My bard, my wonderful, wrist-snapping bard...
One fateful day In the Year 2002, I saw a few notes flickering off a Singing Short Sword up in the Bazaar... that moment changed the course of my destiny. Loading up the trusty Allakhazam site, I determined that I would get one for myself.
Armed in the bright red armor of the Fierce Herald, I sallied forth into the Plane of Fear to earn my Amygdalan Tendril. What followed can only be described as epic or retarded, depending on your point of view.
It took every skill I had ever learned, every nanosecond twist, to careen through that unpopulated zone and survive. The mobs summoned me, dispelled me, shadowstepped me. Weaving in heals with Selos, charms and resists, for a week straight I was a one-bard assault on the fortress of Cazic Thule. My mantra of attaining the Sword at all costs sustained me, and every Amygdalan I looted was simultaneously a bright beacon of hope and a swift nutshot of despair as I truly realized this quest above all others was going to be the long haul.
In a week, I saw no one else in the zone.
Eventually I formed groups and ushered them into this red-skied nightmare. They were balanced, they were well-armed, and they were led by someone who, by then, really knew what they were doing, if I say so myself.
They all died.
Slaughtered one by one or wholesale, it made no difference: the combined might of the adventurers of Norrath was absolutely no match at all for the fury of Fear. It soon became apparent that after the (multiple) corpse runs for my followers, I had a better record going it alone... so I did.
I notched another hole in my belt, rubbed my aching hands, steeled my heart and eyes, and resolutely marched back in through that damned portal.
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