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 heroic knight, heroic knight!

Ah, the noble knight in shining armor. And they say chivalry is dead.


You are born into a loving but stern peasant family in the hamlet of Forest Hill. Your formative years are a medley of hardship, merriment, and hard work. While most of the other children in the hamlet are content to play ragamuffin children's games and live out their lives in this quaint corner of the woods, you aspire to greatness, spending every evening selling turnips and every night mucking shit from the stables. With all this (paltry sum of) loot, you are able to afford sword and shield lessons from the guardsmen.


One fine autumn evening, you and your sword master Jon are finishing a sparring session.  Jon is bigger and faster than you are, but you have taken his lessons to heart. Training swords are blunted, but they hurt all the same when they whack you.


Jon's sword arcs toward your shoulder. You raise your shield, and the wood splinters. With a quick twist of the wrist, you yank the shield downwards, catching Jon's sword in the process. He is open; here is your chance. You swing your sword…


"Dodge!" you shout, dropping to the ground. Jon's fist sails an inch above your head. You toss your shield and lurch from your knees into Jon. The pair of you grapple on the ground. Dust flies. Both of your swords are lost in the ruckus.


A fist catches you square in the gut. Once, twice, three times. You spit in Jon's eyes and roll to the side, and stagger to your feet. A leg comes sweeping toward you.


"Dodge!" you shout, jumping back. You avoid the leg, but tumble onto your ass. Before you can regain your feet, a boot hits your chest, shoving you back into the ground.


Jon stands above you and smirks. "You know what you forgot to do?"


You nod, knowing.


"You forgot to DODGE!"


You share a hearty laugh. At first, Jon would shout 'dodge' to train you to avoid taking hits, now it is your job to shout it when you train. He even sends kids around to throw shit at you randomly during the day. That really sends the message home. You have come so far that the art of dodging has almost become a sixth sense. 'If they can't hit you, they can't kill you,' Jon had reasoned.


The pair of you head to the watch house to clean up. The building is small and reeks of sweat and mildew. The hamlet only has three guards, so upgrading their housing has not been a top concern of the local Baron. You are just thrilled the hamlet has guards at all.


"You're getting good, kid. Real good," says Jon, stripping his leather armor. "I think you're ready for some real patrol work. We just got a report the other night about some disappearances on the Baron's Road. It's probably just some bandits, but we need to take care of it. You in?"

You hell yeah you're in.

"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 help Jon.

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 throw your severed arm as a distraction.

You doubt you will be of much use as a combatant, so you may as well make yourself useful in some other fashion.


You grab your severed arm and wing it as hard you can toward the trolls. The troll feasting on Bowie ignores the bloody mess of flesh, but Jon's troll clambers after it on all fours. A deep sadness seeps into your bones as you hear the troll crunch your arm in its jaws. Heroes are not supposed to be eaten.


Jon slices the back of the trolls' knees, and the troll howls in agony as its legs buckle. Jon leaps onto its back and cleaves the head clean off with one swipe with your arm still clenched between its teeth.


"Go Jon," Samwellington cheers. The fat coward is still cowering behind wreckage from the wagon.


"Why don't you try and help?" you snarl.


"I am helping. I'm providing emotional support."


You roll your eyes and look back in time to see Jon finish off the second troll.


"Wow, that was fast," you say.


Jon shrugs. "A little emotional support can go a long way. Nice job yourself. You didn't even need to have your sword arm attached to the rest of your body for it to be useful. Try dodging next time though."


"I don't know if there will be a next time. How can I fight without a sword arm?"


Jon winks. "I know a guy: magic fellow and what not. He should be able to do something for you." Jon raises his hand. "Hold on one second. I'll be right back."


Jon darts into the forest and you hear the lovely sound of steel biting into flesh and the accompanying screams.


"Sam, why don't you go back to the hamlet and draft the report," says Jon, emerging from the forest, "add five dead bandits to it. I'll take our buddy here to the hedge wizard."


With that, you and Jon part ways with Samwellington and enjoy a relatively droll venture to the hedge wizard's hut. You understand why he is only a hedge wizard. The hut is a ramshackle smattering of twigs and leaves that appear to be held together by nothing but mud and bird poop. The entire place smells worse than a popcorn fart. This may not have been the best idea, but before you can raise your concerns with Jon, he hollers out.


"Hey, Osprey, get out here. I need a favor."


"Is that you Jon?" You hear weird pops and bangs from inside the bird poop hut. "Just a second."


"Take your time," says Jon. "No hurry."


After a few minutes, a bent white-bearded man with smoldering eyebrows and a staff teeters out of the hut amidst a cloud of smoke. The smoke shrouds Osprey and follows him around. It smells of rancid cheese and burning bird shit.


"Whew," Jon attempts to wave the stink away, "what were you doing in there?"


Osprey's eyes light up. His lips twist into a smirk as he cackles. "Wizard things."


"Oh, Dear God."


Osprey's smile vanishes as he notices you and totters over. He grabs your head in both hands, lifts your chin, peers into your eyes, and prods your chest with a bony finger. A chill courses through your bones. He proceeds to violate your personal space for several minutes while you do your best to avoid suffocating in the smoke.


"Mmhmmm," he says to himself. "Just as I thought. The boy is missing an arm."


You roll your eyes. "How observant."


Osprey whacks you upside the head with the staff. "Mind your manners, boy, or I'll turn you into a leprechaun." He shakes his head. "Ain't nothing sadder than a leprechaun."


"Not even a smelly old man living in a bird shit hut?"


Osprey clobbers you with the staff again. "I'll have respect from you boy. This is no joking matter. You ever see a leprechaun you give that poor bastard nothing but your sincerest sympathies." He smacks you with the staff one more time for good measure. "Now about that arm. I can fix you right up. Get you a brand new ethereal arm. Those things are sweet: impervious to physical damage. Magic will fuck you up though."


Osprey begins nodding his head and drawing weird symbols in the ground with his staff while mumbling to himself.


"Jon," you whisper, "I really don't think this is a good idea. This guy is cracked."


Jon scoffs. "Posh. You want to be a knight, right? Well, a knight needs both arms."

You bring on the magic.

Truer words have never been said. Well, they probably have, but you cannot think of any at the moment.


"Alright," you nod, "bring on the magic."


"That's the spirit." Osprey bumbles around finishing his runes. He mutters some incantations, bops you on top of the head a few times with his staff and bursts into poetry.


A wizard did it, a wizard bid it.


An arm grew, fresh and new.


Ethereal, but not imperial.


As we live in a realm, surrounded by elm.


Nature's magic, is never tragic.


My rhymes are bad, but I'm not mad.


This spell worked, 'cause Cyrus twerked.


Just like that, a sprite and shiny ethereal arm appears from your shoulder. You clench your fist and feel the power pulsing through your… veins? Jon claps politely as Osprey bows.


The hedge wizard slaps you across the back, smiling. "Now don't go committing sins of self-pleasure with that thing. You might rip something important off."


You gulp.


Osprey cackles and slaps you some more. He seems to like hitting you. "You can shoot magic energy blasts out of that thing too. I thought that might be useful for a hero."


Jon shakes his head. "If you want to be a heroic knight, don't do that. Knights aren't magic. Only trouble can come of it. This isn't a wizard's tale."


Osprey shrugs and wanders back into his hut. The door creaks shut and you soon hear the calamity snap back to life. He pokes his head out to offer one last piece of advice. "You treat them leprechauns with respect, boy, you hear me?" He slams the door shut and that is that.


"What do we do now?" you ask Jon.


"Well, I'm going to go back to the hamlet and make sure everything's in order. You should go try out your new arm and get used to it."


You consider that a smashing idea and head off to the neighboring kingdom of Irelandshire to seek out one of these mystical leprechauns. With the help of several drunken and boisterous natives, you learn the not-so-secret location of the Valley of Rainbows where the leprechauns supposedly abound. They warn you not to go though because it is a sad and wretched place. Obviously, you ignore them.


Hundreds of rainbows dot the easy to access valley, and you have little difficulty tracking one down to its end. Naturally, a great pot of gold sits next to it, but no leprechaun.


You try calling for them, taunting them, begging them, praising them, but none appear.


"Well at least I'm rich."


You pack as much gold as you can onto your horse (which isn't anywhere near the entire pot since gold is heavy, yet it's still enough to buy a castle or two) and prepare to return home.


As you approach the precipice with the cave that leads out of the valley, a shrill cry booms from deep in the heart of the valley.

You you're rich. You're going home.

Where is your sense of adventure? Heroes aren't supposed to be in the game just for the money!


What about for princess bosom?


Princess bosom is nice, but even with that you are still only a cheap imitation of a true hero. Besides, I do not see any princess bosom in the area, and no, you cannot buy princess bosom. You must earn such luxuries.


Are you telling me I don't actually get to go home?


No, you can go home if you want. I'm merely giving you an opportunity to reconsider because I am a kind and kindred spirit. Eh, who am I kidding? I'm kind of a dick, but my offer still stands.

You piss off, you're going home with your booty.

You elect to go home with your wealthy horde of treasure, as you have every right to do so. I applaud your resolution. That takes cajones. Even divine intervention cannot derail you from your path.


With your newfound riches, you decide to take a luxury cruise on the C.Y.S.  Generic Heroine. She is truly a gallant vessel. You dine on raw oysters and baked clams, which you eat off the bare breasts of dashing dames. At night, mermaids sing scandalous songs as they swim along with the ship, attempting to lure foolish sailors and passengers into their clutches, but not you, no, you are too wise. You simply listen and enjoy the sweet melodies.


The seas stay smooth and calm and you enjoy a pleasurable sailing experience. Pirates only attack once, and with your bitchin' ethereal arm, you smash and bash them to bits, claiming their brig as your own. You even remembered to heed Jon's warning and not use the magical energy blasts to preserve your status as a heroic knight.


"How was your trip?" Jon asks as you arrive in port.


"Profitable."


Samwellington's mouth waters as he sniffs the seafood on your breath. "Do you have any more clams?"


"I hope so," says Jon, ignoring Samwellington. "You missed the king's tournament. Sooooooo much shit went down."


"Jon found a fire-crotch." Samwellington beams gaily. "And killed a no good dirty evil wizard."


Jon nods. "The future looks bright. That's for damn certain."


The three of you leave the docks and head into the city, ready to raise hell and fuck bitches make sweet tender love to beautiful maidens. What, did you think I would be spiteful and have you die of the Great Pox or be devoured by the kracken?