| An ancient prophecy foretold of a child born in the city of Prefectford with a hair-shaped birthmark, who would grow up to be the greatest Wizard ever known. You have a birthmark like that, but at first you were only a sort of okay Wizard. Everyone has to start somewhere, I guess. In the fiefdom of Burblegroat, in the unpleasant-smelling backwater of Phlegm, you found an inn with cheap root beer and spent the night carousing. There, you heard a tale of the forgotten treasure of the Silver Plains, lost for ages during the time of the great rain of %pluralanimals. You decided to seek the treasure yourself, heedless of the literal mountain of skeletons of those who had tried before you. Everything was hunky-dory until you had to fend off half a dozen tramps with your calf trapped in a cookie jar. Fortunately, most of them ran away when the rust monster showed up, and you played dead until it left. That's not very heroic, but hey, it worked. But all that drama couldn't stop you. You'd never given up on anything, not even your childhood quest to rake all the budgie in your hometown of Piehole. So you kept going, right into the pig stable of the evil Sorcerer Diabolicus. Fortunately for you, he was out for lunch at the time, so you could grab some loot and get out before you got your ear handed to you.
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