I mean, you listen to the stories, and you figure that a lot of it's got to be shit. I mean, it can't possibly all be grand heroics, charging blindly into battle and defeating the enemy no matter what the odds, and no mention of nearly starving to death and sleeping on rocks every night.
But the stories always have elven princesses getting rescued from savage dungeons. Now I haven't got too rosy of glasses, so you figure it's not really elven princesses. Perhaps it's really average looking, fully clothed bar maids who were being paid incredibly little to do the bandit's laundry, who will be happy just to see her hated employer skewered. And perhaps she won't exactly fall into her arms, but she's got to have a sister or a mother or something who's happy to see her free.
And even if it doesn't happen every time, there's still got to be enough ladies that one, just one, might pass over the swarthy, shiny, stick up the arse paladin for an the older, shorter type. I know most tall women don't go for the type, but some do.
But where are they? I never would have thought I'd spend all of my adventuring days in places where it's impossible to even buy myself a woman.
I never thought I'd find that I'd be in a position that would give me less opportunities to interact with ladies than being a servant of Pelor. I mean, sure, I spent the huge majority of my time healing folks. And it would have been wrong to bed any of the women I healed, though every now and then they, too, had a sister who was happy for the healing. Of course, Pelor knows I always did my best to resist that kind of entanglements. Surely Pelor gives credit for trying.
But there was always that certain sort of noblewoman, usually widows, who wanted to give to the cause of Pelor but wanted something more, wanted to feel like they were participating. Usually women trying to work off the guilt of having themselves cured of a particularly strong parasite they'd picked up from a lover. The kind of woman who didn't want to just hand over a bag of gold, but who wanted a night out on the town, so to speak, visiting the sick and the poor incognito (though never touching them. That would have been too much to ask.) before returning to their homes, where they wanted nothing more than to feel like they'd touched the poor second hand, through you.
I bloody hated it. Raising funds was the worst part of the job. But if my discomfort would buy a hundred peasants food for the winter, I wasn't going to say no.
I never would have thought I'd miss that. But at least it was something.
Out here there's been nothing but that gnome woman (a bit short for my taste, and needed to calm down a bit) and the ranger who's with us now (whatever it is that makes her so damn crazy. Besides, I think she prefers the wolf).
And now we finally meet a few women, and what do we find? They're monks. Literally. And we tried to kill them earlier.
I should have found some whores before we left the city. At this rate, I can't wait to meet some undead. I feel like I'll demolish them with nothing but the fire shooting from my loins.
It's enough to make me miss my ex-wife. Bastards.
No comments:
Post a Comment