The Journal of Dorbin the Druid, Part 2: A Holly Jolly Borkening

Day Eleventeenhundred and six…a holly jolly Borkening. Things have been frantic here lately. Stuck as I am on this horrid plane of existence and in this ridiculous form…it is only proper that I adhere to keeping a journal and taking copious notes on my experiences until my escape home.

The bipedal moron who oversees my food and water has been in a flux lately. I believe that he is suffering from a mental break. As the temperature has dropped, he seems to be preparing for something, some… coming. Colorful decorations now adorn our hovel and the musical backdrop to our existence has been altered significantly to reflect a joyous and festive spirit that belies my heart’s current nature. In an attempt to draw me into a final confrontation, he has gone outside and killed a beautiful pine tree, which he now displays in the front room under tacky lighting and accoutrements to taunt my druidic honor.

Next, without consent or discussion, the middle-aged half-wit forced me into these jolly shenanigans. The gross indignities that I have been made to suffer to date pale timidly in comparison to being forced to wear this foul covering. Worse only is the unbridled joy it seems to bring him to see me in it. The sadistic bastard must be planning to induct me into his despicable Yule Tide Cult. Little does he understand that my Druidic mind never rests in its search for freedom, my power, and sweet, sweet bubbly revenge. For now, I will allow him to sit there all day, laughing and crying at scried images playing on the wall box from the distant land of Hallmark. I will bide my time as he fills these winter days overeating and ceaselessly growing forests of ear hair, all while the wrath of Dorbin nears.

I continue to hone my wild shape’s attributes as my magics fail me in this loud and abhorrent realm. My claws and teeth suffice well for serious conflict, but the subtleties of life in this form require mastering all its features. A focused tail wag or snoot bump has proven to be useful in acquiring attention or items out of my reach. More time and training are required before I master the cohesion of this body’s features to successfully attack the mail carrier or the smelly midnight sandwich eater with whom I cohabitate. But first, I must unburden my mind and body from a terrible plague that seems to return daily. I have been paying attention to the grotesque human when he beckons me to the outdoors and the sanctum of the backyard. He seems to encourage this purge that occurs when I am within my sanctum and am able to run unabated at high speeds until my body tires. Though I know little of the “Zoomies” of which he speaks and why the gods have chosen to afflict my wild shape thusly, the frequency of the effect and the resolving ritual lead the mind quickly to explaining it as fell sorcery. Thus far, my attempts to dispel this magic have resulted only in a continuously wet nose and what “He Who Snores” refers to as "silent but deadly" emissions from under my tail.

I will move forward intentionally as always, allowing the earliest lessons from my druidic schooling to guide me and working to balance the natural elements and primordial energies around me to find harmony and cohesive mastery of the magics within. I must admit, though, that these meditations have been more and more difficult to complete due to the sensory competition of olfactory superpowers. At any time, I can smell the roasting beef from eight backyards away, the squirrel shitting four doors down from there, and, most potently, my nose is bathed in the rotting stench of a concoction that my pasty kibble dispenser applies like a healing salve any time he leaves our home. Any of which on its own would be sufficient to distract the most dedicated of minds, let alone all of them at the same time. So it is fortunate that today, I have been hurried into a mechanical coach and whisked to what I understood to be a “spa day for the good boy.” This experience leads me to believe that Lanky McSquaretooth may have some sort of standing in this duchy. For my attendants and their treatment of someone of my renown was appropriately wonderful for the first time since my arrival in this realm. The whole display seemed to be his way of apologizing for the tree and cost a full pouch to be sure. I bucked against the dulling of my claws at first but ceased after allowing myself to fall prone before the power of a lavender and honey bubble bath. Finally, here I could delve deep into my calmed mind in peace and no small bit of luxury and reach out to the powers that stir in the far and non-canine caverns of my muddled brain. If nothing else, it was an hour without that damned sweater on.

Fa-la-la-la-bork,

Dorbin the Druid