"It's my time to shine," you tell yourself. Four foes stand before you, each one a grotesque homunculus of flesh and, well, something else. The allies you've made along the way have fought valiantly at your side, raining ice from the heavens or concocting new modern miracles to liven spirits. With this in mind, you approach the battlefield, and begin to dance. Suddenly a dense fog envelops your compatriots, and visibility is too low to fight without wildly stabbing into the mist. You pray to the gods and dance again, and the gods respond by sending a freakish mushroom man who heals your foes. You will not back down. Destiny has sent you to the battlefield to dance, and you will fulfill the duty sent from on high. You dance a dance so splendid, neither friend nor foe can believe their eyes. In your bones, a feeling surfaces: The knowledge and experience gained from this battle will increase one hundred fold, and your bewildering grace returns to the party lines.

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