Dumbarton Oaks’ Magic Tome

I am reborn in blood and iron.

There is much to recount and little time to do so, so I shall sketch the broad strokes of the thing and fill in the details at more leisure. It is imperative that I do not forget these things.

I met my fate for reasons I cannot explain. I can’t explaine why Sondra deemed a frontal assault on an entrenched enemy to be a good idea. I have less understanding why Rollie egged her on so. Most importantly, I have no idea why I didn’t leave them all to stew in their own juices, but I did not.

Instead, I ran a scouting sortie into a cave full of orcs and a huge, vicious half-orc in chainmail, bearing no less than six stripes of rank upon his sleeve. This half-orc in command proved immune to my illusions. Still, I managed to take several down and prevent the archers from turning Sondra and Rollie into pincushions. I sowed confusion and havoc among the enemy as Sondra and Rollie tore into them. I saw Rue approaching at full speed and thought, for a moment, that we had a chance.

The orcs fell, one by one, but their commander was made of sterner stuff. By this point, Rollie, Sondra and Rue were all badly wounded and, one by one, they fell. Finally, only the beast and I remained and the rest of the party would not be there in time to prevent this foul creature from slitting my allies’ throats. I must act.

Then the beast made his first, and last, mistake. Rather than simply kill my teammates, he chose to desecrate them first. As he urinated on Rue, I had a desperate idea — perhaps the only one who need die was the only one who would reincarnate!

Using the spike atop a slain orc’s axe, I rammed the weapon, full-speed, into the half-orc’s exposed “junk,” shall we say (certainly junk by the time I got through with it). I twisted with all my might until the half-orc stuck me down. It’s funny. We could not speak each other’s languages, so we merely screamed our names at each other, so the survivor would always know who had scarred them so viciously.

My teammates decided they could not wait for me to be reborn. They likely feared that they could not survive four months of adventuring without me and, based on their most recent showing, I unnderstand. Instead they had a priest of Benyar raise me. The incompetent botched the job — my beautiful hair, my raven locks, fell out by the hadful. Fortunately, I — of all people — can pull this look off!

But it is what happened while I was dead that is of most interest. I have been changed, and changed utterly, in ways my friends can’t even imagine. It is of the visions that I must tell — and will tell everyone, when the time is right.

Still, it is of the half-orc that I think right now — the one who cleft me in twain. I will see his face tonight in my dreams, if the past nights are any indicators.

…But I have already forgotten his name.

Something with a “B,” perhaps. Balthazar? Bethlehem? Baklava? Poor bastard — so proud.

As I said, it’s funny….

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