It was the usual crew that day, the same folk I had come to rely on day in and day out as we tempted fate in search of another big payday. There was my brother Mauri , a Monk strong, fast, acrobatic. He was the leader we all depended on. There was our Fungus leshy scout Cremeni, she was the one who had found this forgotten path to this swampy hollow. An enticing tomb untouched due to its "sacred" nature. Mitzu the Lizardman Druid, our magic specialist and the one who kept us alive and kickin....and finally me the egghead engineer with a custom crossbow and a lucky streak. We were good at what we did, taking from the dead....until we weren't.
 
We had barely unsealed the place and crossed the threshhold when the rune trap activated. Mauri and I were still joking about god like beasts of regal destruction who chose to live in muck when the trap went off (too far away for me to do anything about it in the back of the party) lightning flashed. Thats the last I saw any of them alive.
 
When I had come too I was in crimpling pain and medical debt. The lightning had fried the nerves in my left arm and left a permanent scar. Treatment for that and the bribes needed to brush our illfated incursion under the rug cleaned me out. Grief for being the sole survivor started to get to me and I was listless for awhile, they told me I'd never fight again....until I found Mauri's old training manuscript.
 
It gave me an idea on how to reinforce my damaged body and get back out there. Researching ways to blend technology with the naturial qi he spent his life cultivating became an obsession of mine. When I had my breakthrough and my design for "The Left Fist" was completed each training session was refining my invention, following some of the notes Mauri left behind I changed the way I thought, changed the way I fought, changed everything. It's like Mauri used to say, you haven't lost until you stop playing. And I still had one hell of a hand left to play.