Seven days of an alt with nothing in her pockets

Day 1. I roll a new character on my usual Classic realm and promise myself I will not touch the main’s bank. The first quest pays copper. I laugh, and then I count it twice, because counting is the only fun there is at this level.

Day 2. I pick herbalism and skinning because the starting zone is full of both. Every wolf becomes leather. My bags are full by lunchtime and I vendor the grey items twice. I feel rich for about four minutes, then I see the price of a single bag.

Day 2, evening. I read the Auction House the way you read a menu in a foreign language. Linen is cheap, ore is dear, and nobody wants my wolf pelts. I take notes anyway. The notes are mostly question marks.

Day 3. First visit to the Auction House. I post a stack of linen cloth, a little too cheaply, and it sells before I log off. A lesson in pricing, delivered by someone else’s bargain. I write “undercut less” on a sticky note and put it on the monitor.

Day 3, later. I try a delivery quest across the zone and discover the real cost of travel: time. The coin is fine. The walk is not. I pocket a few extra herbs on the way and call it a win.

Day 4. Training costs more than I remembered. I skip a skill rank I do not strictly need and spend the saved coin on bags. Bags first, always; the rest can wait. The mailbox gets a long look and a small cheer, because a friend sends me a few spare herbs.

Day 4, later. Fishing by a pond, because it is peaceful and because the bobber is a very good excuse not to decide anything. Two fish, one weed, a boot. The boot sells. I do not ask why.

Day 5. A dungeon invite arrives. The run is slow and cheerful, and I leave with two decent greens, one of which I sell. The other goes on the alt, which feels better than the coin would have. The tank apologises for the pace. I tell him it is the best part.

Day 5, night. The bank alt is born: a tiny character with one job, which is holding spare mats. I name her something silly. She is the most disciplined member of my family of characters.

Day 5, afternoon. A long chat in guild about what to do with a first big purse. One person says bags, one says mount, one says the next skill rank, and one says “stop asking and enjoy yourself.” I write all four on the sticky note. The note is getting crowded.

Day 6. I start looking at the price of the first mount, the way you look at a house you cannot afford yet. My main has enough, but the rule I made on Day 1 holds. The alt earns her own. I do the maths on a napkin and then lose the napkin.

Day 6, evening. I climb a hill to a quiet spot with three good herb nodes and a view of a sunset I did not expect. I stay far longer than the herbs justify. There is no spreadsheet for that, though if there were, I would put the sunset in the profit column.

Day 6, night. The Auction House is full of strangers and a few friends, and I post a bag of linen for the third time this week. It does not sell. I leave it up overnight and pretend I am not checking my mail every ten minutes.

Day 6, late. A friend asks how the alt is doing and I give a speech that is far too long about herbs and bags. She listens kindly. I realise I am happier with this tiny economy than I have been with the main’s big one for months.

Day 6, very late. I rearrange the bags for the fourth time, which is how I know it is time to log off. Tiny coins, tidy slots, a satisfied yawn.

Day 7. Quiet evening, quiet thoughts. Some players on the server simply pick up their gold elsewhere; a WoW Classic Gold listing is something I read about while my herbs respawn, and I do not judge anyone for it. It is a different way of spending the same hours. For this alt, though, the project is the point, so I keep farming.

Day 7, later. A guildmate whispers an offer of spare boots. I decline, then I accept, then I feel odd about both. The economy of an alt is as much about pride as it is about coin.

Day 8. Sunday. I count everything, close the Auction House tab and ride the last stretch on foot, which is somehow the best part. The bank alt gets the spare cloth and a thank-you note I never send.

Day 8, evening. I check my guild’s bank tab, half expecting treasure. It holds a lot of linen and one sad candle. I put in my spare cloth and leave a note that says “for whoever needs it.” Somebody takes it by morning.

Day 9. The coin finally gets near the mount trainer’s number. I stand in front of him and do not buy anything yet. Savouring it, I tell myself.

Day 10. I buy the mount. It is a fine, ordinary creature, brown and slightly sleepy, and it is the single best purchase of the whole experiment. The coin is gone and I do not feel poorer. That is the strangest part.

Day 11. Back to zero, back to wolves, back to the cheerful arithmetic of an alt who knows what she wants next. I write a new line on the sticky note: “less guessing.”

I will do another week and see where the pockets land. Notes continue.