I had expected things to be, I don't know, more heroic seeming. Face some savage foe in honorable combat and have my head cleaved open by a mighty blow, my lion skin split in half and my club shattered assunder. Not stabbed through the heart by some foe so dishonorable as to not even bother to present his face upon killing me.
It's not like I didn't give him fair warning. I let all the Drow know that they should come and face me. Would it have been that hard for them to come face me?
But no. The dishonorable bastards snuck around, refused to face me honorably, and that was that.
But damn it, I had thought that Heracles would at least be happy to see me. But no! He laughed at me, as though my actions were not appreciated, as though he did not see the glory that I had brought to his name, but only laughed at my trials. Then he savaged a naked woman, downed a barrel of ale, and told me that I had missed the point.
Missed the point! By the gods, I followed his teachings! Honor, glory, what better things are there? Wine and women would have only been a distraction.
I tried to tell him so, to remind him of his own teachings. He only let me speak for ten minutes, hardly enough time for a proper discourse, then told me that if I felt that way, he'd send me to a cell to sit and write in this bloody journal until I figured it out.
A journal! In the name of Heracles, I'm dead. I thought I was done with journals.
Outside I can hear the sounds of their revelry. Even in the heavens there is this wretched trechery.
By the gods, why couldn't I have recieved a calling from Bacchus, instead?
I can only hope they give me something to kill, soon. Otherwise I may go mad.
I'd almost rather deal with Tupper.
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