But, I stop.  Something's wrong.  I look at my drink.  It becomes blurry.  My skin feels cold, my blood
feels as though it's not flowing.  My stomach turns.  The glass slips from my sweaty hand, and shatters in
slow motion at my feet.  People turn to stare at me, glaring.  And then, everything stops, like it was all
turned off.  Like the plug was pulled.

My head begins to feel light.  I fall to my knees, shredding them on the broken glass.  I feel nausous, and
fall to my hands.  On my hands and knees, I spew multi-hued vomit.  I lose the strength holding me up,
and collapse to the floor.  Glass becomes imbedded in my face, and I involuntarily inhale various liquides
and near-solids, cloging my throat, and filling my lungs.  I asphyxiate on my own vomit.

I feel myself floating, weightless.  Not in air, but water.  Though I breath it as though it were air.  I open
my eyes and look around.  It's like a bubble.  It's dark, but I can see well enough.  Soft, flesh-like walls
within meters of me in each direction, and I float in the dead water.

I notice a fleshy cord coming from the wall to my side.  With my eyes, I trace it to where it leads.  My
belly.

Disgusted, I tear the cord from my stomach, and blood begins to leak into the water.  I swim to where the
cord comes from the wall, and tear it from there as well.  I begin to dig at the wound I caused in  the flesh
walls.  I dig and dig, freeing fatty tissues and blood.

I tear deeper into the wound, making  it a hole, a tunnel.  And I dig through until I find light.  I claw myself
out, into the world, free of my womb.  Reborn.

I open my eyes in Strider's Tavern.  I roll onto my back and sit up.  I cough horribly, emptying my lungs
of the foul vomit.  I pick shards of glass from my face, and stand.

I glance around at the disgusted faces of the patrons, and pick one out.  A drow, sitting at the table which
I was headed for earlier.  I read his face, and I know he did it.  He poisoned my drink.  An attempted
assassination. A friend, kin, no longer.

I step up to the table.  He is too stunned to move.  I take his mug, and bash it over his head, shards of
glass fly.  I take what's left of it and cut across his face, creating a gash from ear to ear.  He falls from his
chair, onto his hands and knees, coughing blood.  I pull out my flail, and bring it down on his head,
shattering his skull in a single blow.

I walk out of the tavern.  Leaving a dead friend, and many astonished on-lookers.  I pick shards of glass
from my face, and clean the vomit from my mouth, and I wonder.

Who wanted me dead?  And why?  Though that's not the important question.  The real question is, who
kept me alive?  Or rather, who went to the trouble of bringing me back?  Though whoever it was, and
however you look at it, today I died.  And a God was born in my stead.