God, every muscle in my body aches. I haven't felt this exhausted and kicked around since I took on those five archmages from the Brotherhood of the Crystal Flame-

Wait. That was years ago. What happened to me? More to the point, where the hell am I? And come to think of it, who am I?

I took a quick look around. Light forest, with moderate undergrowth. I was lying against the trunk of an oak tree at the edge of a small clearing. Complete with babbling brook running through it. A more pastoral scene one could not imagine, though that bard from Stratford certainly tried-

Okay, focus. Only a few clouds in the sky--the sun was directly overhead, which probably meant it was around noon. Of course, that wasn't necessarily true; I've been to more than a few worlds where-

Hold that thought. Where have I been? How did I get there? And why in the world am I here? Let's see--I'm dressed in a simple cotton tunic under a leather jerkin, and long breeches. Sturdy boots completed the costume. There's a belt pouch, a sheathed blade and a pack at my side. A few steps brought me to the side of the brook, where I beheld a rather wavy reflection of myself. Short dark brown hair, and green eyes--not a heartbreaker by any means, but more than sufficient for a human male. Probably somewhere between 25 to 30, 5'8" to 5'10", and drawing a complete blank with regards to weight. The body's in decent shape, though it clearly did not belong to an outdoorsman; the fingers were smooth and unmarked. Clearly, my body would offer little more in the way of clues, so I returned to where my belongings were lying on the grass. I draw the blade--hmm, a saber, more of a dress blade than anything else, though serviceable (How do I know this? Why do I know this?) in battle in a pinch. The pack contained several days' worth of rations and a water skin, but nothing else. A quick check of the pouch revealed a fair amount of silver and copper coinage, with some gold and a handful of platinum as leavening. So I'm not rich, though I'm unlikely to starve for some time--assuming I can find somewhere to spend them, that is. While combing through the coins, my fingers brushed against what felt like a seal ring. You know, one of those rings people used when sealing a letter with a wax plug. As I pulled it out into the open, the symbol engraved on the ring caught my eye. The curves and lines teased my mind for several seconds until, to borrow a cliché, the memories came rushing back...

I was--or am, rather--Jevon Caughrym, though I've gone to a few extremes to make sure that none among the living are still aware of that fact. Being a powerful wizard certainly didn't hurt in that regard, though it did mean that more people, as a rule, have a reason to seek out my true identity.

Last I checked, I'm (and always have been) a seeker of knowledge. Arcane and magical knowledge, to be specific. However, when it comes to the ownership of such works, the line between mine and thine tends to disappear quite rapidly. Which was how I got into this predicament in the first place.

The Brotherhood of the Crystal Flame--well, they're one of the more powerful mage schools around, and they've been around for a while. A long, several-thousand-years-and-counting while. More than a few minor deities and powers of magic and wizardry were rumored to have started their mortal lives as Crystal Flame mages. But I digress. The Brotherhood had dispatched five of its most powerful brethren (a misnomer, as two of the five were female; the Brotherhood was by then roughly one-third female, but its members were too practical to change its age-as-old-as-time name to a more gender neutral one) to hunt me down after I had taken the liberty of removing several tomes from their secret archives. At the time, I was seeking the Ritual of... never mind; I needn't bore you with arcane trivia. Suffice it to say that I defeated the quintet after expending a great deal of blood and sweat, and still retained my prizes.

Apparently, this drove their Grand Master to sell his soul (and then some) for my destruction. The Brotherhood sprang an ambush on me as I was returning from a consultation with a loremaster on Mechanus. Normally, I had little to fear from the school descending on me en masse (their quintet had been, other than the Grand Master, the flower of their order), but they had acquired the Prison of Nak'zrimngoth. Last known to be in the treasury of Asmodeus, this artifact was able to restrain a single being inside it, be it divine or mortal, human or otherwise, for a brief interval. It was more than enough time for the Brotherhood to open a Gate from the Nine Hells in the prison, where thirteen baatezu lords and dukes were waiting to tear me apart.

The last thing I recall was calling final strike against my foes, while frantically crafting a protective shield for my spirit to survive afterwards. I've never believed in maintaining clones or simulacra, so I've spent quite a bit of time investigating ways to survive after calling final strike. (FYI, final strike refers to a technique in which a wizard releases a cataclysmic explosion of power to attack his or her foes, destroying him- or herself in the process.) Since I'm here, it must have worked. Shrugging, I focused inward to trigger a few magical abilities I've long since made innate-

-and found nothing. Stunned, I checked again. All gone. For the first time in over four hundred years, I didn't have a magical power to my name.

Note to self: if I ever recover my powers, I'll need to overhaul my final-strike survival spell; surviving sans magical powers isn't a big improvement over not surviving at all...

A gust of wind cutting through the clearing brought me back to my surroundings. Well, getting to some kind of civilization would probably be a good idea. The temperature was nice and cool, even at high noon, which meant that spending the night outdoors as I was may not be a bright idea. Looking around, I spotted a path out of the clearing. After a minute or two to get my belongings properly settled on me, I went on my merry way.