I run for a time, staggering like a wounded goat, leaving behind a trail of snapped grass and the scent of my injuries. Attack is inevitable, and comes in the form of a lithe, dappled brown cat. He sidles up to me from behind, ears pinned back and black tufted tail lashing. The ridge of fur down his spine is erect, snapping with energy, and his long fangs glisten. I don't stand a chance, for his first strike severs the tendons in my left leg. Collapsing to my knees, I unsheathe my sword and swing a clumsy blow at his retreating flank. I scarcely ruffle his fur, but his next strike kills me.
..........................................

Memory comes, sweetly flawed, and subtly troubling. Sensations of guilt, the fingers of regret caressing my soul, and hot tears than spilled long ago. Fragments of images; from Halah's drowning in the Well of Desire to the brightness of the stars upon the wasting plains, and the gentle eyes of my silver pony as we ran away the first time. More bitterness than I can swallow rises in my throat, and I gasp for breath.
..........................................

When the darkness washes from my eyes, and my spirit and flesh reknit into one unit, I'm standing at a crossroads before a city, and nearly swooning with deja-vu at the sight of a massive stone. I live again. Something is wrong with me; it's hard to focus and color keeps smearing across the lines of roads and buildings and faces. As I move, my balance shifts and I stagger clumsily with no clear intent. I can't concentrate, or even think. Nothing seems real, not even my feet. Strangers offer me help, their accents lilting and entirely foreign.

“It's death,” they say, more cheerful than the situation warrants. “Nothing like death to make one a little woozy.”

Soon enough, I'm seeing clearly, and realizing that through some mysterious transaction of the universe, I've been sent or summoned to Dundee for the express purpose of dying until I'm strong enough to live. Seems simple enough, and I start with slippery darkness and pest control beneath the city. It's a stinky job, but there's plenty of us to do it.

I'm gnawed to bits at least six times, beheaded by a human miscreant, and oozed to death by something green. My familiarity with the magic monolith increases as I die and die again. The pattern becomes frustrating, but I've nothing else to do. I seem to have little in common with the other adventurers, and though many of them offer suggestions and bless me with gifts, I'm still alone. I never learned how to build a life, apparently, and am suited only to strife.