Rolled 15, 2, 9 = 26 (3d20)
>>5405535Your rations running low as they are, and this area of the underdark having been seemingly scoured of game by the shoggoth horde, your recovery is unglamorous and arduous. Your party is forced to keep moving towards their hidden civilization, for to linger too longer is to starve. Your meals are no hardy feast to help replenish your strength; rather, for the next few days, you (and all your allies) subsist on a thin broth of rationed meat, sprinkled salt and spice, and foraged, bitter-black mushrooms which barely qualify as food and stick between your sharp teeth so that you cannot even easily flick them free with forked tongue.
At each brief rest-stop, you find your focus upon the shoggoth-sword. You meet its eye fearlessly, hiding discomfort and disgust so it cannot see. You are at first wary that it is affecting your mind, with how fixated you become… But no, ‘Nurse’ Novice clears you of such sinister influence.
“You are just another meatheaded lump of fat and muscle, occupied with phallic weapons and seeking escape from your own self-inflicted impotence,” she diagnoses you.
“You are merely bitter I have been having the Junior Novice help support me, rather than allowing you more opportunity to clasp me as you did when I—”
“You would WISH it so, Dragondick!”
You laugh, but only briefly. Laughing HURTS. You focus upon the sword again, instead.
[Spellcraft]
