<div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">Oh, but before I continue perhaps I should introduce the third party to our lovely little story. Unlike our ambitious, if rather naïve and inexperienced heroines, the man soon regretting ever setting a foot into ‘The Wayward Princess’ had accumulated heaps of it. What a heap is? It’s somewhere between a ton and a shitload okay. Or perhaps even more. I forget. Anyone want some stew? What do you mean the eye is looking at you? You can’t make Eastspring Stew without frogman eyes. What do they teach you kids these days? It’s even more important than the Goreboar snout and the lanky vulture meat. Trust me when you feel it pop between your teeth and the bitter juices flood your tongue you forget all about the snout. No? Well it’s your loss.<br/><br/>Now where was I? Our dear hero yes. Unlike the ladies he grew up far from any opulent cities, plotting nobles or regular showers. Now, unlike the ‘the city where everyone pretended that shit didn’t smell even though it most certainly did of wands’, I wasn’t actually there at the time so most of this is what I’ve heard from others. I know, I know, it’s a bit like trying to find the traces of someone’s pussy on a dick in an orgy. The traces are there somewhere but you have no idea who else screwed with it. It’s all we have however so let’s get to this particular cock shall we? <br/><br/>It was said to be a small highland village parked right in the couchy center of a sprawling valley surrounded by a ring of mountains tall enough never to lose the white frosting on their turgid peaks. I say was because when our brave lad was all of a dozen summers a terrible winter drove the goblins from their dank dens under the mountains into desperate attacks on their surroundings.<br/><br/>One of these attacks struck a terrible blow to the peaceful village leaving only a few scattered survivors. Our lad was at the time fortunate enough to be out in the nearby forest tending the charcoal piles. His mother was the village blacksmith and as an apprentice blacksmith he was expected to know every part of the process. Thus he had, by fortunate circumstances, and with only the briefest of protests since our boy even then was a remarkably responsible soul, been sent out of harm’s way into the woods to look at smoldering piles of wood. <br/><br/>Blacksmith’s son losing his whole family and swearing to take up the sword and fight for justice is a cliché? Why yes, thank you for noticing. Did you know that approximately seven out of ten warriors were blacksmith apprentices that lost their families and/or master tragically? The rest of them come from royals that were framed or kidnapped as babies and swore to restore their thrones or orphans that then turned out to be royals. Now I suppose our hero could indeed be a lost royal but if so then nothing’s ever come of it and that’s simply not how destiny works.<br/><br/>Fresh with the loss of his family and village, and burning inside to take revenge on the evil goblin tribes, he set out with nothing but what he could scrounge from the remains of the village. A simple sword, a mail shirt of copper and a few apples. Why the mail was copper I have no idea. They worked in iron after all so it makes little sense. Not that there really should have been any mail shirts at all in the village as there were no soldiers in it or the goblin attack would not have succeeded but I guess every hero needs to start somewhere and that were is copper.<br/><br/>Either way our stubborn, and badly geared young man, set out with nothing but the most basic skill, no talents and nothing but the last words whispered by his dying mother to guide his way. This was the old days when quests weren’t handed out with convenient maps telling you where to go you see. No, you had to find your way on your own and actually listen to the information you got, or find yourself having to crawl back and ask for the quest again, a shame if ever there was one.<br/><br/>Not that there was much a ten and two year old boy can do against a tribe of goblins regardless if he should somehow track them to their cavernous lair. Something even his stubborn ass managed to admit and thus he set out for the nearby city of Torbet. Now, I couldn’t say exactly what happened on the way there but he arrived with a new sword, a hat that didn’t fit over the wild nest of chest nut hair all tangled in dried blood, and a whole new set of lovely scars to impress the ladies with. Not that he was old enough to appreciate this fact. <br/><br/>Scruffy as he was he still somehow managed to convince the local weapon’s master to take him on, despite being at least a few years too young to even be able to properly swing the big old crowbar of a sword he’d been sidled with. My guess is that his new master had forgotten to bring his bonus defense against determined kids with soulful blue eyes necklace, and thus had no resistance to the attack of forced sympathy. Or the bloodthirsty bastard figured the hate towards the goblins would come well handy could it only be channeled properly.<br/><br/>A few years of training under a ruthless taskmaster of a weapon’s teacher; I don’t know quite why they have to be ruthless you know, perhaps the kids won’t learn anything but I digress. It saw our young warrior running endless kill and fetch quests and swinging a bigger and bigger dick, I mean sword, around while slowly learning how to fend for himself in a world that had shown him just what kind of a huge bag of rancid ball sweat it could be. Hours upon hours in the smithy had already started to form him into a broad, thick hewed bastard and becoming a young man certainly did nothing to change that. He grew taller and broader and soon his thick limbs were clad in steel as thick as the iron around his heart. Yes thank you, I was quite pleased with that turn of phrase I have to say.</span></div><br/><div align="center">(http://hbimg.b0.upaiyun.com/3ba10019ed6f8ea90692bc5310d848d829a735181c9aa-LaGOie_fw658)</div><br/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">He started to venture further and further out, ever seeking more dangerous opponents and any new information about the attack on his village he could lay his paws upon. For a long time he had little success. Few explored the Rockscale Mountains deep enough. Leaving the goblins that sought the surface in search of easy prey and shit to steal the only target for his vengeance. He took on every task and quest he could find in the area, until finally he started to make enough of a name for himself to garner some attention. </span></div><br/><div align="center">{Please Select Character Name}</div><br/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;"><span class="bbc_u">C</span></span> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;"><span class="bbc_u">E</span></span> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;"><span class="bbc_u">R</span></span> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;"><span class="bbc_u">I</span></span> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;"><span class="bbc_u">A</span></span> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;"><span class="bbc_u">S</span></span></div><div align="center">{Press Enter to Confirm}</div><br/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">The lord’s captain of the guard, I forget his name and ‘Cocksucker in shiny helmet’ just sounds rude, summoned him and charged him with gathering a few companions to hunt down and end the threat of the Rockscale goblins once and for all. Of what transpired in the depths of those dungeons we shall mention as little of as possible. Partly because hours of wandering in dark caves and sudden ambushes can get a bit boring after a while, and partly because, well, it really doesn’t matter. Seeing how they had managed to tear one of those nasty minded elf tarts from her perch on the nearest mailbox I have my suspicions however. <br/><br/>Now, Cerias got his revenge, a new sword and even a fancy new title. But nothing to sooth the wrath burning deep inside. I would have told him to go get laid you know. If sticking your sword into something doesn’t work then try your meat saber I say, but I wasn’t there, and he’s always been too dumb to listen to good advice anyway, so he set out into the world. A defender and protector, his services were always sought after soon the challenge of a new enemy alone had his blood pumping and his heart racing. But dealing with rogue after rogue, and spellcaster after spellcaster, that didn’t bother to wait for him to properly insult the heritage of the current head asked to be parted from the shoulders it had occupied ever since it was born, before they started to stab or blast away, left him quite the surly and cantankerous bastard.  <br/><br/>Then came the healing shortage of O-six. How there can be a god’s be damned shortage of them when they prance around in every city telling everyone how good their particular god’s asshole tastes I don’t know, but suddenly you couldn’t find one out on the road if you dangled a group of easily converted heathens shitting gold at the crossroads. After that it was the year when the summoning stones at the Mora’Gori temple all stopped working.<br/><br/>The sudden influx of rangers after they realized they could somehow use every single lootable item there was certainly didn’t help and finally he decided to leave it all behind. Someone, names shall not be named lest new anuses be discovered in unhealthy locations, let slip there was this lovely little village called Pewtershire. A heaven where only the most elite and dedicated gathered and not a single dancing elf nor newly bedecked adventurer asking one of their betters to ‘please just join them for this one dungeon it will be quick’, would soil the vicinity with their presence.<br/><br/>Thus our hopeful third part of the story ended up sitting with a big tankard of watery mead, wondering where everything had gone so spectacularly wrong. </span> </div>