Advice for Annephora from Matthew Rossi, The Care and Feeding of Warriors.
Between 30 and 40, you get Berserker Stance (less than useful for you) the warrior quests (since you're prot, the weapons there won't be useful there) and Scarlet Monastery. Go there early, go there often. Get the shield; it will last you 10 levels at least.
By level 40 you will have spent 31 points, meaning that you'll really start to feel that you are a prot warrior over arms or fury. Consider an early respec to get up to conq blow. If you'd rather spend all your points in prot, this spec is reachable by 40, but it costs you useful talents in arms and fury.
This is the level spread to run dungeons as a real tank as opposed to just a warrior. So get rolling. Queue for SM as much as you can bear it.
Fox Van Allen as Foxlight
Been a while since I wrote last, but I've got some free time now. I'm sitting on a zeppelin, headed for the Ghostlands. The Barrens are totally played out.
The last week or two, I'd been passing my time doing favors for the locals in Crossroads -- namely Sergra Darkthorn. First, I cleared out a bunch of plainstriders. I impressed him enough with my mad skill that he paid me to beat down some zhevra, too. After that, I was ordered to kill a bunch of prowlers. The rationale for killing the plainstriders was flimsy, but I went along with it. The rationale for killing the prowlers was non-existent. I think he just likes watching me kill stuff.
If you know anything about this blood elf boi, though, I'm less about the work and all about the play. After a brutal, sweaty day of rounding up hacked-off animal parts, I headed into Orgrimmar to check out the steamy club scene -- I needed one last party before leaving town. Granted, there aren't any clubs in Orgrimmar per se. But any belf knows that the real parties happen underground. You just gotta know the right person to ask.
This guy, Neeru Fireblade -- totally sketch. Reminds me of my old Bloodthistle dealer back in Silvermoon. I normally don't talk to creepy, busted, old, aesthetically challenged dudes, but I could tell Neeru knew how -- and where -- to party. I was alone and desperate, and he was ready to hook me up.
He directed me to this place called Ragefire Chasm. This place was soooooo exclusive that even I'd never even heard of it before. It's kinda like a sauna, but dirtier. And hotter.
The scene there was a little rough, though. All the orcs were totally messed up on Strange Dust. I like to party, but that's totes not my scene. They were fiending pretty hard, cause they picked fights with me all night long. Even sent their elementals after me. That's cool though -- whateves, bring it. I can handle myself. Took 20 of 'em down all by my lonesome 'cause I'm butch like that. No help, certainly not any from a high-level warlock. Just me. And my fists. One hit and they were gravel.
I celebrated my victory by stripping down and climbing into one of the hot tubs they have down there. I had the most amazing tan going before I ignited and turned into a charred corpse. They should have maintenance check the thermostat.
Anne Stickney as Annephora
Hoo, I been busy! I did more tings for de people in Tarren Mill. Dere was a group dat stole tings from Sylvanas, so I was sent t'get dem back. I ... don't tink mebbe de were doin anyting bad. I go, get tings back, but dere was a lady wit one o' dem, she drop a journal and I read it and it sound like mebbe de weren't so bad after all. I did dat, and den I did someting with a funny stick, and took it to a grave and ended up resurrectin a funny man who went to attack de Alliance city nearby. I don't tink I like dis place very much, so when I get orders to go elsewhere, dat very nice! Dey sent me to de jungle! Stranglethorn Vale. And dere be trolls dere like me! Much much much better den dat strange city up north, nobody be sendin me to do anyting questionable 'ere! De kitties seem to like de jungle much bettah.
Also found all kind o' new armor. Now I look like warrior, fierce and strong! Not like silly elf dancer. Funny dwarf down dere ask me ta kill all kinds of animals for him, say it for sport. Fine wit me! Cept I feel bad fo killin all de kitties...
Christian Belt as Selfloathius
Selfloathius was pretty sure his Voidwalker was defective.
First, there was his voice. Definitely some kind of speech impediment going on there. It was all monosyllabic and mush-mouthed. Then there was the fact that whenever the warlock decided to provoke a monster to anger in the hopes that it might end his miserable existence, the stupid purple demon would throw itself into harm's way to protect him. This was an admirable trait the first time, but after Selfloathius had repeatedly explained to the Voidwalker that he did not, in fact, wish to be protected--and still the creature persisted--he considered it a symptom of some sort of serious malfunction of the summoning process.
Oh well, he could always just stick with the Imp.
Learning to summon the Voidwalker, whose name was Chartast, had been something of a warlock milestone for Selfloathius. He supposed he was glad to have access to the thing. It meant he was level 10 now, and able to do a few new things. For one thing, he had a talent point. Affliction seemed like a pretty depressing tree, so he put a point in Improved Whatever and felt immediately better at warlocking.
Another thing he'd learned how to do was cast a spell called Create Healthstone. He created one, and when a green cookie appeared in his hand, he nibbled it, curious. It made him feel better! He tossed it on the ground. No more of those for Selfloathius.
A few folks saw Selfloathius moping around near the border to the Ghostlands and invited him to join them on a trip through a place called "Ragefire Chasm." Rage? Fire? Chasm? Selfloathius had often used those three words with great relish in his poetry, and he liked the sound of them together. He joined his new party at the entrance to the place and prepared to charge in and die as swiftly as possible. The place was lousy with powerful Troggs, cultists, and demons. Surely these enemies would spell Selfloathius's doom. It wasn't long before Selfloathius realized his error.
His teammates were ... competent?
Enemy after enemy fell to their skilled blades and spells. Selfloathius could only watch, throw out one of his pathetic little curses on occasion, and try to keep his Voidwalker from eating the healer. There would be no death for Selfloathius in this cave.
When at last the quintet emerged from that dark maw victorious, having slain everything within, Selfloathius couldn't help but feel a bit empty. How was he going to die when there were so many trying so hard to keep him alive?
The answer, he feared, was more sinister than he dared imagine.
The answer ... was Justin Bieber.