| Life was hard as a young man growing up in the city of Calamaria, and it became even harder when you had your heart stolen by a thin, tattooed serf. You became a Thief, in order to steal it back (with interest). As luck would have it, you found yourself wandering through the sleepy village of Flytrap just as the village people (you know, the construction worker, the cop, the Indian) were beset by the evil Necromancer Wrathlittle, who had poisoned the town's Vietnamese pot-bellied pig population. Against your better judgment (and with the hope of fat loot to come), you agreed to try and bring the villain to justice. You had a good handle on it at first, but you didn't expect to have to bareknuckle-fight all those hobos. That rakshasa picked the total worst time to eat your shillelagh. Bruised but unbroken, you readied your handaxe and marched forth into the darkness, where you were immediately captured by the Skull Lord Baaaal's army of bright-eyed accountants. They hauled you before their master, but got bored and wandered off during his long gloating speech. Seeing your chance, you pushed the evil spaz into his own vending machine, and escaped to claim your reward from the grateful people of Yarbleshire.
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