My barbarian is doomed. He is absolutely—without a doubt—going to die one day. I don’t know how or even when (though I have a few guesses as to when), but sooner or later the sword of Damocles suspended above his shaven head is going to drop and that will be that. I will not have a barbarian anymore because my barbarian will be dead.
When his end comes—and it will come—and probably before I’m finished playing with him, he will not show up in camp. He will not be able to revive his companion, run for his corpse to get his equipment back, and continue the fight. He will just be dead. This is a difficult thought for me to process, although as soon as I see my barbarian’s health start to drop I panic, start chugging potions, and scramble to open a town portal to escape the fight so I can regroup. So at least some part of me realizes that there’s a lot at stake here—nothing less than an investment of time that is slowly creeping higher and higher to an inevitable moment when it will all turn out to have been wasted as my barbarian’s corpse rots on the floor of some dungeon.
I know that my barbarian is going to die because if I’m perfectly honest, I am terrible at playing Diablo II.