Heroic Hodir – The Movie

Last Updated on Monday, 12 September 2011 12:43 Written by HalonaZAT Sunday, 26 July 2009 11:30

Hodir has already been killed more than a few times by our team… but this time we brought the documentary film crew along. Enjoy!

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First Kill of Assembly of Iron (25hc)!

Last Updated on Monday, 2 September 2013 07:22 Written by HalonaZAT Tuesday, 5 May 2009 11:30

Little Harry Prototype’s hands gripped the gryphon’s saddle
tightly. They’d been travelling for hours over dense dark
forests and past mighty mountains but he’d not felt drowsy
once, even though it was well past his bedtime. Ever since
he’d set his eyebrows on fire by scratching his bottom,
Harry had wanted with all his heart to fight evil alongside
the most dedicated dungeon raiders Azeroth had ever seen.

The gryphon banked gently, riding warm evening winds with a
grace Harry couldn’t help but admire. Shadowed mountain
peaks drew back and, in the soft twilight, finally revealed
his destination. The Converge Guild of Magecraft and Tankery.

The huge, imposing castle and its grounds hovered over the
floor of a long valley flanked by jagged snow-capped
mountains. The sprawling structure was a creation of
contrasts; graceful cream towers thrust skyward beside
gently arching domes of rare jade stone. Large training
grounds and gardens served to give the place a relaxed,
dignified air.

With a harsh cry, his gryphon dove towards the Converge
flight point. Moments later Harry was clambering stiffly
off his mount and handing the reins to a grizzled stableman.
A short, plump woman with long white hair stood clutching a
wooden board with ‘Prototype’ scribbled in pink chalk.
He hobbled up, trying hard to smile through the pain.

“Harry Prototype?” the woman asked, reaching into the folds
of her robe and drawing out a small blue bottle. Harry nodded
as she took a deep swig and quickly slid the container back
out of sight along with the board. “I’m Rosika, Professor
MacSnape’s personal assistant. Follow me, please.” Harry
did as he was told and soon the two of them were hurrying
down tall stone corridors lined with massive paintings.

They showed grinning adventurers grouped around creatures
clearly vanquished in the name of all that was good. One
day Harry hoped he’d be standing among heroes such as these,
knowing he’d helped make the world a safer place and was
potentially about to get shiny loot.

“Nice, aren’t they?” said Rosika. “Professor B’s quite the
speed sketcher.” Harry could only nod and gape as painting
after painting slid past, each showing ever more impressive
kills. After a moment Rosika tapped him on the shoulder.
“We’re about to pass through the Tanking Grounds. You might
want to cover your ears.” Harry tore his gaze away from
the walls and noticed a growing smell of grass, sweat and
blood.

The pair turned a corner and Harry was forced to stop so he
could take in the sight properly. The corridor opened out
into a huge training field filled with the oddest assortment
of straw dummies Harry had ever seen. Some were man-sized
but others were several stories high. Dozens of grunting
steel-clad figures dotted the space, each striving to take
apart one of the resilient straw creations with wooden
swords and axes.

Among them, dressed in ornate red armour, strode the
imposing figure of a Death Knight. Even though Harry couldn’t
see the face behind the daunting horned helmet, he got the
distinct impression he wasn’t at all happy. Harry hoped he
could get the Death Knight’s autograph later, he’d never
met one before. “Professor Epidemic, Head of Tanking and
Spanking,” said Rosika. She blushed slightly, took a quick
swig from the blue bottle that had appeared once more and
motioned towards a door at the base of a tower edging onto
the training grounds.

“Come on, Prototype, he’s about to get shouty.” As the pair
moved towards the doorway Professor Epidemic came to a halt
behind the figure of a burly dwarf who’d stopped bashing his
straw giant seconds before with what looked like a huge oak
lollypop. The dwarf was doubled over, panting and looked
unaware of the Death Knight now standing inches away.
Epidemic leant close to the figure as if examining him, then
pulled back a little and inhaled mightily.

“PUSS, PUSS!” He bellowed into the swaying helmet. The dwarf
let out a muffled shriek and collapsed with a clank. Snorting,
the Death Knight straightened and turned to look at Harry.
“Joining us, pretty boy? Space just opened up!” he called in
a booming, hollow voice. A few warriors mustered the strength
to laugh as Rosika ushered Harry through the tower door and
into the relative cool. “Puss, puss,” whispered Harry to
himself as they climbed the spiral stairs. “Some kind of
intricate tanking term, I bet.”

They arrived at a large ornate oak door. Panting a little,
Rosika pushed it open and led them into what appeared to be a
huge library. Shelves lined circular walls crammed with books
of every type and the floor was a clutter of tables, whirling
gizmos and other oddities. Harry’s gaze was drawn to a strange
looking yellow cabinet with a slanting glass front, strange
stick on the front and runes etched on the side. They seemed
to spell ‘Frogger’ in the old language, which led Harry to
assume the machine had some kind of polymorphic purpose.

“Wait here,” said Rosika. When Harry looked around she’d
disappeared so he contented himself poking around the
fascinating mess. Strangely, he found a few dirty pots and pans
dotted amongst the jumble of items. “Don’t,” said a surly voice
behind Harry, as he reached for a tired-looking sandwich hidden
under a torn romance novel. “You’ll only hurt yourself.” He
turned to stare at a stack of glittering red books a few feet
behind him.

“You… you can talk!” he sputtered.
“Gods and fishes boy, you’re easy to impress,” said the voice.
There was a pause as Harry tried to think of a pithy reply.
“Well, Mr Book…” he began.
“I’m behind the books, Prototype,” said the voice.
“Behind?” Harry moved around the stack and saw what might have
been the grumpiest looking gnome he’d ever set eyes on (and he’d
lived next door to Arthur Zmall, two-time winner of the Azerothian
Angriest Gnome Competition). Three feet high and dressed in
pulsating purple robes Harry wasn’t sure if he was impressed or
amused by the figure who stood glaring at him.

“Professor Hairy “Badlimp” MacSnape, Prototype, Head of Finger
Wiggling,” announced Rosika, who’d appeared once more.
“Thank you Rozzie,” said the Professor. “That’ll be all. Don’t
forget to tell Professor B I’ll have that little matter we discussed
yesterday straightened out soon.” Rosika nodded, smiled at Harry
and left through the door they’d just used.
“Pleased to meet you, Professor,” said Harry.
“I bet you are,” replied the gnome, eying him. “So… you’re here
about the raid spot, eh? Why should I choose you?” Harry
straightened, ready with his pitch.
“Well, I’m a survivor, Professor. I never die on wipes,” he said proudly.
“That’s what the last idiot said,” muttered MacSnape. “Right after
he’d invented those ridiculous auto-iceblock underpants.”
“They sound, er… interesting,” said Harry, trying to be polite.
“Well, let’s just say you don’t want to be wearing a pair after
a heavy night on the vindaloos,” he chuckled. “They’re still chipping
the silly bugger out.” The gnome seemed to brighten at the thought
as he moved closer to Harry and whipped out a shimmering wand.

“Ready for your quest, Prototype?” he said, smiling slightly. For some reason
his expression did nothing to ease Harry’s growing unease.
“Quest, Professor?”
“Yeah, quest. You didn’t think you’d swan in here, flash those dainty
calves and get the slot, did you? I need proof, boy!”
“Proof?” said Harry.
“Proof you can face the flames of danger and stare them down! Proof
you’re someone who’ll wiggle his fingers no matter the cost and no
matter the pain!” Professor Hairy MacSnape gestured wildly with his
wand, sending orange sparks into a pile of books. One caught fire.
“Well, I did send my CV,” said Harry weakly, moving to pat the book.
It really was past his bedtime and a lot of his spells were still on
cooldown.

“We don’t need a piece of paper, boy,” sneered the Professor. “We need
the bravest and the best to help us rid the world of evil so dark, evil
so terrible…”
“And get shinies?” interrupted Harry.
“Yes, of course. That pretty much goes without saying.” Harry realised
he stood on the edge of something big. This was more important than the
time he’d refused to play kiss chase with Bambi because they were cousins.
He knew there was only one answer he could give.
“I’m in,” he proclaimed, puffing out his chest.
“Great. Now, this quest is called The Iron Council,” said the Professor,
steadying his wand. Harry relaxed; this wasn’t going to be nearly as bad
as he’d thought.
“It’s some kind of tax-paying quest then?”
“Er, no, Prototype. It’s more in the line of a getting-something-back quest.”

That didn’t sound as easy and potentially pain-free as Harry would have liked,
but he was determined to impress.
“I’m listening, Sir” he said, trying to not let his bottom lip tremble.
“It’s pretty simple really. I’m going to portal you to the Cave of the
Iron Council. There you’ll need to best its three terrifying guardians,
locate the Holy Container of Queef and then teleport back to me. Questions?”
“Can I just ask the terrifying guardians for the Holy Container of Queef?”
said Harry, eager to show he was willing to consider the diplomatic option.
“Sure,” replied MacSnape. “Though I imagine it’ll be hard to speak with
lightning coming out of your bottom.”

“Ah. Right.” Harry suddenly wasn’t as keen to be a hero. He was pretty
sure that farting bolts of lightning would be jolly painful indeed
and – at the very least – require one buy a new pair of mages’ undergarments
afterwards. The combination of agony and expense helped him come to a
pretty drastic decision. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late.
Professor Hairy MacSnape was already incanting the portal spell and Harry
felt himself disappearing into it. As the cluttered library and the gnome
faded from view, he heard the Professor shout.
“And don’t forget to use your healing spells!”

Healing spells, thought Harry as he hurtled through the void. Mages don’t
know those… do they? Gods! What if all this time he’d only been using
only half his abilities? Before he could consider the terrifying thought
further, he snapped back into the real world. He thrust his concerns to
one side and looked around, ready to repulse any sudden attacks.
But Harry found himself alone at the back of a large, dank cave he judged
might comfortably hold two jousting fields. High above, through gaps in the
ceiling, stars flickered in the night sky. There was the faint stench that
hinted at things he didn’t want to know about. As his eyes adjusted to the
gloom Harry hoped he would see the Holy Container of Queef. If he was lucky
perhaps he wouldn’t have to face the Iron Council Guardians at all. Maybe it
was their day off.

Harry scanned his surroundings but all he saw was the dusty cave floor
stretching into darkness. Sighing softly, he took out his wand and moved
forward wishing desperately he’d learned that invisibility spell everyone
and their water elemental seemed to be raving about.
After a hundred meters or so, the cave began to narrow and the smell started
to become a stench. Gagging, he came into view of the far end of the cave.
A small, badly fitted wooden door was jammed over a roughly rectangular hole.
Gritting his teeth and readying himself for anything, Harry padded to the door
and gripped the ragged rope that served as a handle. He held his breath and
listened, hoping for a clue as to what lay behind the rude entrance.
All he heard was the faint rustling of his robes. Cursing softly, he moved to
one side, gently pulled the door open and for a moment was almost overcome
by the smell that billowed out.

Harry’s vision blurred and he resisted the urge to throw up. Breathing through
his mouth seemed to help, and when nothing else happened Harry realised this
was probably not spellcraft. Holding his nose with his free hand, Harry moved
into a long corridor.
After a few metres the faint starlight faded and Harry was engulfed in total
darkness. Determined not to alert any guardians, he forced himself to use the
rough stone walls to guide his way. I will be one with the night, he thought
fiercely to himself as he moved forward. I am brother to shadow and sister
to… he stopped the mantra there, not sure where it was going. Besides, the
stone floor seemed to be getting really muddy and he had to concentrate to
keep his balance. The smell was even stronger too, but Harry was getting used
to it. Suddenly he felt the wall curve to the right. He followed it around
and saw the blackness ahead was pierced with the darkest of greys. Light!

Harry slipped and slid his way forward tying to remain quiet.
He came to what appeared to be a medium-sized room, though it was hard to tell
as – even in the dim light – he couldn’t make much out. A candle flickered on
top of a small table beside a large bed in one corner. In the middle of the
room, in a particularly muddy part of the floor, was a worn leather bag with
a ‘Q’ branded on its side. Harry gasped, The Holy Container of Queef just a
few short feet away. As he stood, gawping, something large on the bad groaned,
shifted beneath the covers, then let out a long rumbling fart.

“For the gods’ sakes, woman,” said a gruff voice, heavy with sleep. “Could
you not hold off the Orgrimmar Ovens for one blessed night?” Harry had had
enough, here he was, possibly about to face at least two of the terrible
Iron Council Guardians (who had been asleep, which must be some kind of
etiquette breach, surely) and he couldn’t think of a single defensive spell
should things kick off. He let out a whimper. Though soft, the noise carried
in the silence and things happened fast after that. The two large figures on
the bed bolted upright throwing back the covers. A fresh wave of smell washed
over Harry and he felt his nostril hairs curl.

“Wazzat?!” shouted the voice, no longer at all sleepy. A meaty arm shot towards
the candle, knocking it into the mud and plunging the room into total darkness.
Harry yelped and dove forward, determined to at least try to reach the
Holy Container of Queef before he was forcefully separated from his all limbs.
He plunged through the air, landed and felt the leather container beneath him.
Yes! Sliding on the mud he flipped onto his back, freed up his wand arm and
tried desperately to think of a spell to stave off the creatures who would be
reaching for him, hungry for blood. Crashing and cursing filled the air and
Harry wondered if he was about to know what it was like to fart lightning.
Suddenly he realised what he had to do, it was all so clear now!

“I’m healing myself!” he shouted defiantly. “Greater heal! Greater heal!”
He waved his wand in the blackness and, sure enough, a soft white glow began to
surround him. The Professor had been telling him truth, he could cast healing
spells! As he was sucked into a portal spell he thought he heard the deep voice
say, “Your brain needs a greater heal, that’s for sure.” Then the world went black.

Harry woke to find himself in what looked to be a hospital bed. A bald, leather-clad
man sporting a long flowing beard sat in a chair nearby, sketching. When he noticed
Harry looking at him he smiled and carefully put down his pad.
“Ah, Mr Prototype,” he said, standing up. “I see you’re back with us. Doesn’t
take much to get you to faint, does it?”
“Where am I?”
“The Converge Guild’s Healing Wing,” replied the man, his blue eyes twinkling merrily.
“I’m Professor B, the Guild Master.”
“Did I bring back The Queef?” asked Harry. “Did I pass the quest?” Professor B
chuckled, walked to a window and stared out for a moment.
“Ah, I see Professor MacSnape’s been up to his old tricks again. He’s quite the
joker, I must say.”
“Tricks?” Harry didn’t know what to say. He’d completed Professor Hairy MacSnape’s
quest, hadn’t he? Surely he would be admitted into Converge’s hallowed ranks… but
if the whole thing had been a joke…
“Professor MacSnape’s always hated getting the queef pie before a major raid and
tomorrow we’re taking on The Iron Council,” said Professor B moving to the foot
of Harry’s bed. “He’ll do anything to get out of seeing Dungus the Troll and his wife.”

As he spoke the door to the room opened and MacSnape walked in, looking extremely
pleased with himself.
“Yeah, that smelly cow’s always farting the place up,” the gnome said, moving to
stand beside Professor B who nodded sadly. “And don’t even get me started on
their crap-covered floors!”
“Floors… crap?” said Harry, still not quite sure what was going on.
“Yes, Harry,” said Professor B, walking over to his sketch pad and picking it up.
“Dungus swears keeping fresh dung on the floor’s good for the skin.” He walked
over to the door and turned to look back at Harry with a wry smile. “Let’s hope he’s
right, as you popped out of that portal spell rather covered in the stuff.”

MacSnape roared with laughter as Professor B gave a small wave and left. Harry
was thunderstruck, it had all been an elaborate hoax! There’d been no quest,
he wasn’t going to get into Converge and, worst of all, he was a laughing stock.
Professor Hairy MacSnape stopped chuckling and must have read Harry’s mind.
“Don’t worry, boy,” said, awkwardly patting Harry’s hand. “You always had the
slot, I just needed someone to help me out a little. I wasn’t going to trot through
all that crap with these new Tier 8 boots on!” He lifted the hem of his robe to
show Harry the finest pair of shimmering mages’ boots he’d ever laid eyes on.

“Play your cards right, you’ll eventually be wearing a pair of these bad-boys!”
Harry’s eyes widened, he was going to make it into those paintings after all,
be a true hero.
“Really?” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes.
“Sure, soon as you’re up and about I’ve got this great quest for you to go on
first. It’s called Baiting the Zhiva, you’ll love it!”

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