I was resurrected this morning by Tierathas the elf. I remember dying, being burned alive by the acid inside the cube. I could feel its excruciating pain even through the veil of unconsciousness. I had never considered I would be eaten alive by a monster. I came here to save a world from tyranny, and figured my battles would be mostly against humanoid combatants. We donít have much to go on. We came to this dungeon on the word of a retired adventurer who said we might find someone with the knowledge of where to find supporters of Maexon. Instead we find this crumbling and ancient, vermin infested labyrinth. I have been here less than thirty days and our quest has already been the death of not only myself, but also suspected of Erg, the battle crazed half-orc.
I wonder at the blessing of the rod. Do I hand the credit to Fate for the luck of my companions? No, I suppose not, for Marthammor was surely watching over me. This experience of dying and being brought back serves only to bolster my faith. I now know my decision to come here was right. It MUST be for Marthammor to bless me with new life and to say my work here isnít done.
I wish I had shown more gratitude for the work of my companions. I am so angry at myself for being so stupid and running off down that corridor with the memory of Ergís fate so fresh in my mind. I hope they can see it for what it is. I guess I canít blame them for burying me. They couldnít have foreseen this turn. I as a cleric, know the unlikelihood of finding a resurrection in short enough time, let alone in a world unknown to us and several days travel from Ashtakar, which is an evil city anyway and unlikely to have a goodly cleric of sufficient power to show the way back to life of a fallen comrade.
I donít want to die here, a world and more away from the clan. If it wasnít for them finding the rod I would still be rotting in an unmarked grave near the entrance to a forsaken dungeon no one probably even knows exists. There would be no one to honor my memory other than those back home who would never know my fate.
I saw the look on Tierathasí face when my eyes blinked open. A look of relief. I bet the poor man harbors guilt for the loss of his previous companions. Itís not easy being the survivor. Iíve seen the same look on clan brothers coming back from the war with the goblins and orcs when a brother doesnít come home.
A new face has joined the party. A gnome with a wolf mount and a strange combination to be sure, but then again I have never met a gnome that wasnít strange. Indeed it seems to be the norm for these small folk of such vibrant life.
This experience has shown me the merit of keeping a journal to record the experiences of Helmon Shieldmender. I often see Forest penning notes in his journal with a look probably similar to the one I wear now. Although I donít want it, I see now the very probable possibility that I may not make it home to relate my experience to the historians of the clan and to the young ones that have yet to find their path. I wonder if he writes for the same reason. It is comforting to know than should I die those that survive of my party if any could take this journal to my world and find my clan. At least something will be left behind other than a rotting corpse without a name.
[Minor editing and corrections provided by the DM.]