Sickness, horrible sickness, then strange euphoria. I’m seized again, and the awful feeling won’t let go until I’ve emptied myself of everything.

I’d spent a great deal on rich food, as the advance they gave me to run them through was generous. Days of starvation, scrimping and saving every copper, and all of a sudden I have enough to buy roast chicken, sides of bacon, mutton sandwiches. I couldn’t control myself. Now I had the wonderful sight of their generosity painted onto the side of a tree.

Reports are coming back about what I did. Every jackalope, slime, and goblin this side of Albion found dead in a cloud of contagion. We hadn’t reckoned it would spread like that. The boosted damage should’ve been enough to stop the spread from advancing that far, but I guess Plague Cloud really is that terrible. What’s more is, the status spreads to players, too, though I suppose we can’t kick ourselves for not knowing that: the spell’s miserable reputation precludes any complete account of its effects. Of course it’s not enough to kill anyone, unless they were severely injured beforehand, but it does create problems for more serious expeditions, which need every point of health they can get. I was feeling terrible, both physically and mentally. The status only lasts a couple minutes! To think it should get as far as the Propylaea.

When we got back there it was empty. I could detect evil as much as I wished now, not that it would mean much. I tried it just for its own sake, and found that the fire mage was absolutely radiating dissolution. I decided not to mention it though.

There wasn’t much to see, nothing much to do, other than to go ahead and get to the dungeon. It goes without saying our morale at that point was a little shaky, in no small part due to the realization of the spell’s ramifications - no doubt it was gnawing at them in the same way it did me. The drow was apoplectic in that special, wordless way warriors tend to be, having harangues in their head packed and prepared to go off at any moment like so many bombs, yet go eternally unlit, as if the targets of their contempt were not worth the effort involved in setting their charges. I was in a way glad for this: I could certainly go without another one of his lectures, but I knew from all my years spent adventuring and having to deal with upstart swordsmen that I was being dealt a grave insult and was now being offered an impossible ultimatum: breach the silence and become the instigator, thereby attracting the ire of my group members, or do nothing, and in that case lose all worth in their eyes. Either option was less than tempting, as you might imagine, and on that long, glum walk from the Propylaea to the Forest, and we did have to walk, seeing as how the square was completely empty, I entertained a variety of notions, each one seeking to defuse the exquisite, dismal tension that I seemingly could only worsen by enacting, consequently further darkened my mood, which in turn spurred objectionable plans of actions that by no means could help me in the long term, but supplied me with a very brief kind of satisfaction.

Just when I thought to make some sort of sly comment, to the effect that I would disarm my opponent with a self-deprecating remark, the priestess stepped in, completely earnest, most likely not privy to the enormous favor she was doing me: “I do feel awful about the Plague Cloud. To think we could’ve damaged other adventurers with it”. She then looked at me. “You couldn’t have known it spread to players, could you?”, she asked, expectantly.

“Why, no, of course not”, I said, honestly not remembering if I knew beforehand whether or not the spell had that effect. It might have been that it occurred to me, only to be dismissed in an instant of weakness, or I could’ve been oblivious, innocent. Now, I knew there was no telling my party this, since I doubted it would make sense to anyone who wasn’t me or didn’t know me intimately, that I could forget whether or not I was innocent, since for anyone else it would smack of utter culpability. The fact that it's even a question speaks volumes, no? But honestly, I’m just the kind of person who would forget something like that, and I hope that if you’ve read this far you’ll know me well enough to agree, that my mind has such a strange sense of discernment that even something as integral as my innocence plays second fiddle to pink lemonade, which for the life of me I could not rid myself of, and now occupied my thoughts entirely, so much so that I made a mental note to buy some as soon as we got back to town.

“See, he simply didn’t know”, said the priestess, turning to the drow. Now the first remark was solidly up to him. And whatever he said would have to take care not to harm the priestess in the crossfire, which must’ve made things difficult, standing as she was directly between the two of us with arms outstretched. I can’t tell just what convinced her to take my side at that moment. She must have seen me as a poor old man, which, in a sense, I was and still am. What was I even worried about at that moment? I was far beyond the point of having any dignity left, and certainly the drow, the dwarf, and the mage were only disposed to humiliate me further. What exactly did my self-worth mean to them? It must’ve all been for the priestess. I didn’t want to look weak to her. What a joke! For her to have to take my side at that moment speaks to a weakness that no self-deprecation, no reassurance, no tiptoeing around ultimatums could mend. I had already lost, and to think I had seen her defense of me as a way back into the game! Ridiculous. It was my undoing, her stepping in.

What the drow did next, though, stung worse than any insult. He simply gave me a look, all at once defeated and victorious, then turned his eyes back to the road ahead. That’s all I was worth. A look. He must’ve known that I’d heard it all by that point: every oath that an adventurer has at their disposal had been sent my way and nothing, save a haughty silence, would have gone without its appropriate comeback. Anything but that. He didn’t have to say a word, and why would he - he’s got his whole life to look forward to, fame, gold, women, all of it his if he makes it out of a dungeon in one piece. And what do I have? Once I’m in no shape to go dungeoneering anymore, what's to be done with me? They’ll probably throw me on the trash heap, let the seagulls pluck out my eyes, tear out my tongue. Don’t animals go for the softest parts first? What have I got to look forward to? The drow understood all of that, and let me know he knew it with one perfect, sideways glance.

We ventured into the shadow of Sawtooth Peak, and a chill came over me. Most likely provided by the whistling gales that tear up and down the valley interminably. For the first time that day I realized just how heavy my bag was. I looked at the other members of the party, and they’re all fitted with bags of holding. To think - all these years and I never pulled together enough to buy one myself, or maybe it was that I always had other concerns, other habits to indulge. Whatever it was, I found myself straining under the weight of my supplies while the rest of the group marched effortlessly on. When we had crested a rocky outcropping I called for a break, not thinking of the consequences.

“Five minutes”, the drow said icily. I settled down immediately.

I tried to hide the state I was in by suppressing my breathing, which only served to make the need for continued respiration greater, until I finally had to give and draw in breath at an unrestrained volume. I was huffing and puffing. I laid back on my bag, the group saying nothing but looking at me the whole time. Just when I think I’ve caught my breath the drow shouts:

“Times up!” I got back up at his command and we made our way down the rocks. I keep my gaze low, trying not to think of the distance ahead. The tall grass that swayed in the wind, bright specks of color in the form of wildflowers all throughout. High on a distant ledge I see a fir tree which stands straight despite the wind. Was it fir trees that live the longest? No, it must be sequoias. Or aren’t sequoias a type of fir? What do I know? If only I could live as long as a tree, live a hundred, no, a thousand years! What would I even do with the time? What would I even do..

The drow gave the sign to stop. I was so caught up trying to distract myself that I kept walking, and bumped into the mage. He didn’t mind though, his attention employed entirely by some sight in front of him. I looked, and saw a band of marauders making their way towards us. Between the two parties is a lean wooden bridge that runs over a roaring brook.

There was an enormous brute among them, leading the charge, decked out in a stained hauberk that ran just past his knees. In the one hand was a wicked guisarme whose shoddy construction only served to make it more intimidating: a twisted metal spike fixed onto the end of a splintery wooden haft. In the other was a colorful tower shield, most likely relinquished from some unfortunate patrolman, that, although sizable, could hardly have been said to cover his form entirely. At his side was one lanky, mean-looking swordsman in little other than a shirt, irrevocably soiled by greasy meals, past skirmishes, and other activities that I am not willing to mention which might lead to a shirt being soiled in the process of their execution. He licked the blade of his sword with a long, wine-colored tongue. Bringing up rear was a burly man in a wool tunic, a quiver full of homemade arrows slung around his back. I thought it a pity that such a handsome yew bow like the one in his right hand should serve arrows that ratty.

I wasn’t left with these thoughts for long, as both my group and theirs sprang into action.

The drow drew his blade in one fluid movement, and approached the bridge with a slight buckler raised. He was given basically every buff a priest can give all at once: Divine Fortitude, Divine Grace, some resistance booster I forget the name of, the works. They whirled and circled around him as a series of blue-white discs, runes fluttering about and shielding him from harm. The mage was charging up a spell - a big one, if the wild motions he was making with his hands were any indication. The dwarf readied himself, but, being positioned at the mouth of a chokepoint as we were, with only enough room on the bridge for one on one combat, there was little he could do other than look menacing, since the drow was taking the lead. As for me, I was still panting with exertion, and perhaps it took longer than I should have to ready an arrow. This was an opportunity that the bandits exploited ruthlessly: the archer already fired an arrow, and was inches away from sending it right through my eye. The brute took his place at the bridge, predicting the wily motions of the drow, or merely just staunching them outright with the end of his polearm, sending the poor elf off the bridge and into the drink. The dwarf rushed to take his place. I may have been winded but this certainly wasn’t anything new to me: in an instant I fire an ice arrow at the three and pat myself on the back as it goes hurtling into the shoulder of the archer. Threads of ice spread in a starburst pattern from the sight of the wound, slowly enveloping the poor bastard. He screams the whole time, doesn’t even try to fire another shot at me, falling to the ground as he’s encased from the neck down. Is it any wonder they want to ban these things? I ready another, now that I’m in the zone I reckon I get a good hit in without the use of my precious elemental arrows. I loosed it, and it's a direct hit on the brute, and even pierces his chainmail! He didn’t seem to particularly mind, however. Didn't even flinch. He made his way over the bridge to meet the dwarf, and following a vast arc, he brought down the guisarme. The dwarf, for all his plate armor, his greatshield and clinking carapace he dragged all the way here, the bandit dealt a crushing blow. He follows it up, this time with an upward swing, and succeeds in pitching the dwarf over me and the mage’s heads. I didn't even bother looking behind me to see if he was ok.

The swordsman clambered over the brute as I switched seamlessly from my bow to my sword. As the mage finished up his spell he gets a kick from the swordsman - right in the cheek - and that lovely spell of his that he’d been charging this whole time fizzles out. The bandit lunged at the mage. I block his blade with mine. My opponent goes for an artful, underhanded strike, the kind I’ve seen enough of to know how to counter. I brought my blade downwards, letting its flat side stop the momentum of his tip. He had talent, to be sure, but so much so that he never learned what to do when gainsaid like that. In the instant he took to realize what happened I socked him in the face. I flattened him. That would prove to be the easy part, though, as I stared down the raging brute, standing a head higher than me, easily twice as wide. I shot a look back at the party behind me - the priestess tending to the dwarf, the mage clutching his jaw. Well, I’d been in worse trouble than this.

He made to attack, bringing yet again that awful weapon above his head..

I stunned him. I stuck my hand out and touched his chest, and cast a maxed out Paralysis spell. I did it again, and again, and again. Paralysis lasts for all of four seconds, but only takes about two to cast, meaning, if you’re right by someone and can cast it repeatedly, those seconds give you enough time to stunlock an enemy, then enough time to take advantage of that fact. I brought my hand to his midsection again and again, casting the spell and watching the blue electricity course through his body, the whole time his limbs are splayed out and his mouth is forced into a variety of dumb, strenuous expressions. I gathered enough time, picked up my sword, brought it around in one hell of a Heavy Attack, and..

It caromed right off of him.

Hm.

The stun status wears off shortly after, and he gives me a nasty clout to the side of the head. I guess that’s what I get for underestimating him. Just my luck, though, the mage had been charging up another high-level fire spell, and sent it right into the face of my assailant. He wails and clutches his head, stumbling about crazily. At this point the drow clambered back up the bridge, apparently unharmed due to the sheer number of buffs on him, and, taking his sword in hand leaps at the bandit, swiped at his neck, and rounded it all off with a stylish landing. Blood gushed from the wound. Before I can catch my breath, though, the swordsman was back up and out to get me. He got his sword and tried to close the distance with a set of crazed, yet practiced movements. A leap into the air became a pirouette, his longsword flashing as it sought purchase in my gut. I catch the blade of his weapon on my longsword’s crossguard, and fling it away, springing to action shortly after. I lunged at him, downed him with one blow across his chest.

The brute on the bridge picked me up with his free hand and proceeded to shake me vigorously. I shocked him again, but that only made him clench me harder. The drow comes to my rescue: slicing off the offending limb, liberating me in the process. I drop to the ground. Our fire mage fires off another round of spells which down the last bandit.

As I struggled to my feet, the drow offered me his hand.