The death count

Dark Spear, scourge of vaults, slinker of dungeons, faced the baelnorn’s test in ruined Myth Drannor. One riddle in Elvish later, and he froze—permanently. The party mourned respectfully while looting his corpse like goblins at a yard sale. Now he guards nothing, forever. Sleep well, gentle prince.

Bigsy, the elven archmage, unleashed Disintegrate on a wild magic plane. Reality disagreed. The spell collapsed inward, devouring bone, flesh, and pride in reverse order. He was later resurrected.

Illicit Stoneskin, Goliath warlord, vanished with his resurrected friend Bigsy, mid-battle in a snarl of powerful magic. The two reappeared—unconscious and twitching—on the Plane of Madness. A unicorn jelly slithered near, cooing softly, then dissolved them with affection.

The rogue slipped into shadow mid-combat, grinning—unseen, untouchable. Then his fellow wizard muttered a “harmless” spell. The Plane of Wild Magic peeled open, and reality folded into an atomization zone. The rogue died in perfect silence. No scream, no blood. But if you look with the right kind of lens, you might still see his molecules dancing in the breeze.

The monk shattered bone and star spawn alike, fists burning with inner light. But enlightenment doesn’t restart a space craft's life support. Air fled. Frost crept. He still floats now—silent, serene, and very, very dead—among stars that do not care.

The Giff barbarian grunted, laughed, and pried open the box etched with warnings in twelve dead tongues. He turned to stone mid-roar, tusks frozen in triumph, eyes wide with unknowable horror. The lich uses him now as a hat rack.

The wizard sneered, cast Fire Bolt, and struck the fungal ooze dead center. It exhaled. A spore cloud swallowed him whole. The first sprout grew on his nose—he cut it off. The second bloomed from his spine. Now he’s all mushroom.