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.            

Get Equipped: The Party Begins its Journey

You sit in a dusty mead hall, sharpening your katana and thinking furtively about magic. You think of all the wizards you've bested and the unlucky ones still to come. You wear a hide cap, chain mail capable of deflecting 25% fire damage, a diamond helm and, around your well-traveled neck, an amulet that glows with mysterious, arcane energy. Even you do not grasp the power and deep meaning of this accessory. But lo, you soon shall.

A large bearded man of Dominican descent enters the hall. At first, you mistake him for a furry Orca whale. He introduces himself as David Ortiz a level 23 DH, and a useful brawler, if I do say so myself. His eyes burn like hot little stones and he grits his teeth when he pledges his life to your noble quest of smashing up Orcs and stuff.

You introduce him to the rest of your party: Soriano, a lvl 25 OF with great spd ratings but a poor luck modifier and Youklis a powerful 3B, who, to look at him would evoke images of tall buildings had you ever seen such edifices. Out of the shadows appears your last party member, the oldest wizard in the books, a spindly crow of a being, Randy Johnson. His beard looks like the tail of some reptile and the man himself reminds you of a lizard crossed with ten snakes, but at least three times as powerful. He says something powerful and ominous that I choose not to print here for fear of it falling into a muggles hands. Powerful stuff, indeed.

With your katanas ready, your party leaves into the night and nothing but the night, to a place where monsters wait to eat the shit out of you.