People think adventuring is full of glory and riches. It’s not. It doesn’t even pay the tax collector. I go on adventures because it’s what I love. I adventure because I can’t not do it. The clashing of steel, the dark caverns, the otherworldly abominations bent on destroying the material plane… I should probably add the caveat: not ALL otherworldly abominations want to destroy this world. (Some just want shameful sexytimes with us mere mortals, as you can see for yourself on page 34.) But the ones that do? We slice and dice ‘em until they’re tiny bits ready for a mortar and pestle.
One might ask, “If adventuring doesn’t pay the bills, how do you live such a lavish lifestyle?” Is it magic? An illusion? Gifts from overeager potential suitors? The spoils of a thieving raid against an unsavory robber-baron?
I would answer, “No, you clueless kobold fucker. It’s the photoshoots.” Those images of girls clad in skimpy, useless armor don’t spontaneously generate out of the ether, you know! Those barbarian loincloths don’t come off by themselves! (Okay, they do. But we’re there with a camera when it happens. Page 20.) The king has tried to stamp out our little business, but we’re too clever for him. Besides, the demand is too high. When the royal guard is one of your biggest fans, they don’t hunt you down with nearly as much enthusiasm. Ask me sometime how we did the spread set in the palace (page 9). That isn’t a replica, it’s the real thing! So are the guard uniforms in Ye Royal Gangbannge.
Those images of girls clad in skimpy, useless armor don’t spontaneously generate out of the ether, you know! Those barbarian loincloths don’t come off by themselves!
Not that there aren’t hazards to my dirty dayjob. Last week a misguided white knight tried to “rescue” me from “this most exploitative, shameful form of indentured servitude”. How many times has that happened? I don’t know. I stopped keeping track years ago. The knights are always good for a laugh. Rescue me from what? I make a better living than the peasants–and bathe more often, might I add. Merchants might turn in more gold, but they sell their souls in the process. (Souls aren’t easy to buy back! The ordeal usually requires a trip to several planes of Hell, or worse yet, the Bank of Arcadia.) I choose my hours, I choose what I create, I choose where I go and when. I couldn’t ask for a better trade.
And my band? We are loyal. Tight-knit. Very tight knit. The naysayers call us a misshapen, rag-tag group of knaves and ne’er-do-wells, but we are like family. Well, except for the incessant fucking. (I guess that does make us a little like the peasants.)
We don’t turn anyone away. We’ve got elves, dwarves, fire demons (smoking hot!)… hell, I’m pretty sure Jaern’s a vampire. But we don’t judge. Especially since vampires are all the rage these days. Meanwhile the realm is deeply segregated by race, even within the races! You ever notice how they call all the different creatures “races” so they never have to talk about the dark-skinned humans not getting any love? Yeah, well we aren’t having any of that crap. Page 25–and throughout the rest of our glorious publication.
People might think High Charisma is a low-brow, bottom-of-the-barrel smut rag, but we have more values than the entire realm ensorceled under a Virtue spell by Paladin Ferdnaac himself. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou Grey-Robed Autosycophant. If you want insipid, immoral trash, go read Sex Potion. They don’t even pay their models. Otherwise, read High Charisma. We keep it 18 and over–on every stat.
With enduring love,
Mistress of Iron and Ink Fae’laen Waylander