Friday, August 29, 2008

F#$@. Respawn. Timers.

Yeah, so long story short, no f@#$ing ribs.

Sure, sure, they had baby back ribs on the menu.

I was very specific in my desire for beef ribs. The big dinosaur ribs like they put on the Flintstone's car and tip the vehicle over.

The substitute steak was pretty damn good, tho.

On to the raid.

We get 24 people from the guild together, which is pretty f@#$ing sweet. And the other night we had all 25 from our guild for the very first T5 run. Nice!

So this night, following the rib-less disaster of a sales pitch, we head into SSC, with aspirations of making a Fish Taco out of the Lurker Below.

Up to this point, we'd tried him 2 nights in a row. Clearly the T5 content is a little more demanding on the raid members. For a progression team, it seems tuned such that even a single slacker will cause trouble.

Head on in, relatively straight forward push through the trash.

Then the connection issues started up. One player was continuously DC'ing. Then another, then another.

And right as we clear the final trash pull that causes the water to boil and all the fish to be belly up, Amava begins her lovely waltz with the DC Monster.

Maybe 15 minutes or so, trying to log back in, reading the Blizzard forums which seem to indicate this is happening to lots of people.

Through it all, my Vent connection was perfect, so I was able to rule out my local hotel Internet connection.

So I made the call to replace me. We luckily had a Mage available, so off they go.

And I listened on Vent.


Just not fun to be blocked by technical issues, when all the other stars were aligned that night.

First few tries, same old, same old. People are having issues (A) avoiding Spout, and (B) crowd controlling the archers on the islands, and (C) allowing the tanks to pick up the Guardians on the donut, which is my pet name for the island that Lurker lives in the middle of.

Then one attempt, everything just seemed to come together.

Everyone was diving deep to avoid Spout. I had put a Hunter and a Mage on each island, and they all worked out how to properly CC the archers. Everyone was showing discipline and allowing the tanks to pick up their Guardians.

The boss was progressively heading towards a watery grave. The raid was suitably healthy, with nearly every member alive.

Amava was listening in on vent, pacing in the Hotel room, like an expectant father in the waiting room, unable to do anything to change the course of events, but hugely anxious for the outcome. (*)

Then. The Tragedy. The Travesty!

Somewhere around 27% or so, with things going strong, and a boss-death seeming imminent.

Everybody dives below to avoid a spout.

And all sorts of WTF's start flying around.

The damn fish in the water respawned, and wiped the raid.


We're so going back in there and kicking his ass. And I'll accept no technical issues, BLIZZARD!!!!!! /shakes fist

(*) This is the year 2000, and modern fathers play an active role in the actual delivery room, not pacing in the waiting room, smoking cigars, crossing fingers for a boy. I use the simile in jest.

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