Dead Enough for Government Work

There was grass and mud and probably a little bit of blood. Scratch that. There was a lot of blood. This was fighting Atma Weapon listening to Sound Garden, this was come together with your plan, this was bad. Wiggle your toes, count your fingers, what is today.
There had been a fight, he had been fighting a skeleton horde.
No, that didn't seem right, didn't sound right. There's a noise and it doesn't sound like it belongs here. Besides, only magic works on a skeleton horde in the end and he didn't have any spells. Casting Poor, Cast Broke, Low Dust/No Dust. He pushes a clump of sod from his eyes and blinks into the white sky. Skeletons would have reanimated, he would be dead, savagely so. He turns his head to release the blood from this mouth and wipes at his eyes again. He is aware of the smell of smoke and pitch and wet grass. The strange noise recedes a little. He rolls onto his side, slowly, and brings his knees up and finds he is too weak to snot-rocket the sputum from his nose, so he snorts and spits and his eyes roll in their sockets.
There is now a tingling urgency in the balls of his shoulders that he should really be going now, thanks for the coffee. He thinks he is alone, but he doesn't really know that for sure. He thinks he may have been left for dead. He hopes that he was been left for dead. He wonders if this is necromancy and he wonders if he would know whether or not it was and tries to think human thoughts but all he can think about are those Little Debbie cakes that weren't chocolate, but orange cream, and how good they were and wonders if this is enough to cogito ergo sum.
Where was his sword? He called it Day Ruiner, but it was supposed to ruin other people's day, not his. His fingers bite into the empty leather sheath and he breathes the word "shit" into the air. He needs a cleric, a fucking useless cleric, who the hell chooses cleric, and now he needs one.
Piece it together. Remember the dog's name. Remember the street name. Start with the familiar, build the world. Ranger. Euclid. "Ranger. Euclid."
He pushes himself into a sitting position and dizzying embers flash against his eyes. Day Ruiner is not in his local radius unless it is behind him, and he's just not there yet, thank you for your concern. If he saw himself sit up among all this carnage, he would certainly be looking for the local necromancer. "Ranger. Euclid. Cleveland."
It may have been a dragon, or just something big like that, that just assumes its opponent is dead or dead enough for government work. But he's lvl 36. Would he take on a dragon at 36 with a sword? "Ranger. Euclid. Cleveland. Thirty-Six."
No, that would be suicide. A shitty suicide, considering he was thinking he was still alive. He wouldn't have been alone. "Ranger. Euclid. Cleveland. Thirty-Six. Adver." That's right, the mage, the wizard, lvl 52, bee-tee-dubs, not Cast Broke, bee-tee-dubs. Where is Adver now. He tried to twist his head around to look behind him, but the swell of pain and dizziness nearly bowled him over. Did Adver hit him with a Rez? That's a big owe, if he did. Piss, did Adver hit him with a darker spell? One that did not bring to mind shafts of golden light and cherubs and Saturday morning cartoons? What's Latin for Not a Zombie?
He couldn't find any visible wounds. His belly was white and hairy where it wasn't streaked with blood and grass and dirt. The Nearest Old Navy might be his next quest he thinks and smiles. He really thought The Nearest Gap, but was afraid it wouldn't make sense when he wrote if all out later.
Damnit, Adver. What happened?
"Ranger. Euclid. Cleveland. Thirty-Six. Adver. Dorge."