging across a broad spectrum of topics and actions heretofore unmentioned.”

Shebaely’s eyes sparkled. “Ooh, you know how I love it when you talk like that,” she purred. “Please, do tell.”

“I am.”

“You are?”

“I’m trying.”

“Trying what, dear?”

Samage took a deep breath and held it while plugging his ears with his fingers. Trying to prevent the vacuum in your head from sucking every ounce of intelligence out of me, he thought to himself. Unfortunately, with his hands occupied with the plugging of his ears, his oversized nose was still free to allow said intellect to escape. Not having the wherewithal to fight a losing battle, Samage unplugged his ears and continued with his explanation.

“I would ask that you endeavor to recall the conversation that we had when first we were summoned to Zul’Gurub by Angus Og. In said conversation, I argued, using observable datum, mind you, that Angus wore a toupee. At which point, you said-“

“That he did not wear a toupee but had a hair transplant. But what does that have to do with a gift from Durruck?”

“Why, everything,” replied Samage.

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything.”

“I see.” Shebaely said.

“You do?”

“No, actually. I don’t.”

“Really?” Samage asked, clearly worried about his wife’s eyesight. “That is quite undesirable. I know an engineer that can create ocular lenses to assist-“

“Sam,” Shebaely cut him off. “Please get to the point.”

“I was striving to achieve the point, my dear, when you took it upon yourself to alter the course of our conversation by enlightening me to the fact that you have poor eyesight,” Samage admonished.

“Now to continue: Unlike priests, whose holy magic is, in actuality, divine blessing channeled through them by the Great Spirit, mages must learn to master and control the chaotic energies that ebb and flow in, through, and around all matter. There are occasions, when said energies can take on a life of their own and play havoc with an inattentive mage. Said mage will then-“

“Samage, please,” begged Shebaely. “As much as I love to listen to you talk, would you please just get to the point?”

“I am doing just that, my dear,” Samage huffed. “However, the pentacle on which my point resides and the path to said pentacle that we must traverse is wholly covered by minor, but relevant sub-points, all of which must be ascended in a logical manner, or the final point shall be lost and the pentacle unsurmounted. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Inattentive mages.

“Once our raid had gathered at the gates, Angus gave a rousing speech as to the purpose of his calling us together. While he orated, I was surreptitiously scanning the group to ascertain if Ryer was present. My wounds were still healing and I did not want her re-opening them. Fortunately, she was absent. Unfortunately, so was my control of the chaotic energies in our then present locale. As we rushed the gates of Zul’Gurub, my ocular orbs received light reflected from Angus’ head, and a potentially dangerous thought leaped to the forefront of my cranium. That being this: ‘Angus wears a Gnomish Cranial Folic Overlay, Model FO633-4 (in Brown), or I’m a frost mage.’”

Shebaely arched an eyebrow and glanced down at the tome between them. A glimmer of understanding began to seep out of her vacuum.

“We scouted through the ruins,” Samage continued, “and made our way to the Bloodlord Mandokir. During the clash of arms, Angus was cut down in a rather gruesome fashion. Needing to pause in the killing of said Bloodlord, I was presented with the perfect opportunity to prove, once and for all, that Angus wears a toupee.”

“I told you, dear,” Shebaely cut in, “that he had a hair transplant.”

“Yes, well,” Samage continued, “I grasped numerous folical protuberances that were atop Angus’ cranium and applied a minute amount of force. They did not move. Thinking that said Gnomish Cranial Folic Overlay, Model FO633-4 (in Brown) was affixed with Goblin Glue, I exerted an excessive amount of force. Angus’ cranial epidermis released its hold on said folical protuberances. However, only those which I firmly grasped came loose.”

“I told you, dear,” Shebaely cut in, “that he had a hair transplant.”

“Yes, Angus wasn’t wearing a toupee. And with the chaotic forces swirling to and fro about us…”

Understanding dawned. Shebaely’s jaw dropped, her eyebrows stretched high onto her forehead. “You mean…you mean…”

“Yes, dear,” Samage confirmed. “I am now a frost mage.”

 

[Odale]

lol, nice story sam!

 

[Durruck]

*reads Odale's signature*

......

I might just hate SamIam now.

And it's not a dress. It's a robe.

 

[Ambryana]

I love this story!

I still can't believe how unbelievably bad Mythic CSRs are. My ticket was open for a month and they weren't able to provide help for this issue - which in the end was incredibly simple to fix. I wish I would have thought about removing my helm earlier. I had it on before the patch and my hair showed so I thought it was a character issue.

The CSRs came up with all kinds of silly things to try - restart the game, re-install the game, use /reloadui - even when the problem happened on multiple PCs. One of the in-game CSRs sent me to EA tech support. Apparently they weren't supposed to do that and the EA tech support rep sent me back to in-game support, which I knew was getting me nowhere.

The guild gave me more helpful suggestions than the CSRs so thank you for that!

 

[zebedee]

I was almost in tears at some points! It almost went too far on poor, Durruck. I could make a suggestion about that robe but it could lead to another story so I won't go there. ha!

My BW had a baldie hat but they fixed it in a patch. Deamiter had mentioned something that caused me to link my baldey hat issue to Ambri's. So I think the story was missing some input from Deamiter.

 

[SamIam]

I was almost in tears at some points! It almost went too far on poor, Durruck. I could make a suggestion about that robe but it could lead to another story so I won't go there. ha!

My BW had a baldie hat but they fixed it in a patch. Deamiter had mentioned something that caused me to link my baldey hat issue to Ambri's. So I think the story was missing some input from Deamiter.

Just what the story needed: another guy in a dress.