Rise of the Runelords

It's hard out here for a Horc.

Dear Journal,

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.

Comments

Don’t forget the evil laugh you hear sometimes. “Bwah, ha, ha….”

It's hard out here for a Horc.
jrpettit bejordan

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