It is with great surprise (and a spritzing of disappointment) that I, Malvo Grimly, find myself alive and whole, and not (as my memory recalls) Eldritch Blasted into the cold and sticky embrace of my many tentacled master. Have I been dreaming master? It is not the first time I have dreamt of the depth or your aweful power. But the recollections run too far back. The faces of those I traveled and fought with were not just a blur of hazy familiarity. They stay with me still, I cannot forget the beaten trail that was Macpherson’s face as I stole his last breath; the weak flick of Kriev’s tongue when it once flicked so merrily. And as I dwell on the memory of Kriev’s tongue, the word “Remember” echoes unspoken from the deep and vertiginous space above my own tongue. Why hast thou saved this miserable wretch Master?
My past life it seems has not strayed too far, in spite of my reawakening. I have found myself once more in an inn of the poorest variety. If I wasn’t busy coping with the fact that seemingly moments ago I witnessed the gruesome deaths of my former fellow travelers, I might have gladly spent a few hours collecting the finer specimens of bedbug from the underside of what I presume the proprietor of the inn would call the bed. Anyhow, I have discovered that the two prisoners we discovered in the wizard’s dungeons also appear to have paid off the right people. Last I saw, they were both thoroughly bled and dead. Yet here they are, sipping drinks at the bar, oblivious to the many tentacled masses of gleaming black slime that undulate and gyre past. I am somewhat puzzled by the presence of these creatures of spectacular specular beauty. However, there are more important matters presently at t̶e̶n̶t̶a̶c̶l̶e̶… um hand.
When I approach the two, they show no recognition, no joy for life, or anger at the manner in which they were sacrificed by yours truly. They look a miserable pair, of the sort you might find in every half lit hovel in the last Millenium. I begin to try and flesh out whether they are of a similar experience to my own, but quickly ascertain that they are not. No memory of me, of wizards, of prisons, of death.. What a cruel gift they have been given. A second chance at life without a glint of memory of there ever having been another one. Well, I must admit that whatever has occurred here is over my head. The Old One works in mysterious ways. I will not treat this gift lightly Master. All will know that you are the One to whom all gods kneel.