I was only trying to queue for the cooking daily.
One click too many and—poof—I was standing in the upper reaches of Hellfire Citadel, wrapped in the vaguely sulfurous scent of The Blood Furnace, wondering why I’d equipped my tea-stirring spoon instead of my proper staff.
“Wait, are you the healer?” asked the draenei paladin at the front, squinting at me as though I might still poof away.
“Er. Yes! That’s me. Auremai. Mistweaver monk, mostly merchant, occasional healer,” I said, bowing. “I dabble.”
The group charged ahead before I could elaborate, which was probably for the best because my last healing run had been before Deathwing redecorated the planet.
I took a deep breath and shifted into mistweaver stance, letting the familiar flow of chi swirl through me. It was like riding a gryphon: you never really forget… but that first jump still makes you question your life choices.
The first pull? A lesson in humility. And combustion.
I targeted the wrong person, cast Life Cocoon on the rogue who hadn’t taken any damage, and managed to roll directly into a Firebomb.
“Gnome down! Gnome down!” the mage laughed, while I extinguished myself with a small squeal and a health potion that tasted like burnt pennies.
But I didn’t give up.
Monks fall, monks rise. And monks—especially gnome monks with a sense of misplaced confidence—improvise.
I planted my Jade Serpent Statue this time (in the right direction!), let Renewing Mist dance through the group like a breeze, and used Vivify so fast my fingers blurred. The tank, bless him, only died once more after that.
“Getting the hang of it, shortstuff,” the rogue grinned after we survived a rather dramatic encounter with a room full of technicians who really needed a union.
“Thanks,” I muttered, cheeks warm, as I ducked behind my cartwheel to dodge another Fel Nova. “Just… channeling the mist. And mild panic.”
By the time we reached Keli’dan the Breaker, I had settled into the rhythm: soothe, roll, heal, repeat. The boss ranted something about destruction, but all I could think about was how very rude it was to yell indoors.
When he finally exploded in a spectacular burst of fel energy (and flair), everyone stood—somehow still alive. Even the mage.
We looted in silence, the good kind, and the paladin finally gave me a thumbs-up. “Not bad for someone who said they ‘dabble.’”
I shrugged, blushing as I tucked a small healing charm into his bag when he wasn’t looking. “Helping people is the easy part. It’s the not panicking that takes training.”
Back in Stormwind, I climbed onto my cart, pulled out my notebook, and jotted down a new idea: Love in the Time of Felfire. Maybe with a paladin and a baker trapped in a fortress together…
Maybe next time I’d heal on purpose. But for now? I had tea, a story brewing, and no scorch marks.
A pretty good day, all told.
A Pixel Nomad 