So you want to be a hero? No doubt inspired by the legends and myths of old. Masters of magic obliterating hordes of goblins with their better-hope-you’re-not-in-the-blast-zone spells of fiery doom! Royal paladins decimating undead legions with the pure light of their holier-than-thou self-righteous bleeding hearts! Powerful dwarven warriors drinking themselves into a raging indiscriminate homicidal coma! So on, so forth. Yadda yadda…

Well, folks, let me tell you, legends lie and myths make stuff up. That’s why they’re legends and myths. In the real world the good guys aren’t always good guys, if you take my meaning. If you don’t, let me beat it into you. Those names carved onto the statues of prominent heroes long dead once instilled fear and loathing into the hearts of those who were unfortunate enough to know them so intimately.

It may be true that the fate of our world has more than once been delivered by the hand of such mighty men, women, and other creatures of less than determinate natures, but to call them mighty is not to call them merciful, or even well intentioned. Fame, riches, glory, unhappy happenstance: these are the ambitions and reasons more often than not that evils are destroyed and the world saved.

Should we be grateful? I suppose in a way, yes. Better to be the footstool of fools than another mindless zombie in the armies of some crazed necromancer bent on world domination. But should we have to tolerate all of these miscreants bumbling around our towns and villages, claiming to be on some errand of epic import? Perhaps your response is to ask whether we have a choice?

It has been said that the first step to correcting a problem is admitting that there is a problem to begin with. It is my intent to show all you peasants and plebs that it is time we take the saving of our world into our own hands. Though you may be farmers and sheep herders, your own adventuring skills and competence can’t be far outpaced by those who slaughter your sheep and trod upon your fields while claiming to be fighting mimics and molemen.

This work is a call to you, commoners of Artheryön, to take the mantle of hero upon yourselves, and no longer rely on the members of that unspeakable society that claims exclusive rights to pillaging ancient shrines, securing long lost relics, and selling at a premium all the random trash that they strip from every monster, passerby, or beast that stands in their way.

And how shall I convince you?

These are the grotesque tales of the flamboyant Murder Hobo, Kendrik, and his band of misfits. It is my prayer to every god that I can name and a few that I’ve just now invented that these pages will reach the eyes of every literate laborer in the realm, so that they may learn just how degenerate their so called heroes are, and rise to the overthrowing of that unmentionable society. May these stories instill within you the distrust that all such adventurers deserve.