It didn't take long before our brave hero, yellow quest paper in hand, came running through the front door of the palace screaming like a little girl. The two guards that chased him were also screaming, but mostly because they were embarrassed by the heroes behaviour and wanted to drown out his rather feminine voice.

“Fuck... you... so... very... much.”

Our hero gasped together a string of words, but the narrator didn't quite understand them as the pitch was simply too high. But this was a nice, relaxing moment for the overworked and underpaid narrator. Much more in line with how the usual hero's journey went. Arrive via lethal truck accident or other means, be amazed by the scenery and the ten ton creature that is headed for you at full speed, followed by a quick death and a nice coffee table with several flavours of strong liquor and an assortment of finger food. Just... nice, you know? But sadly the hero's expertise in cowardice had focussed every bit of his non-existing strength in his legs. Allowing him to dodge and weave like a professional boxer with Parkinson's. The guard's axe came down and cleaved one of the palace's support beams in twain as he attempted to decapitate the slippery hero. Again and again until the entire structure started to rumble. The guard, now put into a difficult situation with limited powers of reasoning, decided to hurry back inside to save the queen. But she was already in another palace as several other replacements had been built nearby and were connected through an intricate pulley system. Most were made out of rope that was easily cut causing the guard to be buried beneath several dozen layers of poorly mixed concrete and cut corners. He was eventually found beneath the rubble by hiding underneath one of the corners that got cut, but would never dance again. Which led him down the path of alcoholism and domestic abuse that...

“TOO... MUCH... EXPOSITION!”

Oh, right. You're still here. Barely able to recover from his usual bout of anxiety, the narrator continued telling people about this slog of an adventure.

The hero found a nearby stable to hide in and read the quest.

“The hero first had a freaking breather, yeah. Been running for half an hour while you were lollygagging about like an idiot. You better hope for your sake that this piece of damp toilet-paper was worth all my trouble.”

The skies yawned and stretched out in their comfortable chair as they watched the clouds pass by. Then the hero read the note and saw he had to kill eight feral dogs.

“I what now? You seriously had me go through all that bullcrap, just to get a quest to kill eight freaking feral dogs?”

Does the hero want to kill eight top-hatted tigers instead?

“Off to kill the feral dogs we go. Heeere doggy, doggy, doggy.”

The hero whistled in the middle of town and attracted the attention of the people around him who thought he'd gone insane. Embarrassed, and rightfully so, our hero quit making noise and quietly shuffled away from the stable to the forests beyond the city walls. It was there he met his first pack of feral dogs. Thirteen feet tall with fangs that had smaller fangs attached to them. Allowing the animal to bite while he was biting.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“HOW THE HELL IS THIS A DOG?”

The genus of the feral dog is more closely related to that of the elder wolf-god Fenrir than they are to that of a household pet. A common mistake amongst beginning adventurers and surprisingly lethal.

“Oh you fucking bastard.”

Run, little man. Run.

–

Eight hours later, strangely enough the exact same time it takes to make a nice pulled pork sandwich with properly smoked meat, our hero resurfaced at the edge of the city. He'd been pulling laps with about a dozen feral dogs chasing him. All the inhabitants had come out to see the hero struggle as they point and laugh at his underdeveloped legs. Thankfully for him, due to running more laps than the nineteen ninety three Daytona five hundred, the dogs developed vertigo and constantly butted heads against one another. Just a few more laps and the first quest would come to an end.

“You... mean... I'll... kill... em?”

Or they kill you. Either way, the quest ends. Now shush and keep running, narrator's still enjoying some quality meat at the moment.

A few laps further the hero and the wolves were crawling on the ground in what must be the slowest chase to have ever occurred since the inception of humanity. The peasants took out their sketchbooks and started making sketches of the hero's haggered face as it was cheaper than hiring a model. It was also good fun for the whole family in a time where television wasn't invented yet.

Just as the hero was about to break down, a ping went off above his head.

GAINED ACHIEVEMENT 'Running “man”, mind the brackets.' Gives hero twenty percent extra dexterity.

“Ah god finally... another stat that isn't...”

Converting dexterity to luck. Your luck stat now works twenty percent faster.

“What? How? How the hell does a stat work faster?”

By never giving up and maintaining that grindset mindset all year long. Usually leads to the burnout achievement within five years and your wife leaving you achievement.

“I don't even have a wife!”

Obvious but still sad personal facts aside, the wolves got a heart attack and died. The hero has completed his first quest.

A miniature firework sprang forth out of nowhere and fizzled out like the virility of the modern day man in a society filled with apathy and plastics while the sound of a chirpy kazoo pierced everyone's eardrums.

QUEST COMPLETED. BUT THE EXPERIENCE WAS TIME BASED. SO NO EXPERIENCED RECEIVED. NEW QUEST IS HOWEVER AVAILABLE!

“This is going to be another cruel joke, isn't it?”

QUEST NUMBER TWO: KILL NINE FERAL DOGS!

“I think I might know what the third quest is...”

THIRD QUEST IS AN ESCORT MISSION OF AN OLD LADY. HELPING HER CROSS A DANGEROUS ROAD FILLED WITH TEN FERAL DOGS.

“Ow, hi Satan. Didn't see you there. Couldn't you just give me a normal quest for once?”

… Fine. The hero's next quest requires him to be instructed in luck based magic.

“You mean there's luck based magic? For real? Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

Narrator was a little hung over and also fuck you.

“Yeah, you made that very clear already. But tell me, where do I go to get the magical training?”

Magical training is acquired from the queen herself. She controls both lewd and luck based magic. Because you have to be pretty fucking lucky to be born a queen in a sex kingdom.

The hero shut his eyes and rubbed his temples.

“Really?”

No.

“Really hating you right now. Just tell me where to go...”

Find the old lady who is unlike the other old ladies.

“What, one that doesn't smell like abused cleaning agent and longs for death?”

The narrator is not involved in the hero's quest. Also, the next batch of pulled pork is ready. The hero will have to endure his trial alone for now.