[center][h1][color=lightblue]Donnie[/color][/h1]
[b]Word Count:[/b] 335
[b]Level up! Donnie has reached Level 4. He gains [b]Detox[/b], a basic antidote/cure spell that instantly eliminates all diseases and poisons from the target. If he was a Mistweaver, it would remove magical effects, like curses, too. Requires very little energy, and can basically be spammed.[/b]
EXP: (10/40) + 1 = [b]11/40[/b]
[/center]


As Donnie walked out of the van, carrying the Disc over his shoulder with his weapons sheathed, he observed the threat before him. A towering treant, obviously somehow cursed. It was a gnarled, twisted thing, with what looked like tentacles of wood stemming from what passed for its face. Like a wooden version of one of the Faceless Ones.

This was more like it.

It slammed the ground, causing a shockwave to rush right for him. On instinct, Donnie got on his trusty frisbee and ascended above the shockwave, before moving to engage.

He stood in the air, about thirty feet above the creature's head, before, almost on old instincts, summoning up the luggage and pulling out a bottle of something he had honestly forgotten he had. Booze. A fine bottle of it too. He'd almost regret throwing it away like this. But that was the point. It was Darkmoon Special Reserve, the signature brand of the Darkmoon Faire, which was only open on the first week of each month. While it was therefore one of the harder alcohols to get, it had a reputation (to the point of infamy, even) as one of the most potent alcoholic beverages ever made, on par with Nethergarde Bitter or Loch Modan Lager. This would work excellently for what he had in mind.

He tore off the cork on the bottle with chi-enhanced strength, then poured the whole bottle into the open air, right on the Ent's head. It flowed down onto its shoulders and back in limited quantities, though a lot of it went wide and spread to the rest of its body. It would have to do.

He then activated the next step of his (admittedly simple) master plan: Produce a book of matches, strike one of them, and drop the lit match directly on the Ent's head.

Then, if the tower of wood successfully became little more than an angry, flailing, overgrown bonfire, run like hell. Figuratively speaking, of course. [i]He[/i] would be flying.