A/N: Ever wonder what the average Albion thinks about when they see our player character roaming around their peaceful town? This is what they like to think about the supposed 'Hero' we are.

It isn't flattering.

A Little Gnoming


The Leper's Arms was quiet, unusual for a Thursday in the great lawless city of Bloodstone. Normally, the bartender, a poor old sod by the name of Gerald, would be driven into a state of drunkenness and swimming in a pool of alcohol by now. Of course, people were a little more wary after that bloody banshee sank the ship of the pirate Roberts and killed most of his crew, but still. Bloodstone normally couldn't be quiet if it tried. The ruddy hell was going on?

Sod it. I should appreciate the quiet while I can. Gerald ran a hand over his bald head with a sigh, looking at the battered old wooden tables lazily placed around his tavern. Most of the furniture was in some state of disrepair, one chair leg falling to the ground with a thunk to prove the point.

Gerald stared for several seconds, felt himself age in real time, and wondered if it wasn't too late to pack up his belongings and take a ship to Westcliff.

Another table lost a leg, and the left side of his face twitched angrily.

To hell with this sodding city. Bloodstone burning to the ground really would be a blessing in disguise. If it wasn't his tavern literally falling to pieces around him - he sidestepped a plank of the ceiling falling for his head, reaching under the bar for a bottle of wine in the same motion - then it was thugs getting completely pickled and taking large groups of prostitutes upstairs to engage in the loudest sex he'd ever heard. Every now and then, one of the idiots would wake up with his gold stolen and his clothes in the harbor, leading to more drinking.

Gerald was happy for the peace and quiet for once.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

The first clue was the stupid giggling of a woman outside. The second clue was the door being very rudely kicked in by an absolute giant.

Gerald would've given the bitch a piece of his mind if she weren't nearly three meters tall and broad shoulders. Slung over one shoulder was an equally large hammer and her black coat was left wide open, showing the butt of a golden pistol and a bandit shirt that seemed to be stretched to near bursting and spilling her breasts out. The bottom half of her was covered by a pair of matching dark trousers and boots perfect for kicking hobbes into the sunset. The scars on the side of her face told of a battle-hardened fighter, and the man was silent as without a word, she marched upstairs and didn't even bother trying to dissuade the annoying gaggle of people following her.

Gerald eyed the bottle of wine in his hand and poured its contents into a tall glass up to the rim. He leaned his head back, raised the bottle up, and started to chug.

"Gerald, it's-"

Gerald held one finger up to stop the barmaid who had come to complain about the black-clad woman who just came in, chugging away.

The woman sighed.

"I'll handle the floor for you..."


"You wouldn't believe the week I've had," the man groaned, nursing a bottle of rum. A rusty cutlass dangled from his hip and he was sloshed beyond recognition. Gerald would've felt sorry for him if he hadn't been through some utter rubbish himself. As it was, he was a little short on sympathy. "Two raids! Completely botched! Bloody imbeciles I deal with."

Gerald snorted, thinking of the nonsense he'd gone through in the same week. "Oh please. That's nothing."

"Oh yeah?" the drunk challenged. "Well how bout you spill?"

Gerald didn't need a second invitation and he took the bait. "You know what? I bloody will!" He jabbed a finger in the man's direction, scowling thunderously. "The damn banshee attack has scared off half my customers, Reaver shot my bloody supply man, and my tavern is falling to pieces!"

A drunk fell through the stairs leading up to the second floor, proving his point.

Gerald didn't let up on the now flabbergasted drunk. "So I'm here, minding me own business, and this giant of a woman kicks me damn door down! Got a big hammer that looks perfect for crushing skulls, coat wide open to show her teets, and I'm standing there waiting for me head to get knocked off my shoulders! Then, without a word, she just sods off upstairs and goes to sleep for a damn week! Who the ruddy hell do these Heroes think they are!?"

"You get used to it," the drunk pirate hiccupped.

Gerald screamed angrily at the ceiling and threw the nearest bottle he could find.

The pirate was comically smacked in the face and he slumped to the floor, snoring lightly.

I knew I should've just become a farmer.

Yeah, growing cabbages seemed nice.

A/N: We do a little shitposting here.