Mustafa lay in a heap, his breath coming in short pants. He was in pain . . . real pain for the first time in a long while. He thought about getting up but decided he wasn’t quite ready yet. That damned, red-eyed devil gnoll. The bastard had sucked the life right out of him. He had felt his life force leaving his body and watched the creature’s wounds heal while the world went dark around him. Mustafa had awoken to Hakim poking him with the heal-y stick and cursing at him to get up.
The battered warrior looked down at his body and winced. His arms and legs were withered and twisted, wracked by the foul priests’ curses. Mustafa peeked into his leggings and howled. Even his gods’ damned pecker was a shrunken horror!
Desna, he thought, please let the priest heal me. At least let him restore my cock.
Taking a deep breath, Mustafa dragged himself to his feet. Hakim had rushed off to help Zedrik with the devil-gnoll. He could hear them shouting, and that horrible laugh told him that the creature was still alive. He began to stagger down the hallway towards the fight.
This should be interesting, he thought. I can barely stand up. But it will make my inevitable victory all the sweeter will I crush that chicken fucker with these weak, wrinkled hands.
He lurched forward in a wobbly run. Cursed with weakness or not, he was a killer. That’s what he did. It didn’t matter if they ripped off his fucking arms. He would keep fighting. He would fight until he died. What was he going to do? Retire and become a goat farmer? Read a book and learn to be a wizard?
Mustafa let out a barking laugh, followed by more curses of pain.
(6th level: + 1 HP)