Magmar's Record
Night One Just a few sips of Slow Spout and I was perspiring piss, swear to Laduguer. It was pitch black till the mind flayer came, so real I heard its tentacles writhing. 'Strip!' it commanded, straight in my head, and my hands peeled my rags right off like they had minds of their own. 'Take it!', it said next, and held out a dagger, black with old blood. I watched as my fingers wrapped around the hilt. Then came the final command. 'Carve!' I cried out and shook my head. 'No, no no!' - and then shot straight up, sticky with sweat and caked in shit. Just a dream, Pist told me, but it didn't feel like one. More like a memory. Night Two Kept down a whole mug of it before my head hit the stone. I stood naked and shivering, my right hand gripping that grugning dagger. Couldn't move my legs even a fingerwidth, like they were case in iron. The mind flayer's claws caressed my face from behind. I screamed and shook as my own hand brought the blade to my chest and sliced across it. When my hand removed the blade, the bloody likeness of a mind flayer remained. Woke up in a flash, with Brithvar looming over. Lingering memories of our illithid enslavement, he said, from back when we were dwarf-folk. Then he gave me a good wallop for sucking down ale. 'Drink won't lead no place good', he said. But that shit sure feels good going down.