Shaman waited quietly in a small room on a comfy chair at the end of a row of comfy chairs. On the table were outdated magazines, scribbled on and folded post-it notes, and tinker toys and building blocks and uninteresting looking books for small children.
Impatiently, she glanced at the Roman numeral sundial. The therapist was a little late. She twirled her shiny silvery hair and tapped her armored foot. A door opened.
"Shaman, the therapist is ready to see you," His secretary said. The tiefling woman sighed in relief. She walked down a narrow hallway and into a tiny room.
The room had various posters hanging around, one of which had a picture of a sick person. Below it, translated from Latin, it said: "Have a sickness? This is the middle ages, so THERE AIN'T NOTHING WE CAN DO ABOUT IT!" Shaman grimaced at the poster.
"Welcome Shaman," a person said from the corner of the room. "Have you come to test for diabetes?"
"Oh--no," She said quickly. "I just need some therapy."
"Okay, then let's talk about your feelings," The therapist said as he offered her a chair. She sat down and held her forehead in her hand. "It all started this morning..."
"Shaman," Teal called. "We're out of milk. Can you go to the store and buy some?" Shaman was meanwhile trying to fetch Melee's carrot from under the furnace. She though she finally got it when she heard something close to the sound of sizzling bacon, but only the smell was horrid. Shaman quickly realized it was her own hand. "AY AY AY!!" She screamed, waving her hand around.
"J-just a minute, Teal," She called frantically. She ran the crispy, burning remains of her hand under the water spout. Smoke came spiraling from her hand. She sniffled pitifully, and as if on cue, Trance appeared right next to her, holding an exasperated aura around her armored body.
"Shaman, what happened now," She asked over the volume of Shaman's sobs. "I-I-I go-g-got a boo-boo," She warbled.
"What am I ever going to do with you," Trance muttered under her breath as she played a quick healing spell on her violin. The burnt crisp turned back into Shaman's hand. "Thanks, Trance! I shall loff you for EVAR!" She delivered a thankful embrace to Trance. "No problem... now go to the store and buy Teal some milk," Trance said uncomfortably as she pried Shaman off with a crowbar.
Shaman got out her violin, taking in a deep breath and exhaling. Piaroa stalked over to Shaman with her hands on her hips. "Hello... Shaman... What are you doing?" She tossed her longish hair over her shoulder vainly.
Shaman eyed Piaroa warily. "None of your beeswax," She replied with a childish tone. Piaroa merely made a face back at her.
Shaman played her violin in a fast tune. A giant lavender portal appeared before her. Right in the middle of the portalling tune, Piaroa grinned wickedly and pushed her in before she could cry out for help.
When the tiefling woman regained consciousness, she immediately realized something was wrong. Quickly, she jumped to her feet, smelling rotten flesh lingering in the air. She groaned in despair. She was in the Beggar's Nest district in Neverwinter. I'll get that Piaroa, Shaman fumed angrily, her tail lashing from side to side.
Suddenly, something wet slithered down her lashing tail. She slowly turned around, expecting the worst.
Yep, Zombie drool.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
Sheranasfastasshecouldawayfromthemobofzombiesitseemedtheyweregettingcloseruntilsuddenlywhilerunning--SMACK. She ran straight into a wall.
"Owowowowow," Shaman mumbled. The zombies held out lunch trays and formed a single file line.
"Mweeheehee," Shaman cackled triumphantly as she pulled out a crossbow shotgun with acid rounds. She hit the zombie at the front of the line and melted its unfortunate lunch tray. The line of zombies toppled over like dominoes, and then melted along with the poor lunch trays, which had done nothing wrong. "That was easier than I thought," Shaman mused to herself.
There was a gurgling noise from nearby. Shaman recognized this sound; it was the sound of death... only messier. "Oh no..." Shaman started to panic. What turned around the corner was a small plate of mutant Jell-O. Cherry flavored. Or at least it looked like Jell-O to Shaman, until it began to try to dissolve the armor on her foot. It was about 3 inches big, a teeny gelatinous cube. Disgusted, she squashed it with her sonic energy trident.
"Eeeeeuuuwww," She mumbled. Then curiosity struck her. She grabbed a small chunk of squashed gelatin. Yes, it tasted like cherries, but her tongue felt like it was burning. She spat it out.
That's when she actually gained consciousness. She sat up and looked around to see if there were any zombies stalking her. Cautiously, she took her can of Zom-B-Gone out of her bag, coffee scented. She sprayed some of it on herself.
Oddly, she saw a blue strawberry levitate past her head. There were bunnies prancing around her feet in a circle. "Shoo, go away," She muttered, then sneezed. Once her nose cleared, the whole place smelled familiar. Just like... Just like....
MELEE.
"Oh, NO!!" Shaman waved her arms around, and tripped over a pile of carrots. Shaman took a deep breath and examined her surroundings. The sky was green and the grass was yellow with red polka dots. She raised an eyebrow.
Carrots grew on trees. Bunnies pranced around everywhere. There were floating blue strawberries. One of them hit her head and splattered. The strawberry smelled like bread. What... How... Why... I'm--I'm in Melee's head! Shaman was frantic.
She explored a little, but to her, it looked like she was walking in place and the scenery was moving instead. A herd of bunnies ran past her, all of them looking like they had Melee's head taped to theirs. A roller coaster floated by, smushing several bread-smelling blue strawberries.
"WHAT. THE. HECK," Shaman screamed to the writer of the story. "Will you stop this already?!"
"No," the writer called back, in hysterical laughing mode. "This is too funny!"
Shaman's face went pure red. She took out her trident and from the page started fencing the writer's pencil with it. She managed to swat it a few times and the tip of the pencil broke. "N-No.... not... MY POOR PENCIL!!" The writer cried out in sorrow.
Shaman got her own pencil and wrote:
THE END.
The therapist blinked a few times. "How did you get out?"
Shaman put her violin on the table and watched the skeptical look on his face grow. The therapist ran out of things to say, and he jumped out the window, screaming.
Shaman, with her dragon pen named FireInk, made another tally mark on her notebook, along with the other 22 tallies.
"That makes 23 therapists gone mad," Shaman said sorrowfully.
The (real) End.