Far to the southeast, the individual walked. Unburdened by possession or companion, they sauntered towards the horizon, searching without direction. They were not lost, but they were not found. The sands around them whipped and thrashed at their supple flesh, providing the adversity they required; nay, the adversity they desired to push forward and grow stronger. They trudged on, ever aware of their own pain, reminded by it constantly, and disgusted by it.

The individual was inhumanly tall, peaking at over seven feet. They had long arms and long legs, disproportionate to their body, and were covered from head to toe in black cloth wrappings, blowing in the wind. Their head was leaned forward, allowing the winds and sands to blow off their wide cap, disrupting the sandstorm around them. In the few places where the cloth wrappings parted, pale, lacerated flesh was visible, shredded by the inhospitable environment. Their feet, wide featureless stumps, were cracked and dry, leaking black ichor with every step. Their eyes, deep dark hollows within their face, stayed directed in front of them, diligently scanning the dunes.

The individual let out a long, hoarse groan from its parched, toothless mouth. Its voice was deep and raspy; unnatural even. It would need fluids soon; it could not go as long as other races without them. A fact that enraged it but that it must respect nonetheless. Even still, It aspired to ignore this need for even a moment longer. It was close to that which it was searching for; it could feel it within its stipe. It continued searching, turning frantic as it looked about. It soon realized that it would have to turn back if it wished to survive. And so it did, cursing its weak flesh as it did so. On the horizon, it could see its starting point, a little bit farther than it had been on its last attempt.

It walked as fast as it could. It was nighttime when it returned, falling to its knees on the porch of the hut in front of the door. It had not even reached for the handle when the door opened, a frail old woman pushing it open. She had dark skin, rough like sandpaper, and a personality to match. She stared up at the colossal being, glaring at it as she made up her mind. She spoke to it, short and to the point.

"I will not help you again, you hear? No more of this nonsense."

The individual groaned in response, staring down at the hunched old hag.

"I don't give a damn what your quest is; I will not endorse any creature, no matter how strange it is, dying out in the desert."

The individual spoke now, attempting some form of persuasion.

"Please. Need water. Find the temple. In return. Will protect."

"I don't need protection, you fool! I've got all I need right here!"

The woman grabbed a gnarled old staff from inside the door and held it up before promptly bonking the thing on the head. It ignored her and tried again.

"Please. Need to fight. Need ...strength. Water."

The woman sighed and stared the creature down before going inside and slamming the door in its face. A moment later, she returned, holding a bucket of water. She dropped it in front of the creature.

"This is the last time, I swear it. No more, you understand? No. More."

The individual dipped its great cap once in thanks and gently placed its giant, three-fingered hand into the bucket. In moments, the water was gone, completely absorbed by it. Before her very eyes, the woman witnessed as its wounds closed and its flesh turned a healthier hue. She had no idea what it was or how it had gotten here, but she understood its heart. She understood that needling, piercing desire to get stronger. That did not mean she endorsed its actions. After its initial attempts, she had offered to assist it, but it had denied her offers, preferring to find the old temple of the Yottard on its own. She had offered to take it to a different temple of the Yottard, but it had denied that as well. It had mumbled something about hardships and acceptance. She really hoped it wasn't about to try for a Memorandum; that would be insanity.

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The hag watched as it turned around and began walking anew in the same direction it had gone last time. She hoped it would make it this time. She had meant it when she said she would assist no more. She grabbed her staff and ran some mana through it, raising it to the sky. She used a simple spell but an effective one. She sighed in relief. The sandstorm would break soon. If it didn't make it this time, it never would. She closed the door and prepared another bucket. Not to help it, she told herself. It would make it this time.

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The individual let out a sigh of relief. they had made it to the ruins. They had almost missed them, actually, having been hidden behind a dune farther to their right than expected. Regardless, they walked toward them. The ruins were huge, built in the shape of a coliseum, sporting huge columns all circling around a central point. An altar with a large bowl resting upon it. Slowly, the thing moved towards it, pulling something out from within its cloth as it did so. The item the individual pulled out? A dull knife, lent to them by the old woman. They looked down at the bowl, a strange object, with a needle attached and poised above it. They had been warned about what would come next, but they weren't worried. After all, they had an idea. A grizzly one, but a good one nonetheless. If they simply got rid of some of their body, the missing fluid wouldn't be missed.

Slowly, the individual began cutting off their left arm, just above the elbow. They flexed their gills through the pain, a small number of spores drifting down from their cap. It was excruciating but necessary. What power would come without some pain, anyways? They continued, ignoring the black fluids squirting out.

After making it about halfway through, they bypassed the knife and simply ripped the arm the rest of the way off. They let out a deep, howling roar as they did but quickly clamped their mouth shut. Slowly, they brought the removed arm above the bowl and squeezed with all their might, watching as a waterfall of black water fountained down into the bowl. After filling it, they simply tucked their arm into their cloth wrappings and watched patiently, ignoring the phantom pains from their missing limb. The arm would make a good gift for the old woman. The individual was sadly all too aware of how delicious they were; this was the first time in their life, well, second life, that it supposed that fact would help it out.

As they watched, the fluid coalesced into a dense, spherical black stone glowing brightly with purple light. It was a Memorandum—their Memorandum. They picked up the Memorandum and held it tight, staring intently into its depths.

MEMORANDUM

Shiitake Champion

REMEMBRANCES

none

MEMENTOS

Fungal Ferocity

SOUVENIRS

Rotten Aggression

Rebirth in Decay

Natural Distribution

Raw Consumption

Combat Cultivation

TROPHIES

Severe Survival

TOKENS

none

The individual smiled a rare smile. It was weak, but with this, it would grow strong. Soon, there would be nothing that could stand in its way. They turned and started heading back to the cabin. They had a gift to give.