You have no memory of how you got to this cold, dark, dismal underground city, or how long you have been a captive of its evil inhabitants, the Illithid. You don’t even remember your own name. They call you “healer” because that’s what you do. You are the only physician to a growing population of terrified slaves and mindless thralls.
You have never had to heal an Illithid, or “mind flayer” as most slaves call them; perhaps they have their own healers. You stitch open wounds and splint broken bones and make a healing and numbing salve from the local mushrooms, but you know you were once capable of much more. You have been having dreams. The dreams seem so real and so familiar that they must be your past.
You dream of a temple, and fellow priests, and using powers of healing and light granted by the deity Pelor. You dream of adventures and battles and victories. You dream of a white staff with a fist-sized opal at one end. In your dreams, you use that staff to fight off evil monsters and to heal your fallen comrades.
But you don’t know what happened to your staff, or how to get out to the large cell that is the infirmary, or where you would go if you did get out. For now, you resign your self to continue healing those in need, being a comfort to the frightened fellow captives, and dream, because each dream seems to fill in more of the puzzle that is your shattered past.
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