Today I was fed into the black depths of my orcish blood, by a bite from a foul…thing. Somewhat thankfully, the assault left me for dead before I could do any harm, but I fear it might have left permanent scars. I found myself taking risks rather than approaching situations with a cold pragmatism, and making assessments.
Someone in my adventuring party shot me in the back while I was raging towards one of these foul ‘sinspawn’, and while I’m not sure which it was, given how many of our party use bows, if I had been thinking clearly I wouldn’t have been in his way to begin with. It’s worrisome.
I was later terrified, not once but twice, by some fearsome magic. The first time I was…kissed…by some fiendish flying skull, to the effect of a headache worse than any hangover I’ve ever had, and a taste of foul, rancid, long rotten fish. The second time by a twisted and mutated thing I’m told was a ‘quasit’, though I’ve never seen anything that looked like that. A tricky little thing, it was overly fond of vanishing and flying away.
If a minuscule flying piss-ant can cause me so much trouble, I’m never going to find him, let alone destroy him…need to get stronger.
Perhaps I can talk the party into letting me keep the tiara she was wearing. It makes me feel pretty. Wait, what? That seems wrong. But right. This is very disconcerting.