In your eagerness to fight at Jon’s side, you forget the most important lesson of your training: always dodge.

A troll whips a horse leg in your direction. Off balance and off guard, you cannot avoid the hurling limb as the hoof nails you in the shoulder, severing your sword arm. Blood spouts like a geyser from your body as you crumple to the road.

“Bowie, help Jon!” Samwellington shrieks. “I’ve got the kid.” Samwellington stumbles to your side and rolls you onto your back. “Hang in there little buddy. It’s going to be alright.”

Blood loss is making you delusional. It is the only way to explain what is happening. Samwellington draws his dagger and sticks himself in the gut. He drags the blade across his stomach, slips his hand into the incision, and pulls out a chunk of his own fat. He smacks the lard on your wound and it sticks in place, stemming the blood flow.

“Can you walk?” asks Samwellington.

“Can I walk? Can I walk! I just had my fucking arm cleaved off. What the fuck do you think?”

“Yeah, an arm, not a leg. Don’t be a baby.”

“Sam we could really use your fat ass over here,” shouts Bowie. “Any motherfucking time!”

You hear a gurgle and a gasp just before Bowie’s head goes sailing through the air. Samwellington gulps and scurries away to hide behind the wreckage of the wagon. What a coward. Oh well, at least he saved your life.

Leaning against your sword, you stagger to your feet. One of the trolls ravages Bowie’s headless corpse. The crunching and snapping of bones sickens you, and you fight the urge to hurl as bile tickles your throat. Jon appears to be holding his ground against the other troll, but once his friend finishes devouring Bowie’s corpse, even Jon won’t be able to fend off their combined savagery. You have to do something quick or all of your worthless lives will be over.
> You charge into the fray.
You throw caution and sanity to the wind and charge into the fray.

Well, charge is a kind term. You mostly stagger along the blood-slicked road, swaying from side to side, until you topple over and slam your head against the cobblestones. Your sword flies from your grasp and slides beyond your reach. Adjusting to missing limbs takes time.

Both trolls look up, and in your blurred vision, you swear they are laughing at you.

Mocked by a troll, you think, how embarrassing.

Jon takes advantages of your momentary distraction and hacks his troll in the legs, sending the beast to its knees. The troll roars. Jon drives his blade into the troll’s open mouth and out the back of its throat. One down.

The second troll grabs the remnants of Bowie’s body and rushes toward you. The troll stands above you and squeezes the juices from what used to be Bowie, taking care to cover every inch of you in Bowie juice. The stink is agonizing.

“Oh my god,” Samwellington cries, “He’s marinating you!”

“Just kill me you son of a bitch,” you sputter as you spit some of the vile goop from your mouth.

The troll grips you by the shoulders and bares his teeth. The tip of a blade tears through the troll’s chest. Troll blood and the sweet smell of apples descend upon you. And the troll’s lifeless corpse… which crushes you.


“Hell yeah I’m in.”

Jon nods. “Glad to hear it.”

This could be your big chance to finally prove yourself. You need to get your name out there if you want to have any chance of receiving a knighthood someday. They do not just hand those things out like… well, nobody has ever actually handed you anything except a nice big steaming pile of shit. Peasantry blows.

Under cover of darkness, you and the three guards head out along the Baron’s Road in the back of a covered wagon. No one has ever thought of ambushing bandits in a covered wagon while guised as merchants. Surely, the plan will go off without a hitch.

Samwellington the Fat jitters in his seat. You are not sure if it is because he is scared or hungry. How Sam became a member of the guard is beyond your imagination. Jon trusts him for some reason, and that is good enough for you. “Nervous kid?” he asks.

That you might eat me. “No. If Jon says I’m ready, then I’m ready.”

Bowie bobs his head. “It’s best to trust Jon. I didn’t once and then my world went to shit. That draugr attack during the winter of ’69 was brutal… I still have nightmares.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “If you hadn’t st-”

“Hey, let’s let bygones be bygones,” says Bowie.

“Hey do you hear that?” you ask.

“Sorry, my stomach rumbles when I travel,” says Samwellington.

“No, not-”

The horses whinny and bolt. One of the wheels catches a snag in the road and topples over. Luckily, you land on Samwellington’s gut. Jon cuts a hole in the wagon covering and climbs out into the night, and you and Bowie follow.

“Oh, fuck…” Jon clutches his sword in both hands and rushes.

Two trolls tower over the corpses of the horses and the wagon driver, tearing chunks of bloody flesh with the effort you would rip apart a boiled chicken.
> You dODGE!!!
All of Jon’s training really pays off. Using your sixth sense, you see the attack coming leagues away. With all the grace of youth, you jump to the side as a horse leg soars past your ear. Quite unfortunate for Bowie, who takes the hoof straight in the face. You do not even look. The crack and thump tells you all you need to know.

Dodging more chunks of horse and human, you maneuver your way to Jon and the trolls. Master and apprentice stand back-to-back as you fend off the fearsome beasts. Dodge, parry, dodge, dodge, strike, dodge, parry, dodge, dodge, dodge, strike. And so the battle goes. Troll blood drenches you as you hack away. Surprisingly, it smells like apples.

“Jon,” you say, while dodging another troll fist, “they keep regenerating when I dodge them. It’s a troll blood bath, but they aren’t going down.”

“DODGE!” Jon shouts. “Always DODGE!”

“Then RAM,” screams Samwellington, bulling into the fray. By the sound of the collision, you think Samwellington just tackled Jon’s troll. What an awful, squishy sound.

“Where the fuck have you been?” you ask.

“Cowering.”

Your troll swings its long hairy arms wide and claps them together, aiming for your head. You dodge and slide along the blood slicked ground, slashing the beast’s legs as you slip between them. Hopping to your feet, you deliver the finishing blow as the beast drops to its knees before splashing face first into a puddle of its own blood.

Jon’s troll has met the same fate. Jon appears unwounded, though breathing heavily, leaning on his sword.

“Oh, dear god! Samwellington!”

Samwellington lies on the ground with a grisly gash on his robust gut that looks inches deep. “Oh don’t worry,” he says. “They just cut into the fat. I always knew eating all that pork lard would pay off one day.”

Jon smirks. “See, I told you. Dodge.”

“I won’t question you again Jon. Too bad about Bowie though.”

“Meh, he was a fucking dick anyway.”

Sam struggles to sit up. “I don’t think those trolls were the reason those people went disappearing.”

You nod. “Because all this blood and gore would have been pretty hard to miss.”

“No. Because there are five guys with loaded crossbows behind you.”

“Shit.”
> You turn and rush them.
Without a moment’s hesitation, you turn and rush the bandits. You are the fledgling hero of this story after all, and the hero always wins. The bandits either agree or are too shocked by your blazen stupidity and gawk at you as you close the gap.

By the time one of them gathers his wits, three of them are dead at your feet. A bolt grazes your cheek as you cut the fourth man down. The fifth man, who fired the bolt, turns to flee back into the forest. He does not make it. Jon skewers him from behind.

“That’s going to be quite the scar,” says Jon. “It’s not so much a deforming scar as a handsome, charismatic scar. All great heroes get them. Chicks dig it.”

“I don’t have one,” whines Samwellington.

Jon rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I wonder why.”

The three of you hobble back to the hamlet. You have one of the priests help draft a report of the incident and send a runner to deliver it to the baron. Some unimportant nobodies go clean up the mess while you kick back and relax. Not bad for a (k)night’s work.

“Good work today kid, but don’t get ahead of yourself kid,” says Jon. “You still have a long way to go to be a true knight. It takes hard work to bang a princess and ride off into the sunset. Oh, and remember.”

“Dodge,” you say in unison.

The baron is pleased with what he reads in the report. You become Bowie’s replacement in the hamlet guard and undertake some other minor missions with Jon and Samwellington. Soon you become a bit of a celebrity and inspiration, and your fame goes countywide. Priests take time out of their day to tutor you in your letters, and the baron invites you and Jon to take place in the next tournament he’s hosting. The king will even be there; it is supposed to be quite the shindig. Things are looking up. All you have to decide now is what event you are going to compete.
> You compete in the joust.
For reasons far beyond normal human comprehension, you elect to compete in the joust: never mind the fact that you do not own a horse and have never held a lance in your life. Remember, dodging is against the rules in a joust, so you are not exactly playing to your strengths.

During a morning patrol, you and Jon discuss the upcoming tournament.

“I still think you should participate in the melee with me instead,” says Jon. “But if you’re dead set on jousting, you’re going to need a horse.”

“Any recommendations?” you ask.

“Jousting horses are expensive. You’re either going to need a big loan or a big friend. And don’t forget, if you lose the joust, you lose your horse and your armor.”

“Can I use a quarter-horse? I bet old man Nathaniel David would let me borrow Bessy.”

“Sure. You can ride out naked too, but you’ll just embarrass yourself.” Jon smacks you upside the head. “If you aren’t going to take this seriously, don’t even bother showing up.”

You finish your patrol with Jon and head over to old man Nathaniel David’s orchard before you visiting the moneylender in the next town. You know it is not wise to ignore Jon’s advice, but you want to keep your options open. Old man Nathaniel David proves easy to find, he is humped over, shitting on a sapling when you arrive.

“Um, what are you doing David?”

“Fertilizing,” he says with a massive grin. “What can I do for you lad?” He sticks out his hand for you to shake, which you begrudgingly accept.

“I decided to joust in the king’s tournament, but I don’t have a horse.”

“Ah, well, I can’t imagine you’d want to use any of the horses in the hamlet. Plow horses ain’t going to win that for you, but I know you don’t have much money. So if you want Bessy, you can have her, on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“If by some miracle you win, you name my lil’ pumpkin, Sally, Lady Fair of the Tournament. If you lose, you pay me back by marrying her. You’re a good lad, and you’d make a fine husband for my girl.”

You have seen Sally David before, strutting around. She has a fine body for a wench, but holy matrimony is her face hideous. It looks like someone took a rake and beat her bloody. You will have to mull this one over; these are high stakes. Even if you won, you could offend many important people.

“Alright, David, I’ll keep the offer in mind,” you say as you wave goodbye.

Old man Nathaniel David hitches up his trousers and nods. “You do that, boy.”

The Baron’s Road has been nice and calm ever since you took care of those trolls and bandits, and you arrive at the moneylender’s office without incident. The moneylender’s office is small and simple: one desk, two hard wooden chairs, and a few bookshelves. You have heard of these types before, and they are nothing but trouble. The moneylender skims over the pleasantries and bids you sit and begin your business.

“What can I do for you, friend?” he asks. His hair is dark and oily, eyes small and beady. An unnecessarily pointy goatee graces his chin. Yep, slap the evil and unscrupulous label on him.

“I need money for a horse to use in the joust. I’m one of the guys that killed those bandits and trolls on the Baron’s Road awhile back.”

“I know who you are,” he snaps. “I also know you have no money and no experience jousting.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because.” He points at his goatee. “Now I will lend you the money if you agree to my terms.”

“Which are?”

“If you win, I get 50% of the ransom and prize money. You keep the horse. If you lose, you become my personal slave for a year.” The moneylender pulls, ink, quill and parchment from his desk. “We can get the contract signed right now.”
> You done deal!
As you reach to sign the contract, the moneylender stabs your hand with the tip of the quill. He pops the end of the quill into his mouth and sucks the blood off with a loud slurp. Black and blood-red sparks shoot randomly from his body. Wings burst forth from his back and claws grow from his fingers.

“First, I kill you. Then, I rule the kingdom. Finally, I get all the bitches.”

You blink in confusion. “What?”

“That’s what is going to happen, and you can’t stop me.”

“Why did you drink my blood? Are you a vampire? So help me Stephanie, if you're lurking around here, I'll kick your ass.”

“There’s power in heroes blood.”

“And?”

“Actually, I have no idea what I am now. I was an evil sorcerer in disguise. Then I drank hero’s blood, and since I’m evil that would probably make me an anti-hero now.”

“Would I become an anti-villain if I drank your blood?”

“I don’t think it works like that.”

“Why not?”

Because you’re dead. The evil monster rips your head off with his claws and devours your corpse. That will teach you to make dirty deals with shady characters.


For reasons far beyond normal human comprehension, you elect to compete in the joust: never mind the fact that you do not own a horse and have never held a lance in your life. Remember, dodging is against the rules in a joust, so you are not exactly playing to your strengths.

During a morning patrol, you and Jon discuss the upcoming tournament.

“I still think you should participate in the melee with me instead,” says Jon. “But if you’re dead set on jousting, you’re going to need a horse.”

“Any recommendations?” you ask.

“Jousting horses are expensive. You’re either going to need a big loan or a big friend. And don’t forget, if you lose the joust, you lose your horse and your armor.”

“Can I use a quarter-horse? I bet old man Nathaniel David would let me borrow Bessy.”

“Sure. You can ride out naked too, but you’ll just embarrass yourself.” Jon smacks you upside the head. “If you aren’t going to take this seriously, don’t even bother showing up.”

You finish your patrol with Jon and head over to old man Nathaniel David’s orchard before you visiting the moneylender in the next town. You know it is not wise to ignore Jon’s advice, but you want to keep your options open. Old man Nathaniel David proves easy to find, he is humped over, shitting on a sapling when you arrive.

“Um, what are you doing David?”

“Fertilizing,” he says with a massive grin. “What can I do for you lad?” He sticks out his hand for you to shake, which you begrudgingly accept.

“I decided to joust in the king’s tournament, but I don’t have a horse.”

“Ah, well, I can’t imagine you’d want to use any of the horses in the hamlet. Plow horses ain’t going to win that for you, but I know you don’t have much money. So if you want Bessy, you can have her, on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“If by some miracle you win, you name my lil’ pumpkin, Sally, Lady Fair of the Tournament. If you lose, you pay me back by marrying her. You’re a good lad, and you’d make a fine husband for my girl.”

You have seen Sally David before, strutting around. She has a fine body for a wench, but holy matrimony is her face hideous. It looks like someone took a rake and beat her bloody. You will have to mull this one over; these are high stakes. Even if you won, you could offend many important people.

“Alright, David, I’ll keep the offer in mind,” you say as you wave goodbye.

Old man Nathaniel David hitches up his trousers and nods. “You do that, boy.”

The Baron’s Road has been nice and calm ever since you took care of those trolls and bandits, and you arrive at the moneylender’s office without incident. The moneylender’s office is small and simple: one desk, two hard wooden chairs, and a few bookshelves. You have heard of these types before, and they are nothing but trouble. The moneylender skims over the pleasantries and bids you sit and begin your business.

“What can I do for you, friend?” he asks. His hair is dark and oily, eyes small and beady. An unnecessarily pointy goatee graces his chin. Yep, slap the evil and unscrupulous label on him.

“I need money for a horse to use in the joust. I’m one of the guys that killed those bandits and trolls on the Baron’s Road awhile back.”

“I know who you are,” he snaps. “I also know you have no money and no experience jousting.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because.” He points at his goatee. “Now I will lend you the money if you agree to my terms.”

“Which are?”

“If you win, I get 50% of the ransom and prize money. You keep the horse. If you lose, you become my personal slave for a year.” The moneylender pulls, ink, quill and parchment from his desk. “We can get the contract signed right now.”
> You you'll just go with Bessy.
Probably not a great idea to borrow money from such an obviously evil character: you excuse yourself, leaving the moneylender fuming. He mutters something under his breath while stroking his goatee as you walk out the door. Perhaps you will cross paths with him again.

Your heart is still set on riding in the joust, so you head back to old man Nathaniel David’s orchard and agree to his bargain. You spend the remainder of your free time preparing for the tournament. Jon coaches you as best he can, which is not very well since he has never jousted either, but you think you have the hang of it.

Bessy’s training has mixed results. She works hard and seems to appreciate the change of scenery. You figure being a plow horse is probably pretty dull. She has spirit, but the old girl does a lot more plodding than charging. At least, she does not shy away when the other horse speeds toward her.

The day of the tournament dawns cool and crisp. Sweaty with excitement, you try to relax in your pavilion before your first match. You have already made water five times this morning, and you think you have to go again. So many things ride on the outcome of today’s events, but you cannot think about that. The here and now is what is important. You watch squires scurry around the grounds, doing the bidding of Sir this or Sir that or some other random bastard. You fall into a daze and your thoughts wander.

Why don’t I have a squire? Crap, I think I need to piss again. Dear lord, please grant me the strength and will to win today. I don’t want to marry that troll Sally David. Have you seen her? Oh, is that who I think it is?

Sir Jamison Hill, The Iron Boar, approaches and shakes your hand: what an honor! Ser Jamison serves as the Baron’s champion and is renowned throughout the kingdom for his tourney skills.

“I heard about how you helped take care of those bandits and trolls on the Baron’s Road,” he says. “The kingdom needs more fine young men like you. I expect to see great things from you today and in the future.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You want to talk some more with him – he certainly has plenty he could teach you – but the herald calls you for your first bout. You wave farewell and enter the lists, wishing you had taken the time to make water one more time.

“Are you ready girl?” you ask as you mount Bessy. Bessy snorts in reply. “That’s the spirit.”

Your first match is against Lord Isaac Cleaver, The Cleaver. The man has a penchant for the flamboyant. The sun gleams off his silver gilded armor as he rides into position on his roan courser: his shield emblazoned with his house emblem, a silver cleaver beheading a golden goose.

Not a very creative nickname, you think. Perhaps not, but it is the badassery of a nickname that is too be feared, not the cleverness.

The herald blows his trumpet, and you urge your horses on. Bessy hobbles along as fast as she can, but she is completely outmatched in speed by the roan courser. Everything else disappears as you focus on Lord Cleaver. The distance closes. You raise your lance and prepare to strike.
> You just hold the hell on
There is no way you have gained enough skill to make a precise aim. Your best bet is too just hold on with the fury of hell and hope for the best. You grit your teeth; here it comes.

Crack! Both of your lances splinter on contact. The collision jars you, but you manage to hang in the saddle. What a rush. Your heart hammers in your chest, and the world snaps back into focus. The crowd screams and cheers. Flags twirl in the wind and a herald’s trumpet booms. You turn around and see Lord Cleaver’s squire helping him to his feet while another attendant runs down his horse. You won!

Jon rushes forward to greet you. “Fantastic, I never thought you could win riding that old draft horse! It looked like you were moving in slow motion compared to Lord Cleaver.”

“Bessy and I may not be a fast duo, but we’re tough as nails and hard as stone.”

Jon chuckles. “Interesting, we’ll have to have someone take care of that for you.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask. Your face flushes red as you realization hits you. “Oh, damn it. You perverse bastard.”

Jon snatches the reins from you and snarls. “Never call me a bastard again. Got it?”

“Uh, sure.”

He helps you off Bessy and slaps you on the back. “Good.”

I wonder what that was all about?

You head back to your pavilion and bask in your glory. The road ahead is still long and perilous, but you took another step down the path of success. You kick back to relax when the flap of your tent opens. In steps a gorgeous lass, with gingersnap hair and vicious eyes. She looks wild and… hungry.

“May I help you?” you ask.

“The name is Bell. I’ve been sent to help you with a little problem.” She winks. “Your friend said you needed some refreshment before your next bout.” She shakes her breasts free from her loose shift and steps fully into the tent.

Before the tent flap falls, you see the shady moneylender prowling around Sir Jamison’s pavilion.

“Come on hero,” she urges. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
> You say "Jump on top of me, baby."
“Jump on top of me baby.”

Bell does as you say. Two beings disappear and reemerge as one as the pair of you become lost in the heat of passion. Funny thing about passion: it often comes and goes without warning. In this case forty-seven seconds.

Bell giggles. “First time?”

You groan. “First time.”

“No shame in that, darling. I’ll be here when you get back. Practice makes perfect, am I right?”

You nod and step out of the tent.

“Holy shit, what the hell happened!?”

The entire fairground is on fire. The air is rank with burning flesh and hair. Bodies are everywhere. Horses whinny in agony. Those not too injured to flee scramble about in sheer terror. High above you see the evil moneylender, floating on a black cloud, cackling and tossing lightning bolts.

Bessy plods toward you. A bolt catches her in the flank and explodes into a fireball. She collapses to the ground and shrieks. Another bolt pierces her neck and her and she lies silent.

You hear the tent flap jostle, and you wheel around. You clutch Bell by the throat and dive-tackle her into the tent. “What the fuck is this?” you scream.

Bell claws at your hand, gasping for breath. You relieve pressure, but keep her pinned to the ground.

“I don’t know.” Tears well in her eyes.

“Liar.”

“No, I swear. Your friend Jon sent me.”
> You she's lying. Beat the truth out of her.
“You lying whore!” You bash her head into the ground and clobber her with your fist.

“Stop, please. I don’t know anything.”

“Tell me the truth!”

“I am. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Her pleas for mercy only anger you more. You know she is lying. “Last chance. Tell me what’s going on. Who are you? Who sent you? What the hell is that floating madman doing?”

“I don’t know.”

You hit her again and again and again and again. You pummel the poor girl until her once fair face is a mask of blood and tears. The tent flap ruffles open and you spin around to see Jon step inside the tent.

He gapes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“She distracted me while the lunatic set the world on fire.”

“No she didn’t. I sent her to f-” he smacks his forehead. “Damn it all. What’s done is done. We can worry about this later. Right now, we have to stop this lunatic. Come on.”

You leave a broken Bell lying on the tent floor and follow Jon outside. Everything except your tent is in flames. The moneylender – perhaps it is time to start calling him a sorcerer – floats toward you on his cloud. You and Jon draw your swords.

“Why didn’t he fry my tent too?”

“How should I know?” says Jon. “Let’s just kill him and go into damage control mode.”
> You demand the sorcerer explain himself
No, this is too confusing and you have too many questions. You already stripped your honor by beating up an innocent whore. You can at least play the hero’s role and make the evil sorcerer reveal the details of his plans.

“Explain yourself, fiend,” you say, brandishing your sword.

The sorcerer floats closer on his cloud and shrugs. “Sure, why the hell not?”

Jon sits and crosses his legs.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Preparing for a monologue.”

“Comfy? Good,” says the sorcerer. “My name is Merek the Mad Mage of Misery. I pose as a moneylender to conceal my true operations as an evil wizard.”

Jon sighs. “A cover that is now blown.”

Merek the Mad Mage of Misery ignores Jon. “Ever since you walked into my office, I knew you had the makings of a hero. I knew of the unicorn fart, and I knew a hero had been born. I knew he was somewhere in this area, but not exactly where. You are that hero. It’s in your eyes, your blood, your-”

“Urine?” you ask.

“Sure… The only person who could stop me was Sir Jamison and his magic sword and shield.”

“I didn’t know he had a magic sword and shield.”

“You just met him, and stop interrupting me!”

“Sorry.”

“As you can see, I have Sir Jamison’s magic sword and shield nice and safe up here with me.” Merek clinks the magical artifacts together. “I need to drink your blood to gain the power for my master plan to succeed. That is why I did not fry you and your tent. Once I extract your blood, I can complete my master plan.”

“Which is?”

“World domination.”

“You seem to be doing pretty well without my blood.”

“Shut up and prepare to die!”

Bolts appear in Merek’s hands as his cloud races toward you.

“Jon wake up, he’s attacking.”

“Huh, oh sure.” Jon leaps to his feet. “Let’s get this over with.”

Merek hurls his bolts, which you and Jon dodge with ease. You slice Merek’s arm off as his cloud whizzes past. Jon leaps onto the cloud and stabs him in the back.

“So that’s what doing that feels like,” says Jon as he yanks Merek off the cloud.

Black sparks shoot from Merek’s body as he slams into the ground. The sparks shoot and dance, stitching his arm back on. He rises to his feet and cackles at the sky.

“Fools! Only a magic weapon can kill me. Ahhhhhhhhhargggggg”

Merek slumps over and falls face down in the dirt.

Sir Jamison bends down and pulls a dagger from Merek’s back. “He forgot about my magic dagger.”

Jon shakes his head. “I hope this doesn’t become a thing.”

The three of you do your best at damage control. Jon kills Bell, and the two of you bury her in a shallow grave, pretending she never existed. Merek managed to kill literally everything else in a three mile radius, so the three of you take over ruling the kingdom. Sir Jamison becomes King Jamison. Jon becomes Warden of the North. And you receive the honor of knighthood, vowing to keep your whore murdering lifestyle in the past.

You marry a buxom wench – seeing as all the noble Ladies are dead – and, in a strange twist of fate, have seven daughters who all grow up to be fabulous whores.


“You lying whore!” You bash her head into the ground and clobber her with your fist.

“Stop, please. I don’t know anything.”

“Tell me the truth!”

“I am. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Her pleas for mercy only anger you more. You know she is lying. “Last chance. Tell me what’s going on. Who are you? Who sent you? What the hell is that floating madman doing?”

“I don’t know.”

You hit her again and again and again and again. You pummel the poor girl until her once fair face is a mask of blood and tears. The tent flap ruffles open and you spin around to see Jon step inside the tent.

He gapes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“She distracted me while the lunatic set the world on fire.”

“No she didn’t. I sent her to f-” he smacks his forehead. “Damn it all. What’s done is done. We can worry about this later. Right now, we have to stop this lunatic. Come on.”

You leave a broken Bell lying on the tent floor and follow Jon outside. Everything except your tent is in flames. The moneylender – perhaps it is time to start calling him a sorcerer – floats toward you on his cloud. You and Jon draw your swords.

“Why didn’t he fry my tent too?”

“How should I know?” says Jon. “Let’s just kill him and go into damage control mode.”
> You attack
You don’t have the time to sit around and listen to a monologue. When evil rears its ugly mug, there is only one viable option: destroy it with extreme prejudice.

With swords in hand, you and Jon leap into action, literally. Unfortunately, the sorcerer is beyond your reach on his floating cloud. You and Jon jump as high as you can, but your best efforts are nowhere near good enough.

“Well this is embarrassing,” says Jon after another failed leap.

“A bow and arrow would really come in handy right about now.” You scan the bedlam for a projectile, but there is not much of anything to work with. “Well I’m stumped.”

“Fools.” The sorcerer cackles as he tosses bolts of lightning toward you. “You should know better than to defy an all-powerful mage such as myself. Now perish!”

You successfully dodge the first couple bolts, but the sorcerer is throwing them around like candy and eventually one catches you in the leg. The bolt explodes on contact, obliterating muscle, tissue, ligaments, tendons, and bones. The intense heat cauterizes what little remains of your leg. The stink of your own charred flesh hits your nostrils and you gag. Crawling on hands and knee, you seek shelter in your tent, praying the smoke will conceal your movements. Jon will have to handle this on his own now.

Inside the tent, you pass out from the pain: never to awake again.

What the hell happened?

Bell cut your throat with your own dagger while you were unconscious. If it is any consolation, Jon and Sir Jamison Hill managed to kill the sorcerer. When Jon found your lifeless corpse, he took it upon himself to brutally murder Bell.

What happens now?

Well, you were on the path to heroism, but you failed to kill the big baddie and fell into an act of villainy by beating the ever-loving life out of poor sweet Bell. So I imagine you’ll go to limbo where they’ll force you to play a never ending game of Monopoly for the next 1,000 years.


“Jump on top of me baby.”

Bell does as you say. Two beings disappear and reemerge as one as the pair of you become lost in the heat of passion. Funny thing about passion: it often comes and goes without warning. In this case forty-seven seconds.

Bell giggles. “First time?”

You groan. “First time.”

“No shame in that, darling. I’ll be here when you get back. Practice makes perfect, am I right?”

You nod and step out of the tent.

“Holy shit, what the hell happened!?”

The entire fairground is on fire. The air is rank with burning flesh and hair. Bodies are everywhere. Horses whinny in agony. Those not too injured to flee scramble about in sheer terror. High above you see the evil moneylender, floating on a black cloud, cackling and tossing lightning bolts.

Bessy plods toward you. A bolt catches her in the flank and explodes into a fireball. She collapses to the ground and shrieks. Another bolt pierces her neck and her and she lies silent.

You hear the tent flap jostle, and you wheel around. You clutch Bell by the throat and dive-tackle her into the tent. “What the fuck is this?” you scream.

Bell claws at your hand, gasping for breath. You relieve pressure, but keep her pinned to the ground.

“I don’t know.” Tears well in her eyes.

“Liar.”

“No, I swear. Your friend Jon sent me.”
> You trust her.
Whether you trust Bell or not, a true knight never harms a lady… or a whore.

“Alright,” you say pulling Bell to her feet, “help me save the day, and we can get back to putting a little baby hero in your belly.”

“You think I want that after what you just did to me?”

“Everyone wants the hero,” you deadpan. “So yes.”

And you are right. Feminism is for spunky heroines, not the spunk covered ragtag sack ticklers of heroic knights. Bell grumbles a pithy supplication and follows you out of the tent into the inferno of the fairgrounds.

The evil moneylender stares at you from his floating cloud, with his face screwed up into a scowl of utter disgust and contempt. He leans over the edge of his cloud and vomits.

“You,” he jabs an accusatory finger, “are a vile, putrid, scumbag of a hero. Have you no sense of decency?”

You hear a soft plop, plop behind you.

“What are you talking about?” you ask, drawing your blade, preparing to pounce during the villain’s moment of weakness, but you hold off, curious of his ailment.

“Your woman is naked before the world, dripping your seed! And the script says I’m the villain? What depraved fool green-lit this?”

*Poof*

The narrator appears, riding a gigantic black German Shepherd, which is both ferocious and adorable. He wields a word processor and keyboard with a suspiciously sticky set of keys. He wields unadulterated badassery and lowbrow humor.

“I’ll tolerate snark from the hero and the spirits that control him, but not the damn villain, and yes the script says you are the villain. So unless you want to be spontaneously transfigured into an elephant entering the initial stages of menopause, then I suggest you shut the fuck up and let his hoe decide if she’s being mistreated.” The narrator turns to Bell. “Are you being mistreated?”

“Sort of, I guess.”

“Would you like a pony?”

“Yes?”

“Done.”

A pony wanders through the carnage, and Bell climbs on top, uncertain of what to do.

The narrator scowls at the villain. “Merek the Mad Mage of Misery, are you content with the current proceedings? Well are you?”

The villain tugs at the collar of his robes. “Yes, your godliness.”

*Poof*

“That was interesting,” you say. “Anyway, I’m making baby heroes. And that’s heroic. The naked human body is an art form to be admired, not scorned! Besides there’s no one left to ogle her since you killed them all. Except Jon, over there, staring at her burning bush. And I bet Sir Jamison is alive somewhere. He seems pretty badass.”

Jon smiles dumbly, sword in hand.

Merek the Made Mage of Misery shrieks. “You perverted bastards! I’ll kill you all!” Lightning bolts sparkle in his hands, and he hurls them at you with the accuracy of a drunken Storm Trooper smoking black tar heroin.

You stand still, watching the blasts scorch the already scorched ground twenty yards away.

Jon lurches out of his stupor and rushes into battle, tucking away his playing sword and drawing his fighting one. “I’ll show you who the bastard is, you slut!”

Merek the Mad Mage of Misery curses his incompetence and swings his attention toward Jon. The two engage in a very boring battle. Wild lightning blasts scatter the land while Jon meanders around and tries to jump onto the floating cloud, which always drifts beyond his reach.

You turn to Bell. “I have an idea.” You pull Bell from the pony’s back and make sweet love to her in the middle of the burning fairgrounds. Merek the Mad Mage of Misery catches sight and gawks in horror. This provides Jon the opening to leap onto his magic cloud and cut his throat with the magic dagger Sir Jamison conveniently just threw to him: because deus ex machina is beautiful and everyone knows only magic items can kill magic beings.

…

Sweet, so what happens now?

The spirits guiding you probably leave mean comments because of the sexism and ridiculousness bomb we just exploded all over the place. At least we took it up to eleven.

It was rather ridiculous, but hey, I won, right! What should I do with the pony?

Breed it with a unicorn and find out what manner of being is born when the abomination spawn spews magical flatulence.

Wicked. Do you have any parting words of advice for me or wrap-up narration?

What the hell, is this twenty questions? I don’t know, go murder every sparkly vampire and warrior-cat that you see and you can’t go wrong. Shit, I just earned more hate comments.


There is no way you have gained enough skill to make a precise aim. Your best bet is too just hold on with the fury of hell and hope for the best. You grit your teeth; here it comes.

Crack! Both of your lances splinter on contact. The collision jars you, but you manage to hang in the saddle. What a rush. Your heart hammers in your chest, and the world snaps back into focus. The crowd screams and cheers. Flags twirl in the wind and a herald’s trumpet booms. You turn around and see Lord Cleaver’s squire helping him to his feet while another attendant runs down his horse. You won!

Jon rushes forward to greet you. “Fantastic, I never thought you could win riding that old draft horse! It looked like you were moving in slow motion compared to Lord Cleaver.”

“Bessy and I may not be a fast duo, but we’re tough as nails and hard as stone.”

Jon chuckles. “Interesting, we’ll have to have someone take care of that for you.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask. Your face flushes red as you realization hits you. “Oh, damn it. You perverse bastard.”

Jon snatches the reins from you and snarls. “Never call me a bastard again. Got it?”

“Uh, sure.”

He helps you off Bessy and slaps you on the back. “Good.”

I wonder what that was all about?

You head back to your pavilion and bask in your glory. The road ahead is still long and perilous, but you took another step down the path of success. You kick back to relax when the flap of your tent opens. In steps a gorgeous lass, with gingersnap hair and vicious eyes. She looks wild and… hungry.

“May I help you?” you ask.

“The name is Bell. I’ve been sent to help you with a little problem.” She winks. “Your friend said you needed some refreshment before your next bout.” She shakes her breasts free from her loose shift and steps fully into the tent.

Before the tent flap falls, you see the shady moneylender prowling around Sir Jamison’s pavilion.

“Come on hero,” she urges. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
> You ugh, you better go check out what that moneylender is doing.
Despite adamant protests from your little head, your big head wins the day, insisting you act responsibly and investigate what that shady character is up to: shenanigans no doubt.

“I’m sorry, Bell. I have to take care of something quick.”

“Oh, don’t leave me hero.” Bell wraps her arms around, drawing you in tight against her bare bosom.

You pull away from her enticing embrace before you change your mind. Now where did that moneylender run off? You don’t see him skulking around Sir Jamison’s tent anymore. Could your eyes have been playing tricks on you? The bad feeling in the pit of your gut says no.

Muffled noises are coming from Sir Jamison’s tent. Not wanting to intrude on a living legend in the throes of lovemaking, you ruffle the flap of the tent to announce your presence. “Sir Jamison, are you in there? I noticed a shady character lingering around your tent a moment ago.”

The noise inside the tent ceases.

Oh, crap. Your dodge sense tingles.

You jump aside just in time to avoid incineration via fireball. Within the smoking remains of the tent, the shady moneylender stands poised to attack. Magic crackles in both of his hands. The shady moneylender is a sorcerer, who knew.

“I knew you were up to no good,” you say, drawing your sword. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m going to put a stop to it.”

“Imbecile, you may have the skills, but you lack the tools to defeat me.”

“We’ll just have to see about that!”

“Is that really the best line you’ve got?”

“I know you are but what am I?”

The sorcerer face-palms. “You’re an idiot aren’t you?”

“Bring it on, bitch!”

Onlookers scurry about to put out the fires the fireball ignited and to get a front row view of what is shaping up to be a good old-fashioned melee on magic standoff.

The sorcerer simultaneously hurls a fireball and casts a bolt of lightning.
> You dodge the bolt; bat the fireball back at him with your sword
You dodge the bolt with ease and set your feet. You’re going to knock this fireball right out of the park. You step, swing, and… your sword melts as the fireball passes through and explodes amongst the crowd of onlookers.

You scream in agony as molten steel splatters across your body.

The sorcerer cackles. “Imbecile, only a magic artifact can repel a magical attack.”

You collapse to the ground, defeated. And dead. The sorcerer proceeds to extract your hero blood, which he uses to conquer the entire kingdom. A shame, you couldn't even save your friends.


Despite adamant protests from your little head, your big head wins the day, insisting you act responsibly and investigate what that shady character is up to: shenanigans no doubt.

“I’m sorry, Bell. I have to take care of something quick.”

“Oh, don’t leave me hero.” Bell wraps her arms around, drawing you in tight against her bare bosom.

You pull away from her enticing embrace before you change your mind. Now where did that moneylender run off? You don’t see him skulking around Sir Jamison’s tent anymore. Could your eyes have been playing tricks on you? The bad feeling in the pit of your gut says no.

Muffled noises are coming from Sir Jamison’s tent. Not wanting to intrude on a living legend in the throes of lovemaking, you ruffle the flap of the tent to announce your presence. “Sir Jamison, are you in there? I noticed a shady character lingering around your tent a moment ago.”

The noise inside the tent ceases.

Oh, crap. Your dodge sense tingles.

You jump aside just in time to avoid incineration via fireball. Within the smoking remains of the tent, the shady moneylender stands poised to attack. Magic crackles in both of his hands. The shady moneylender is a sorcerer, who knew.

“I knew you were up to no good,” you say, drawing your sword. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m going to put a stop to it.”

“Imbecile, you may have the skills, but you lack the tools to defeat me.”

“We’ll just have to see about that!”

“Is that really the best line you’ve got?”

“I know you are but what am I?”

The sorcerer face-palms. “You’re an idiot aren’t you?”

“Bring it on, bitch!”

Onlookers scurry about to put out the fires the fireball ignited and to get a front row view of what is shaping up to be a good old-fashioned melee on magic standoff.

The sorcerer simultaneously hurls a fireball and casts a bolt of lightning.
> You double dodge!
Few living souls can successfully perform a double dodge, but you are a hero damn it. From the moment the unicorn farted, you were destined to accomplish great feats. You have the skill. You have the power. You have… ah, to hell with it. Just get on with it.

You avoid the bolt and the fireball, perfectly executing a textbook double dodge. The onlookers cheer and scream approval… except for the ones who got incinerated by the fireball you dodged. The bloodcurdling screams of the not quite dead but still severely burned could wake the dead. Way to not take one for the team, asshole.

“Dodge all you want!” cries the sorcerer. “It won’t do you any good in the end. Your pathetic blade can’t kill me.”

You’re about to test that theory when a sparkly pulsating glow coming from behind the sorcerer catches your eye. The tantalizing and addicting flash of spectral lights can be only one thing: a magical artifact. The sorcerer must have been trying to steal it from Sir Jamison. If the sorcerer wants them, that must mean they can kill him. Or destroy the kingdom. One or the other.

“We’ll see about that,” you shout as you charge ahead.

“I’ll humor you, simpleton,” says the sorcerer. “Just try and strike me down. I’ll stand still.”

The sorcerer crosses his arms and smirks as you lumber toward him. His evil sneer disappears once you run past him. The magical artifact turns out to be a magic sword and shield combo. It’s on like a donkey’s hard on now.

“No, you can’t!”

“Sure I can,” you say as you bash and slash him with your magic weaponry. “By the way, if these things can kill you, why did you let me get so close to them?”

The world will never know the answer to that question. The sorcerer shrivels up and dies within a cloud of evaporated blood. His death screams awaken some of the recently deceased onlookers, which you swiftly put back in their graves unburied corpse state.

Fires rage throughout the fairgrounds and more bodies than you feel like counting litter the ground. Crows and ravens already flock to the feast. It looks like the tournament is going to have to be canceled. Oh well, there is always next year. You turn around and look to see if Bell is still alive and willing for a romp.


Probably not a great idea to borrow money from such an obviously evil character: you excuse yourself, leaving the moneylender fuming. He mutters something under his breath while stroking his goatee as you walk out the door. Perhaps you will cross paths with him again.

Your heart is still set on riding in the joust, so you head back to old man Nathaniel David’s orchard and agree to his bargain. You spend the remainder of your free time preparing for the tournament. Jon coaches you as best he can, which is not very well since he has never jousted either, but you think you have the hang of it.

Bessy’s training has mixed results. She works hard and seems to appreciate the change of scenery. You figure being a plow horse is probably pretty dull. She has spirit, but the old girl does a lot more plodding than charging. At least, she does not shy away when the other horse speeds toward her.

The day of the tournament dawns cool and crisp. Sweaty with excitement, you try to relax in your pavilion before your first match. You have already made water five times this morning, and you think you have to go again. So many things ride on the outcome of today’s events, but you cannot think about that. The here and now is what is important. You watch squires scurry around the grounds, doing the bidding of Sir this or Sir that or some other random bastard. You fall into a daze and your thoughts wander.

Why don’t I have a squire? Crap, I think I need to piss again. Dear lord, please grant me the strength and will to win today. I don’t want to marry that troll Sally David. Have you seen her? Oh, is that who I think it is?

Sir Jamison Hill, The Iron Boar, approaches and shakes your hand: what an honor! Ser Jamison serves as the Baron’s champion and is renowned throughout the kingdom for his tourney skills.

“I heard about how you helped take care of those bandits and trolls on the Baron’s Road,” he says. “The kingdom needs more fine young men like you. I expect to see great things from you today and in the future.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You want to talk some more with him – he certainly has plenty he could teach you – but the herald calls you for your first bout. You wave farewell and enter the lists, wishing you had taken the time to make water one more time.

“Are you ready girl?” you ask as you mount Bessy. Bessy snorts in reply. “That’s the spirit.”

Your first match is against Lord Isaac Cleaver, The Cleaver. The man has a penchant for the flamboyant. The sun gleams off his silver gilded armor as he rides into position on his roan courser: his shield emblazoned with his house emblem, a silver cleaver beheading a golden goose.

Not a very creative nickname, you think. Perhaps not, but it is the badassery of a nickname that is too be feared, not the cleverness.

The herald blows his trumpet, and you urge your horses on. Bessy hobbles along as fast as she can, but she is completely outmatched in speed by the roan courser. Everything else disappears as you focus on Lord Cleaver. The distance closes. You raise your lance and prepare to strike.
> You pinpoint your aim
If you can hit Lord Cleaver’s shield just right, then you can knock him right off of his horse. You can do this. This is what you spent all those hours training for. You pinpoint your target and adjust your aim. The horses draw closer. You can see the roan courser’s breath. Here it comes!

Crack! Thud! Crack!

Weightless, you are falling. A flash of pain. Blackness.

I have good news, bad news and worse news, hero. Good news: you managed to hit your target. That first crack was both of your lances splintering. Bad news: the thud was you hitting the ground. Worse news: the second crack was your skull splitting in two when it bounced off a rock.


For reasons far beyond normal human comprehension, you elect to compete in the joust: never mind the fact that you do not own a horse and have never held a lance in your life. Remember, dodging is against the rules in a joust, so you are not exactly playing to your strengths.

During a morning patrol, you and Jon discuss the upcoming tournament.

“I still think you should participate in the melee with me instead,” says Jon. “But if you’re dead set on jousting, you’re going to need a horse.”

“Any recommendations?” you ask.

“Jousting horses are expensive. You’re either going to need a big loan or a big friend. And don’t forget, if you lose the joust, you lose your horse and your armor.”

“Can I use a quarter-horse? I bet old man Nathaniel David would let me borrow Bessy.”

“Sure. You can ride out naked too, but you’ll just embarrass yourself.” Jon smacks you upside the head. “If you aren’t going to take this seriously, don’t even bother showing up.”

You finish your patrol with Jon and head over to old man Nathaniel David’s orchard before you visiting the moneylender in the next town. You know it is not wise to ignore Jon’s advice, but you want to keep your options open. Old man Nathaniel David proves easy to find, he is humped over, shitting on a sapling when you arrive.

“Um, what are you doing David?”

“Fertilizing,” he says with a massive grin. “What can I do for you lad?” He sticks out his hand for you to shake, which you begrudgingly accept.

“I decided to joust in the king’s tournament, but I don’t have a horse.”

“Ah, well, I can’t imagine you’d want to use any of the horses in the hamlet. Plow horses ain’t going to win that for you, but I know you don’t have much money. So if you want Bessy, you can have her, on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“If by some miracle you win, you name my lil’ pumpkin, Sally, Lady Fair of the Tournament. If you lose, you pay me back by marrying her. You’re a good lad, and you’d make a fine husband for my girl.”

You have seen Sally David before, strutting around. She has a fine body for a wench, but holy matrimony is her face hideous. It looks like someone took a rake and beat her bloody. You will have to mull this one over; these are high stakes. Even if you won, you could offend many important people.

“Alright, David, I’ll keep the offer in mind,” you say as you wave goodbye.

Old man Nathaniel David hitches up his trousers and nods. “You do that, boy.”

The Baron’s Road has been nice and calm ever since you took care of those trolls and bandits, and you arrive at the moneylender’s office without incident. The moneylender’s office is small and simple: one desk, two hard wooden chairs, and a few bookshelves. You have heard of these types before, and they are nothing but trouble. The moneylender skims over the pleasantries and bids you sit and begin your business.

“What can I do for you, friend?” he asks. His hair is dark and oily, eyes small and beady. An unnecessarily pointy goatee graces his chin. Yep, slap the evil and unscrupulous label on him.

“I need money for a horse to use in the joust. I’m one of the guys that killed those bandits and trolls on the Baron’s Road awhile back.”

“I know who you are,” he snaps. “I also know you have no money and no experience jousting.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because.” He points at his goatee. “Now I will lend you the money if you agree to my terms.”

“Which are?”

“If you win, I get 50% of the ransom and prize money. You keep the horse. If you lose, you become my personal slave for a year.” The moneylender pulls, ink, quill and parchment from his desk. “We can get the contract signed right now.”
> You changed your mind; you'll fight in the melee like Jon said.
Wise decision: it is best to stick with your strong suits.

You excuse yourself and get up to leave. The moneylender, mutters something to himself while stroking his beard as you head toward the door. Something is really evil about this guy. You turn around and lop off his head before heading home. Yeah, that was probably a good idea.

The morning of the tournament dawns crisp and cool with a slight breeze, just enough to give the ladies’ skirts a nice billowing. You feel a familiar stirring in your loins, and it is driving you insane. As a fledgling hero, you have been saving yourself for your future princess bride, but dear God has it left you on edge, not that you have not had offers. Jon was right; your scar is a chick magnet. You practically have to beat them off.

A gaggle of girls giggle as you walk past them. Bitches.

Whoa, where did that come from? That is not very heroic. The proper term is ‘wenches.’ Remember that next time, fledgling hero.

With your minor slip into villainy over, you prepare for the melee and take your place in the fighting field. There appear to be fifty or so participants as you try to pick out some of the people the Baron told you about. You see Mad Moose McDoogle in his clumsy antlered helmet, Sir Richard Lionsmane with his shaggy locks, Sir Henry Williams a.k.a. The Rabid Fox, the Weasel brothers in their matching silver gilded armor, and Bucktooth Barry among others.

“Save your energy,” says Jon. “Let the others wear themselves down. They’ll make a mistake eventually. Then you can strike when they’re weak and out of position. And stay by me. We might both be able to get knighthoods out of this.”

“Don’t worry. I got your back Jon.”

A blast from the bugle signals the start of the melee. The clamor of blunted steel on blunted steel rings through the fairgrounds. You and Jon fight back-to-back, just as you did against those trolls several years ago. You two are not the only ones fighting on teams. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the Weasel brothers and Mad Moose McDoogle charge The Rabid Fox.

The Rabid Fox looses ground as the trio attempt to surround him. He isn’t dodging. He’s parrying. He’s done for. The Rabid Fox’s and one of the Weasel brother’s swords shatter on impact. Mad Moose McDoogle peels off the attack and rounds on the Weasel brothers, catching them unaware. He knocks them both down and out just before The Rabid Fox charges him in turn.

A sword slashes inches from your cheek, and you regain your focus. Dodge, slash, dodge, dodge, slash, dodge, trip, kick. Another one bites the dust.

The fighting continues until there is just you, Jon, The Rabid Fox, who has not only obtained a new sword but a horse as well, and Bucktooth Barry left.

Maybe you should turn on Jon now?
> You fight with Jon.
Heroes fight with honor at all times. There is no way in hell you are going to betray Jon. How could you ever look him in the eyes again? Besides, he is pretty fucking awesome. If you are going to win this thing, you are going to do it the right way and beat him with pride, honor, dignity, and all the other bullshit that goes with being a hero.

“I’ll distract him. You knock him off the horse,” says Jon.

“What about Bucktooth Barry?”

“Dodge.”

Jon darts off to run interference while you attempt to flank. The Rabid Fox is on to your plan though and outmaneuvers you while Bucktooth Barry hedges his position. This might go on for a while. What would a hero do?

You glance up at the spectators and catch sight of the princess. A blonde haired blue eyed bombshell with a bosom to die for. She flashes you a smile of perfect pearly whites. Did you expect anything else? Take a moment to picture all the ways you would love to chivalrously plow her into next Sunday. Just try not to ejaculate prematurely in your armor. That is not heroic. No, go ahead. I can wait.

Got all that out of your system? Good. With the princess’s bosom in your mind to inspire you, you charge the mounted knight. He reels the horse around and barrels toward you, eager for the challenge. As you are about to collide, you dodge. The Rabid Fox brings the horse around for another pass. You feel the blood pumping through your veins. The air tastes sweet. Colors are brighter. The world slows down. This is what being a hero is all about.

You and The Rabid Fox rush each other once more. As you are about to collide, not only do you dodge, but you grab the reins as well and yank. Your arm feels like it is going to pop out of its socket, but you grit it out. The Rabid Fox flies through the air and thuds into the dirt. He stumbles to his feet and grabs a greatsword off the ground. Man, this motherfucker just does not give up.

He has the reach advantage, but he is hurt. Pretty bad, judging by the fact he just fell off a galloping horse decked out in mail while brandishing a sword. He should probably be dead: or at least broken. He uses his reach to keep you at a distance, but you bide your time. He will make a mistake. Dodge, backstep, yawn, dodge. A quick glance up at the princess’s bosom. With princess bosom lighting your fire, you see an opening and dive in and drive The Rabid Fox to the ground.

“Well fought, friend. I yield,” says The Rabid Fox as you hold your sword tip over him.

Jon has finished off Bucktooth Barry. It is down to the two of you.
> You for princess bosom!
There is only one way this story can unfold, and that is with you finally surpassing your master and claiming the princess as your own. For princess bosom! You charge.

Jon dodges your blow. You swing again. He dodges and counters with an upward thrust. No time to dodge, you catch his sword with your shield. The wood splinters, and you snap your wrist, catching his sword in the shield. Déjà vu?

Not quite. A knee slams you in the groin, and you crumple to the ground. Fight through the pain hero! You lash you with your legs, catching Jon in the chest. Both of you regain your feet and slam into each other. Over and over you roll, grappling on the ground. Dust swirls around your heads. You throw blind punches. The crowd cheers.

You fight the good fight, but Jon wins in the end, catching you in a stellar headlock. The king congratulates you both and the crowd gives a standing ovation.

“Best melee in years. I think the both of you earned a knighthood for such a fine display of chivalrous combat,” says the king. “Tonight there will be a feast for the ages... on the Baron’s tab of course.”

You are bummed you will not be getting princess bosom, but you feel proud of how you fought. Even heroes take their lumps from time to time.

As expected, Jon names the princess Lady Fair of the tournament. You see him whisper something in her ear and point in your direction. She is walking toward you! What the hell did he say?

“Princess Anne.” You bow. “It is my pleasure.”

“And mine. Would you care to walk with me in the gardens?”

You readily agree and spend much of the remainder of your time getting to know Princess Anne. She is everything you could hope for in a princess, blonde, blue eyed, fair skinned, sweet, charming, big bosomed, and all the works.

“What did you say to her?” you ask Jon one evening.

He shrugs. “I love princesses as much as the next guy, but really, I’m in to redheads.” He smirks. “I think the farmboy turned knight getting the princess makes the better story. I’m nailing the Baron’s daughter. Wildfire hair on her.” He winks. “Just the way I like it.”

Months pass and you perform several fantastic heroic feats. Jon marries the Baron’s daughter and you become engaged to the princess. Some days it all seems so unreal, like just the other day you were selling turnips and mucking shit. Now you are a hero.
> You time to kill a motherfucking dragon.
That’s the spirit!

Emissaries arrive at the capital from the neighboring kingdom of Irelandshire pleading for assistance with a dragon problem. It seems the fiend has been soaring around the country, torching towns, devouring livestock, looting treasuries and snatching young ladies from their bedchambers. Naturally, you don your shining armor and volunteer to help rid them of the menace once and for all. Princess Anne kisses you goodbye as you ride off to hunt down the winged beast.

Finding the dragon’s lair – a cave high up a tall mountain with half the forest burnt to ashes – proves easier than you anticipated. No one ever said dragons were discreet. The march up the mountain presents more of a challenge. Far too steep for your steed, you hike up on foot. You soon learn hiking in full plate armor is not easy. Every step requires sheer willpower and brute strength. Sweat pores off you so fast you fear you are going to rust, so you strip down to your leathers and continue to the top light as feather, just like the old days when you first practiced with Jon in the yard.

“Well at least you aren’t a knight in shining armor,” says the dragon as you enter his cave. The behemoth is resting on a hoard of gold, jewels, swords, cups, and other valuable crap because of course he is.

“Pardon me?”

“Do you have any idea how annoying it is fighting knights in shining armor? I just fry them with a nice blast of fire. They’re too heavy and clunky to dodge. No challenge at all. You should see the nice collection of armor I have though. I could outfit an entire empire.”

“Actually, I stripped my armor coming up. I got sweaty.”

The dragon sighs. “Well you’re smarter than most at least.”

“Your days are done dragon!” You prepare to make a heroic speech, but cut it off. “Wait, where are the noble ladies?”

“Didn’t you see all the dung piles on the mountainside?”

“You ate them!?”

“What did you think I do with them? Keep them as company?”

“You bastard!”

You draw your sword. Fate has finally arrived. Are you up to the task?
> You attack his eyes.
The eyes: go for the eyes. If you can blind the dragon, you can pounce in and end this while his guard his down.

You scoop a handful of ashes from the ground and fling them at the dragon’s eyes as you bound toward him. It’s not very effective… The dragon stares at you and shakes his head as you scuttle to a stop.

“I burn entire cities and forests for a living,” says the dragon. “Do you have any idea how much ash is floating around in the air after I start lighting shit up?”

“Uhm…”

“Literally, a metric fuck ton.” The dragon blinks. “I have protective coverings over my eyes to keep all that crap out. How else would I be able to see with all that debris in the air? I’d be spending my entire fortune on eye-drops.”

“Like a camel?” You sidle closer to the dragon.

“Did you just compare me, a dragon, to a dirty, smelly, filthy, no good camel? You wannabe heroes have no resp-” the dragon sighs. “You know what? It’s not worth it. Sure, like a camel,” the dragon sighs.

 “So where’s your hump?” You continue to inch closer to the dragon.

“Wh- what?”

“Your hump. You said you’re like a camel, so where’s your hump?” You jump up and down, searching for a hump on the dragon’s back while closing distance.

“You have got to be kidding.” The dragon slams his head into the cave wall. “Why do all the retarded heroes have to come fight me?”

While the dragon wallows, you pitter-patter your way in close and drive your sword deep into his eye socket. The wyrm wails in agony as you wrench the sword free, clamber over his snout and shove the blade into his other eye. Before you can scurry away, the dragon whips his head around and snaps his massive jaws around you. You scream as your bones splinter and your innards trickle from your body. The world fades to black as the dragon swallows you down his gullet.

That seemed quite painful. If it is any consolation, you managed to both severely wound the dragon and piss him off before he ate you. The dragon goes on to burn the entire kingdom of Irelandshire to ashes in a blind rage before Jon and The Rabid Fox save the day and cut out his heart.

Princess Anne is heartbroken and goes on to become a sex addict and develops a dungeon porn fetish to cope with your untimely death.


That’s the spirit!

Emissaries arrive at the capital from the neighboring kingdom of Irelandshire pleading for assistance with a dragon problem. It seems the fiend has been soaring around the country, torching towns, devouring livestock, looting treasuries and snatching young ladies from their bedchambers. Naturally, you don your shining armor and volunteer to help rid them of the menace once and for all. Princess Anne kisses you goodbye as you ride off to hunt down the winged beast.

Finding the dragon’s lair – a cave high up a tall mountain with half the forest burnt to ashes – proves easier than you anticipated. No one ever said dragons were discreet. The march up the mountain presents more of a challenge. Far too steep for your steed, you hike up on foot. You soon learn hiking in full plate armor is not easy. Every step requires sheer willpower and brute strength. Sweat pores off you so fast you fear you are going to rust, so you strip down to your leathers and continue to the top light as feather, just like the old days when you first practiced with Jon in the yard.

“Well at least you aren’t a knight in shining armor,” says the dragon as you enter his cave. The behemoth is resting on a hoard of gold, jewels, swords, cups, and other valuable crap because of course he is.

“Pardon me?”

“Do you have any idea how annoying it is fighting knights in shining armor? I just fry them with a nice blast of fire. They’re too heavy and clunky to dodge. No challenge at all. You should see the nice collection of armor I have though. I could outfit an entire empire.”

“Actually, I stripped my armor coming up. I got sweaty.”

The dragon sighs. “Well you’re smarter than most at least.”

“Your days are done dragon!” You prepare to make a heroic speech, but cut it off. “Wait, where are the noble ladies?”

“Didn’t you see all the dung piles on the mountainside?”

“You ate them!?”

“What did you think I do with them? Keep them as company?”

“You bastard!”

You draw your sword. Fate has finally arrived. Are you up to the task?
> You attack his belly.
Everyone knows the underbelly of a dragon is vulnerable. If you get in close, your sword can rip through him like hot crocodile shears through flesh.

You charge the dragon with sword in hand. The dragon blasts fire. You have too much forward momentum; there is no way to dodge this one. The world slows to crawl and your entire life flashes before your eyes: all that time spent mucking shit and selling cabbages, long hours training in the yard with Jon, your sexless courting of Princess Anne. Wow, your life sucked.

Well, maybe you can take the dragon with you: go out a hero and all that.

You grit your teeth and shut your eyes as you barrel into the firestorm. The stink of charred flesh and burning hair cloak you. Your blood boils, lips sear off, eyes burst and brain tingles as it begins to melt inside your skull. Somehow, you are still conscious as you storm through and plunge your sword through the dragon’s soft underbelly bounce your sword off the dragon’s rigid scales. Turns out those underbelly scales are just as tough as the rest of them. Who knew?

The dragon chuckles as you collapse to the cave floor in a smoldering heap. “Foolish bravery, mortal, is foolishness all the same.” The dragon admires you a moment longer before he devours you as a midday snack.

If it serves as any consolation, your remains go on to fertilize several small trees… which promptly get burnt down.


That’s the spirit!

Emissaries arrive at the capital from the neighboring kingdom of Irelandshire pleading for assistance with a dragon problem. It seems the fiend has been soaring around the country, torching towns, devouring livestock, looting treasuries and snatching young ladies from their bedchambers. Naturally, you don your shining armor and volunteer to help rid them of the menace once and for all. Princess Anne kisses you goodbye as you ride off to hunt down the winged beast.

Finding the dragon’s lair – a cave high up a tall mountain with half the forest burnt to ashes – proves easier than you anticipated. No one ever said dragons were discreet. The march up the mountain presents more of a challenge. Far too steep for your steed, you hike up on foot. You soon learn hiking in full plate armor is not easy. Every step requires sheer willpower and brute strength. Sweat pores off you so fast you fear you are going to rust, so you strip down to your leathers and continue to the top light as feather, just like the old days when you first practiced with Jon in the yard.

“Well at least you aren’t a knight in shining armor,” says the dragon as you enter his cave. The behemoth is resting on a hoard of gold, jewels, swords, cups, and other valuable crap because of course he is.

“Pardon me?”

“Do you have any idea how annoying it is fighting knights in shining armor? I just fry them with a nice blast of fire. They’re too heavy and clunky to dodge. No challenge at all. You should see the nice collection of armor I have though. I could outfit an entire empire.”

“Actually, I stripped my armor coming up. I got sweaty.”

The dragon sighs. “Well you’re smarter than most at least.”

“Your days are done dragon!” You prepare to make a heroic speech, but cut it off. “Wait, where are the noble ladies?”

“Didn’t you see all the dung piles on the mountainside?”

“You ate them!?”

“What did you think I do with them? Keep them as company?”

“You bastard!”

You draw your sword. Fate has finally arrived. Are you up to the task?
> You neither.
Attacking him head on would be suicide. Sure, it would be nice to blind him or cut into his underbelly, but he would just fry you with a blast of fire before you even got close. There is only one course of action to take in times like this: dodge.

Like a timid bear you perform a false charge, pulling up at the last second as a blast of fire scorches the ground in front of you. Without your bulky armor you are able to twist and twirl, spin and swirl, dip and dive, jump and jive and pirouette away from the dragon fire while inching ever closer to the monster. Since when did you get moves like Jagger?

“Die mortal,” the dragon shouts, releasing another blast of fire.

You duck behind a conveniently placed boulder just in time to escape. The dragon stalks closer. His massive limbs quake the ground with every step: his tail smashing the wall without purpose. Another blast of fire. The heat coming off the rock is like lava. You fear it is about to melt.

Is this it? Is this the end?

“Foolish mortal. The only way to kill a dragon is with a disorganized band of heroes and a bard, or with a magic sword. And you don’t have either. Mwhahaha.”

Shit. I’m totally fucked. Why didn’t I read that book on dragon clichés Jon bought me last Christmas? Think fast, think fast, think fast. Brain blast! Music! Music soothes the savage beast. Shit, I forgot my fiddle.

The dragon rumbles closer, taking his sweet time. Any more bright ideas, Mr. Hero?
> You cry and Beg for Mercy
“Please, Mr. Dragon spare me!” Tears pour down your cheeks, and you drop to your knees. “I’ll do whatever you want. I can be a good servant, or a steward. Everyone can use a good steward.”

The dragon laughs so hard the entire mountain shakes. The roof of the cave above his head collapses, crushing his head. Ever the opportunist, you leap to your feet and plunge your sword down his gullet. The dragon’s jaws snap shut before you can remove your arm. Steam spouts from his nostrils, burning your face. You see the dragon’s body burst into flames as you blackout from the pain.

You awake sometime later in unfamiliar surroundings. A nice plush pillow is beneath your head, and half your head is wrapped in bandages. Your balls itch, but when you go to scratch them you realize your arm is gone.

“Where the fuck am I?”

A comely wench caresses your hand. “My good knight, you killed the dragon! We heard the battle from down in the valley, and some of the braver folk went to investigate. They found you gravely wounded, so they brought you to me and I nursed you back to health.”

“Are you a herb woman?”

“No.”

“What are you?”

“A milkmaid.”

“Why did they bring me to you?”

“Milk gives you strong bones?” She shrugs. “But don’t worry, I did a good job taking care of you. I watched over you day and night, and I only touched your private bits a few times.”

“Well that’s nice of you, but… WHAT?”

“To clean them, Sir.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just thought… never-mind. Thank you.”

The milkmaid wench smirks coyly. “With my tongue.”

Goddamn it.

Well, there you go, Mr. Hero. You killed the dragon. Not exactly the most heroic showing, but it got the job done. I imagine you expect to go back to your princess bride now, am I right? Princess Anne must be dying to see you. Boy, do I have bad news for you.

Princesses’ do not marry hideously scarred men, and your face, well go look in a mirror. You look like someone slammed your head into a flaming brazier. Hey, don’t get too upset. You are still a knight, and you have the eternal gratitude of the kingdom of Irelandshire. Plus, you got a ton of booty from that dragon’s lair.

Time passes and you heal, more or less. You have the pick of any non-princess in two kingdoms, but you decide to settle down with the milkmaid wench, whose name turns out to be Marie. The two of you have several healthy children together with heroic aspirations of their own. You still keep in touch with your old pals Jon, Samwellington, and The Rabid Fox. You have a few castles built in both kingdoms and become a legendary hero. Of course, when you tell the story, you leave out the crying and begging for mercy part.

Your life with Marie is hot and steamy. You are not sure if you will ever get used to all of her kinks – you find yourself in some interesting scenarios when you wake up from time to time – but at the same time they kind of turn you on.
> You once upon a time...
The wintry winds howl a horrible wail, whipping white watery snow against the weathered watchtower’s westernmost wall. Yes, it is indeed a dark and stormy night, but darker and stormier and maybe just a tad more purple than your run-of-the-mill dark and stormy night.

Somewhere deep in the forest a unicorn frolics in a magical glade, as elves watch and scamper amongst the trees, polishing their bows with the blood of dwarves.

“Killed a big fat one today, Elfrond,” says Elfmoor. “Bastard was trying to chop down a cherry tree. Can you believe it, a fucking cherry tree? Sacrilege.”

“Have you ever wondered why we hate the dwarves so much?” asks Elfrond.

“What do you mean? They’re fucking dwarves! And this one chopped down a tree. A cherry tree. Only thing that rivals my love of trees are cherries. And music. And song. And like five other things.”

“Yeah, I’ve just been thinking lately. How did we get these sweet bows, if we didn’t chop down a tree to shape them. And how do we burn fires without firewood? And why exactly do we hate the dwarves?”

“It’s canon. Don’t ask questions.”

“What’s a cannon?”

Suddenly, the elves quit bickering. Something that only happens once in a thousand years occurs. The glade explodes with magical aura as the unicorn releases its legendary rainbow fart. Magical anomalies, such as this, signal only one thing: the birth of a hero.

Elfmoor takes a big whiff of the magical aroma. “B. E. A. Utiful. Times like this make life worth living.”

Elfrond shakes his head. “Elfmoor, we’re immortal. I’ve seen this like ten times already. And every time this happens, it means something evil is about to come afoot."

“But the hero always wins.”

“Have you ever heard the term collateral damage?”

“Is that a sword?”

And there you have it. The magical unicorn fart that marks your birth. How exciting! I wonder what type of hero you will grow up to be.
> You want to be a wizard! Step aside, Potter!
A fine choice my friend. What is fantasy without wizards and magic?

You are born to parents of mysterious lineage. You cannot recall their faces or remember much of anything about them. When you are three years old, an old grey-bearded man in a tall pointy hat whisks you away to his society of magical folk and teaches you all he knows of the arcane. Naturally, the society is on a magical island whose shores are shrouded in fog, located some indeterminate number of leagues off the coast of the mainland. Growing up is fun, but tedious. Spells and incantations do not learn themselves.

Everything is peaches and plum pudding until one day you receive a summons – via giant flying eagle – from your old master. You are high up on the mountain, collecting snow samples for an alchemical experiment. It would take several days to hike all the way back to Manawell.

“Mr. Eagle?” you ask. Your voice is hedging, what you are about to ask is groundbreaking.

“What is it friend?”

“Could you give me a lift back down the mountain? This sounds important.”

The eagle cocks his head. You are not sure if an eagle can look bemused, but if it could, you imagine this is what it would look like. “You know, no one has ever asked me that before. I always wondered why.”

“Wizards are notorious for staying in shape,” you say. “How else could white-beards run around with swords and keep pace with adventuring young heroes?”

“Ah, I see. You learn something new every day. Well, very well. Hop on my back, but try not to pull out any feathers.”

The eagle flies you down to Manawell in no time at all. There may even be time to run a nice 10k this evening to make up for your lost exercise. You rush through the magical community to your master’s tower, stopping only a brief moment to window shop at Merlim’s Beard Trimming Emporium. Don’t worry, I understand. Proper beard care is essential. No one wants to be the ruddy wizard with a bird’s nest in his beard. That guy sucks. You finish your browsing and proceed to your master’s tower without further incident.

“Master Dumbledalf,” you shout as you reach the top room of the tower. “I received your summons. Is everything alright?”

Dumbledalf sets down his alchemical decanter and stares at you, his face expressionless. “Why are you here?”

“I told you. I received your summons.”

“Yes, but you aren’t supposed to be here for five more days.”

“I hitched a ride with the eagle.”

“You what!? Oh you ruined everything.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not supposed to die for five more days. You sapped all the drama from my character. Oh well, just sit tight one second.”

Dumbledalf crushes a few rattails and snake fangs with his mortar and pestle, boils some rum and troll’s blood, sprinkles some belladonna power, and mixes all the goop together. He downs the concoction in one gulp and collapses to the floor.

“There, that’s better,” he says, coughing blood. “You have finally completed your apprenticeship under me. My time has come and gone, but yours is just beginning. As a true wizard, you must now undertake a heroic adventure. Let me see here.” Dumbledalf pulls a scrap of parchment from within his robes. “Ah, here we go. There are two available that fit your qualifications.”

Dumbledalf dies in your arms. You scream and curse the gods for taking the life of such a fine man. He was only 1984. He should have had at least another century in him. You finish your mandatory blubbering and look at the paper.
> You travel to Westengland and Kill some Evil Wizard
Why bother tutoring the next great hero when you can be the next great hero? Killing an evil wizard is certain to garner the fame and acclaim necessary to ascend to the ever sought after hero status. You grab an assortment of essential wizarding supplies from Dumbledalf’s stores, cast a burying spell on his body, and head to the port to set sail for Westengland.

The captain of the Briar Rose is thrilled to have a wizard onboard. Wizards prove quite invaluable at sea, what with all the pirates, storms, and sea monsters lurking beneath the depths.

“A wizard at sea is worth his weight in silver,” says Captain Horatio.

“I thought the saying was ‘worth his weight in gold.’

“No offense your magicness, but if a wizard was worth his weight in gold, I’d have no room for a profit.”

“Better to be alive and penniless than dead and rich.”

“A wise wizard,” chuckles Captain Horatio. “Who would have guessed?”

Captain Horatio excuses himself and bustles about the ship, blowing his horn. What a pleasant fellow.

You watch as the magic island that has been your home for so many years shrinks in the distance. Leaving feels so weird, but when destiny calls, heroes must rise to the summons. Perhaps someday you will return.

Despite all the perils of the sea, your trip to Westengland is nothing but sugarplums and rainbows. Dear Lord are you sick of sugarplums. Captain Horatio could have stocked the ship with a wider and more nutritional array of foodstuffs. At least all of the rainbows are pretty to look at.

Thrilled to be back on dry land and away from the sugarplums, you hasten to the king’s castle – aptly named King’s Castle – on the outskirts of the capital city. The road reveals no signs of this evil wizard, though the lack of peasants proves quite disturbing. On second thought, perhaps that is a sign.

As you near King’s Castle, the unmistakable and addicting allure of magic thickens in the air. Sweet, succulent, salacious magic. Coaxing your horse to gallop like she never galloped before and thanking God for the widespread success of the Rent-a-Horse industry, you burst onto the scene of a massive siege of King’s Castle.

Grotesque trolls, disfigured by horrible magic spells, batter the gates with uprooted trees. Goblins beyond count shriek and swarm the outer walls on ladders crafted from bones. Wyverns – the dragon wannabes of the world – lash at the human defenders from above. Centaurs loose arrows and rape women, even in the midst of battle: the deviant equines. Mages cast spells and necromancers awaken the dead. The defenders fight with vigor and valiance only for the slain to arise and fight on. Most horrible of all, waves of human corpses throw themselves at the castle walls, snaking from the smoking ruins of the capital city down in the valley.

The evil wizard is really throwing the gauntlet at King’s Castle. The castle may be beyond saving already. The old adage a wizard is never late or early isn’t really true. Of course, a wizard can be late or early! They are human after all. Sort of. The wisest thing may be to find the king and save his sorry ass. Then again, heroes aren’t known for always making the wisest decision. So how about it hero, do you pack enough punch to turn the tides of battle on your own?


The wintry winds howl a horrible wail, whipping white watery snow against the weathered watchtower’s westernmost wall. Yes, it is indeed a dark and stormy night, but darker and stormier and maybe just a tad more purple than your run-of-the-mill dark and stormy night.

Somewhere deep in the forest a unicorn frolics in a magical glade, as elves watch and scamper amongst the trees, polishing their bows with the blood of dwarves.

“Killed a big fat one today, Elfrond,” says Elfmoor. “Bastard was trying to chop down a cherry tree. Can you believe it, a fucking cherry tree? Sacrilege.”

“Have you ever wondered why we hate the dwarves so much?” asks Elfrond.

“What do you mean? They’re fucking dwarves! And this one chopped down a tree. A cherry tree. Only thing that rivals my love of trees are cherries. And music. And song. And like five other things.”

“Yeah, I’ve just been thinking lately. How did we get these sweet bows, if we didn’t chop down a tree to shape them. And how do we burn fires without firewood? And why exactly do we hate the dwarves?”

“It’s canon. Don’t ask questions.”

“What’s a cannon?”

Suddenly, the elves quit bickering. Something that only happens once in a thousand years occurs. The glade explodes with magical aura as the unicorn releases its legendary rainbow fart. Magical anomalies, such as this, signal only one thing: the birth of a hero.

Elfmoor takes a big whiff of the magical aroma. “B. E. A. Utiful. Times like this make life worth living.”

Elfrond shakes his head. “Elfmoor, we’re immortal. I’ve seen this like ten times already. And every time this happens, it means something evil is about to come afoot."

“But the hero always wins.”

“Have you ever heard the term collateral damage?”

“Is that a sword?”

And there you have it. The magical unicorn fart that marks your birth. How exciting! I wonder what type of hero you will grow up to be.
> You are Vegeta, prince of all saiyans!
No teaser here, but you wouldn't actually get to play as Vegeta, just an angsty prince with a dead father.


The wintry winds howl a horrible wail, whipping white watery snow against the weathered watchtower’s westernmost wall. Yes, it is indeed a dark and stormy night, but darker and stormier and maybe just a tad more purple than your run-of-the-mill dark and stormy night.

Somewhere deep in the forest a unicorn frolics in a magical glade, as elves watch and scamper amongst the trees, polishing their bows with the blood of dwarves.

“Killed a big fat one today, Elfrond,” says Elfmoor. “Bastard was trying to chop down a cherry tree. Can you believe it, a fucking cherry tree? Sacrilege.”

“Have you ever wondered why we hate the dwarves so much?” asks Elfrond.

“What do you mean? They’re fucking dwarves! And this one chopped down a tree. A cherry tree. Only thing that rivals my love of trees are cherries. And music. And song. And like five other things.”

“Yeah, I’ve just been thinking lately. How did we get these sweet bows, if we didn’t chop down a tree to shape them. And how do we burn fires without firewood? And why exactly do we hate the dwarves?”

“It’s canon. Don’t ask questions.”

“What’s a cannon?”

Suddenly, the elves quit bickering. Something that only happens once in a thousand years occurs. The glade explodes with magical aura as the unicorn releases its legendary rainbow fart. Magical anomalies, such as this, signal only one thing: the birth of a hero.

Elfmoor takes a big whiff of the magical aroma. “B. E. A. Utiful. Times like this make life worth living.”

Elfrond shakes his head. “Elfmoor, we’re immortal. I’ve seen this like ten times already. And every time this happens, it means something evil is about to come afoot."

“But the hero always wins.”

“Have you ever heard the term collateral damage?”

“Is that a sword?”

And there you have it. The magical unicorn fart that marks your birth. How exciting! I wonder what type of hero you will grow up to be.
> You is there any way you can be a girl?
Certainly, you can be a girl. However, I am afraid it only comes in one flavor: spunky!

Born to ho-hum parents in a ho-hum village in a ho-hum kingdom, life growing up bores the daylights out of you. You are faster and stronger than all the boys are, and sexier and wilder than all the girls, despite their best efforts. You thirst for adventure and always prance around with an almost – but not quite – slutty smile on your face.

One evening you find yourself down at the lake with your friends: Cherry, Melisa, Tommy, and Brad. Of course, you have more friends because you are just so damn spunky, but these are your best friends.

You notice Tommy staring at you for the sixth time today. “Is everything alright, Tommy?” you ask. “You seem to be off in the clouds.”

“Yeah, I’m ok. Can I tell you something?”

“You can tell me anything, Tommy.”

“No offense, but you have awesome breasts.”

You smack Tommy upside the head. “Tommy. Stop. Now. That is not cool. Just because I’m spunky does not mean you get to ogle my body. If that is all you can think about, stare at Melisa. She’s the whore of our group.”

Melisa nods. “Guilty as charged.”

You storm off with Brad and Cherry following at your heels like a pair of nipping puppies while Tommy and Melissa disappear into the bushes. After all, this is a tale of a heroine’s escapades, not her sexcapades.

“The nerve of that guy,” you say, shaking your head. “I am a prime virgin flower, and I will not be treated like some common whore. I think it’s time we went off on a grand adventure and left that jerk behind.”

Brad’s face glows with delight. “I second that!”

“What about Melissa?” asks Cherry.

“As long as there is a man around with a penis and a pulse, Melissa will be fine,” you say. “I say we go adventuring!”

So you decide to leave your quaint little life in village ho-hum for the experience of a lifetime. Any thoughts as to where you are adventuring?


Thanks for playing. Enjoy the troll blood.
> You play as a Dwarf
Game of Thrones changed the world for dwarf kind forever. Are they a species or are they people? The species-ist in me is skeptical. Judgment shall be reserved.


Thanks for playing. Enjoy the troll blood.
> You play as a Warrior-Cat
You ran out into the road and got trampled by a runaway carriage, and your corpse was devoured by a pack of dogs. The End.


Thanks for playing. Enjoy the troll blood.
> You play as a Dark Elf
Have you not read Eternal? Go read Eternal. Then come back and tell me how heroic dark elves are.


Thanks for playing. Enjoy the troll blood.
> You play as a Sparkly Vampire
Really, you want to be a sparkly vampire? What kind of writer do you think I am? I have standards after all. Do you really want to be a sparkly vampire, or are you just trying to piss me off?
> You you're sorry. You'll pick something more appropriate.
That’s right young lady. No hero of mine is going to be some sissified vampire. My heroes have pretty blue eyes, long blonde hair and flawless pearly whites. Manliness.


Really, you want to be a sparkly vampire? What kind of writer do you think I am? I have standards after all. Do you really want to be a sparkly vampire, or are you just trying to piss me off?
> You sparkly Vampire!
Stephanie, I hate you.

Fine, you want to be a sparkly vampire, go ahead.

Once a pompous little lordling living in the south of Spainland you not only had the misfortune of being bitten by a vampire while having sex with your sister, but also getting gene spliced with a unicorn by the hands of a genre-bending – and seriously twisted – wizard from the future called a Brony. The magic involved with this transformation goes far beyond my comprehension of the arcane, but I assure you it was incredibly painful. On the positive end, however, you now fart bubblegum and shit figgy pudding.


Attacking him head on would be suicide. Sure, it would be nice to blind him or cut into his underbelly, but he would just fry you with a blast of fire before you even got close. There is only one course of action to take in times like this: dodge.

Like a timid bear you perform a false charge, pulling up at the last second as a blast of fire scorches the ground in front of you. Without your bulky armor you are able to twist and twirl, spin and swirl, dip and dive, jump and jive and pirouette away from the dragon fire while inching ever closer to the monster. Since when did you get moves like Jagger?

“Die mortal,” the dragon shouts, releasing another blast of fire.

You duck behind a conveniently placed boulder just in time to escape. The dragon stalks closer. His massive limbs quake the ground with every step: his tail smashing the wall without purpose. Another blast of fire. The heat coming off the rock is like lava. You fear it is about to melt.

Is this it? Is this the end?

“Foolish mortal. The only way to kill a dragon is with a disorganized band of heroes and a bard, or with a magic sword. And you don’t have either. Mwhahaha.”

Shit. I’m totally fucked. Why didn’t I read that book on dragon clichés Jon bought me last Christmas? Think fast, think fast, think fast. Brain blast! Music! Music soothes the savage beast. Shit, I forgot my fiddle.

The dragon rumbles closer, taking his sweet time. Any more bright ideas, Mr. Hero?
> You dodge?
If Jon taught you one thing, it is how to dodge like it is your job, and it kind of is. Sort of. I don’t know, just kill the damned thing.

You leap over the rock and attempt a triple double-axle barrel roll in midair and land on the dragon’s head. For some reason, this works and you manage to dodge the dragon’s fire breath in the process with your sixth sense.

The dragon thrashes his head against the cave walls, but you manage to cling on while avoiding having your body smashed to a thousand bloody bits. You hack at the dragon’s head with your sword, but it may as well be a butter knife for all the good it does against the tough dragon scales. Maybe you should have dodged over toward one of those fancy looking magic swords.

Shut up. I have this under control.

Ok. Whatever you say, Mr. Hero.

“Hey, dragon, you suck.”

“I will not have a mortal make mockery of me!” the dragon bellows. “Get. Off. My. Head.”

The dragon swings his mighty tail at you, but once again, you manage to use your sixth sense to dodge all of the attacks. The dragon repeatedly pummels himself in the head with his own tail to the point where he shatters both his scales and his skull. You drive your sword into the crevice and perform a super-duper double whammy backflip with a 720 degree spin off the dragon’s head as he bursts into flames.

“Wicked. Now how the hell am I going to haul all this shit down the mountain?”

…

What, aren’t you going to finish the story?

Yeah, just give me a second.

What the fuck is the problem? I won, I want to marry my princess and lose my damn virginity already.

I’m just struggling to comprehend how you turned into a jedi.

A what?

Never mind.

…

Word of your victory quickly spreads across the land. The king of Irelandshire showers you in gratitude and offers you his daughter as a bride, which you decline because you proved to be a noble and heroic knight and you already have a bride. You take some of the dragon’s treasure back home with you and build a series of castles and forts at strategic points across the countryside. Your future kin are keeping this kingdom for life. Historians and bards alike flock to scribble down your life story and paint it in song.

Your wedding to Princess Anne is a legend in its own right: drunken revelry at its finest. Samwellington entertains the masses by sticking himself with pointy knives and not screaming in pain, good old pork lard. Jon and The Rabid Fox have a friendly sparring match, showcasing some of the finest swordsmanship since your melee. Jon later demonstrates another kind of swordsmanship with his wildfire gingersnap of a wife. On the table. Next to one of the cakes. The king gets drunk and accidentally burns down the stage while a troupe of troubadours are performing. No one important dies.

Most importantly, you finally get to bang Princess Anne, that blue-eyed blonde haired big bosomed goddess of your dreams: a night of ecstasy ends in an explosion of pleasure with many more to come.


Attacking him head on would be suicide. Sure, it would be nice to blind him or cut into his underbelly, but he would just fry you with a blast of fire before you even got close. There is only one course of action to take in times like this: dodge.

Like a timid bear you perform a false charge, pulling up at the last second as a blast of fire scorches the ground in front of you. Without your bulky armor you are able to twist and twirl, spin and swirl, dip and dive, jump and jive and pirouette away from the dragon fire while inching ever closer to the monster. Since when did you get moves like Jagger?

“Die mortal,” the dragon shouts, releasing another blast of fire.

You duck behind a conveniently placed boulder just in time to escape. The dragon stalks closer. His massive limbs quake the ground with every step: his tail smashing the wall without purpose. Another blast of fire. The heat coming off the rock is like lava. You fear it is about to melt.

Is this it? Is this the end?

“Foolish mortal. The only way to kill a dragon is with a disorganized band of heroes and a bard, or with a magic sword. And you don’t have either. Mwhahaha.”

Shit. I’m totally fucked. Why didn’t I read that book on dragon clichés Jon bought me last Christmas? Think fast, think fast, think fast. Brain blast! Music! Music soothes the savage beast. Shit, I forgot my fiddle.

The dragon rumbles closer, taking his sweet time. Any more bright ideas, Mr. Hero?
> You how about you steal one of those sweet magic swords sticking out of his treasure pile.
You make a mental note to thank the dragon for providing you with the recipe for his death at his funeral as you yank the first magic sword you find from the mountain of plunder. The sword shines a brilliant blue-gold and has a queer hourglass shape carved into the blade: yep, definitely magic. Though, something feels awful familiar about this. Oh well, you can worry about that later. You have a dragon to kill.

“Your day of reckoning has come, dragon!”

“No, you fool,” the dragon rasps. “Put that down. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to meddle with magic you don’t know how to use?”

“Nope.”

The dragon breathes fire at you, but you knock it away with a swing of the sword. The resulting fireball explodes in the treasure hoard. Molten gold and silver splatter everywhere. Droplets burn into your arms and chest, but you struggle through the pain and raise the magic sword for the killing blow.

“You’ll doom us all,” the dragon pleads.

Not that it’s my place, but I think you should listen to the dragon.

What do you expect me to do, negotiate a treaty?

I would endorse that.
> You fine.
“Alright dragon,” you say. “The asshole narrator told me not to kill you. What’s the deal?”

The dragon sighs in relief as steam spouts from his nostrils. “Of all the fucking magic swords, you grabbed the Time-Warper.”

“And I care why?”

“Once the blade slices into something living, the last five seconds of all life are replayed on an infinite loop.”

“How do you stop it?”

“You can’t.”

“That’s fucking retarded. Who would make such a stupid sword?”

“A villain.”

“But the villain would be damning himself for all eternity too.”

“I said a villain. Not a smart villain.”

Agreeing you are at an impasse, you and the dragon negotiate a treaty the two of you find mutually acceptable. The dragon receives 50% of all taxes collected within Irelandshire, 1 out of every 3 sheep, 1 princess of his choice per year, and you receive one dragon ride every Sunday after church. You are not very good at negotiations.