Wiffle Biffles Afoot, Reader

Your party heads out into the hoary night, a night ten times as hoary as usual. You are just thinking about how bad ass magic is and how your life would make a pretty sweet show on the WB, like Supernatural, when your party is ambushed by a road-weary band of wizards, known only as the Backyard Wiffle Ballers.  You grit your teeth with recognition and also anger.  "Those rats!" you think, for you have done battle with these scallywags before and seen your fair share of their numbers right up to the gates of Hades and to other resting places too.

"Tonight will not bode well for you, old friend," says a wrinkled old troll.  He is uglier than any orc you have ever laid eyes on.  Way uglier, reader.  You say something sweet back to the guy, like that it won't bode well for him either and then something else about destiny and pirates' bounty.  

Right away, Randy Son of John pisses right down his fucking leg and heads for the hills.  So much for the oldest wizard in all of folklore, you think pensively.  You conisder striking him down to put him out of his coward's misery, but that would just be a waste of manna. 

You battle alongside Soriano, Youklis and Ortiz for days, but they are unable to overcome the proud Wiffle Biffles.  You lay down your weapons in surrender.  "Is this how it all ends?" you think, "Are we to perish on this muddy, cobbled trail like a bunch of Muggle-dogs!?!"  But the leader of the Wiffley Biffleys gives you clemency because he respects your fighting style and stuff and how you could have totally just used magic to tear his bitch ass apart in the first place.

So you set off, demoralized and with the knowledge that the Son of John has probably seen his last days as a sweet wizard on account of his not being good anymore.  You had better rest your party now, because more blood and goblins lie ahead in your path.  Should you choose to press on, dear readers.