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You've heard it all before, folks. Get down there, into the catacombs, out there, beyond The Ride. Take the same leather jacket you do chores in, any old donated weapon, and two loaves of bread. Fight like a man.
Society says you have to.
So you do. And you claw your way out of the Dalelands. Made mamma proud. Showed the world. Then you get to town.
You're busy learning street names while a dark figure loots you like a corpse. The castle guard don't care. All anyone's got for you is to choose sides in some sort of insurgency, damn near a civil war.
What do you know about war, kid? Stories of the elven kingdoms, pantomimes of the Dusk Lord, festivals of other ancient things.
Who's got a merry tune when you're sliding down a soldier's blade? Who's got a kind word as life's last breath froths in pink bubbles at your lips? Who's going to give some dignity as your heart pumps scarlet through your exposed guts and is that your own shit?
Then, if we survive, we turn around to our own kids. Shove him out the door. This time it'll be different because, back in his prime, daddy bashed a dragon lord. Send your kid off with a black ring.
Well Tiamat take all that crap. When you prove yourself of enough basic ability, that day comes when prostitutes and bartenders no longer call, "hey, chump!" On that day, you join the Dojo of the Second Wind.
Spell XP is where it's at for levels medium thru expert. Yes it's slow. Yes it's boring. Sure the other kids snicker. But you're in it now for the long haul.
Who bleeds most in training, bleeds least in battle. Adjusting for the sheer volume of bad luck in war, that is a footman's truth of battle.
Goodberry - Magic Mushroom - Second Wind. These are the training tools of the dojo. Become so competent that you can fire off fifteen in the sand of a single hour. Trust me when I say the guild masters pay due respect to experienced gained in the disciplined arts.
Mercedes,
Princeps
Dojo of the Second Wind
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