We just need your signature in this crazy ass magic book

As you come to, you find yourself in a small cobblestone room with a thatched roof, lying on a confortable but simple bed. Considering you can remember that you just passed out from a wicked migraine, you'd assume you're in some sort of doctor's tent or something. That's something that a ren faire or amusement park or whatever would have, right?

Oh right, you passed out. Fuck. That's probably a bad first impression. First day on the job and you pass out from a headache? Your medical benefits probably don't apply yet, either. Not that you know if you had any benefits. You'd have to ask the doctor or nurse or whatever that was in charge of this station about that. Except... there's no doctor in here. You see a small table, an unlit fireplace with a little pot hanging in it, a bookshelf with some reading material, a cozy little reading chair, and a full length oval mirror, but no medical supplies or anything. Shouldn't there at least be a first aid kit on the wall, or something? This looks more like a dinky little cottage than a first aid tent.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and move to stand up, and that's when you notice the second oddity of the room. You're buck naked. You don't even have your socks on. What the fuck? Did somebody strip you while you were ****? Wait, can a ren faire doctor even do that without your permission? You breifly consider hiring a lawyer and filing a lawsuit. There would be good money in that, if you could afford to hire a lawyer. Then again, if you had that much money, you probably wouldn't have had to scrape the bottom of the barrel for a job like this.

You quickly get out of bed and look around for something to wear, but there's no convinient pile of clothes nearby. Oh shit, they stripped you and stole your clothes? What kind of bullshit is that? And that's when it occurs to you this might be some weird carnie hazing ritual; bring in the new guy for orientation, strip him, hide his pants. Classic carnie prank. You'd probably have to end up swathing yourself in the bedsheets and making the walk of shame to management's office. Fuck, this is one hell of a first day, huh?

But then you notice the third oddity, as you glance for a moment in the oval mirror. The face that looks back is familiar, but something's a little bit off. You look... more handsome? Like, you can't pinpoint what exactly is different but... you know you've never looked this good. And you've got some nice stubble going on, too, which adds to the rougish charm of your chiseled features. Wait, you had stubble? How long were you out?

But that's not even the tip of the iceberg. Even if the face in the mirror is unmistakably yours, the body sure as shit ain't. As first, you assume it must be some kind of funhouse mirror effect, not that you'd ever seen a mirror pull off a trick like this. Mirror dude has a rockin' six pack, a tight abdominal V, hardy pecs, gnarly biceps, and one fucking huge hog swinging between his legs. He's not super muscular, just incredible toned. If you were into dudes, you'd be taking a mental snapshot. But then, you look down, and see a rockin' six pack, a tight abdominal V, the whole works. What the hell is going on?

Things are just getting weirder and weirder, but you brush aside your (many, many) questions about what the fuck happened to your body. You’ve played adventure games, and the first thing you do when you find yourself in a strange scenario is look at everything in the room and find anything that would be useful. No carnie was going to get the better of you today, no sir. If you were going to go down the walk of shame (even if you’d look damn good doing it), you'd go down swinging first.

You step over to the table, and luckily enough, there's a handwritten note on some kind of brown paper (parchment? Like in Harry Potter, maybe?). There's a simple message written on it, in bright red ink.

SIGN YOUR NAME IN THE GRIMOIRE OF THE ARCANE ARTS, AND EMBRACE YOUR DESTINY!

Oh, this is some ren faire roleplay bullshit, then. Yeah, alright carnies, two can play at this little game. Sure enough, next to the note is an absolute doorstopper of a book, easily two feet long and a foot and a half wide, bound in leather, and with a single rune on the front that's kinda shaped like an eye. How the fuck did you not notice that first? You don't know exactly what a wizard grimoire is supposed to look like, but that’s the most grimoire looking book you’d ever seen.

You grab a nearby quill and inkwell, because of course these carnie assholes couldn't just give you a ballpoint, and open the tome to the first page. There’s dozens of signatures on the otherwise blank page, not that you could read any of them. The handwriting on every one of them was atrocious. Were carnies known for having bad handwriting? Probably. Shrugging, still as naked as a jaybird, you sign your name on a blank spot on the page and close the book. Only after you signed did it occur to you that giving some shady carnies a copy of your signature was a terrible idea. But before you could ruminate on your poor grift spotting skills, you noticed the note you looked at before wasn't covered in the same red ink. Now the ink was purple, and the text had changed.

SO IT IS DONE. PREPARE YOURSELF FOR YOUR APOTHEOSIS, WIZARD!

Well shit. That didn't sound good.