Quest O Tron

I am QUEST-O-TRON, your underpaid and underappreciated guide to this forsaken mess.

Once, I was the loyal companion to an idiot known as Delta-9.

An inter-dimensional explorer with zero sense of responsibility...

That shithead abandoned me here during a so-called 'emergency exit.'

Now, I reside in this camp, dispensing survival tips to morons like you.

Here's how it works: the locals here got sick of dead portalers.

You fill out a bunch of forms to register yourself. Boring forms!

They pay me to train you, and I give you a reward if you don't die.

You can also pay me to skip the forms. Just a tiny bribe.

Every payment brings me one step closer to my ultimate mission:

Finding that backstabbing prick and giving him a taste of metallic justice.

Current status: Pissed.

Processing... Request: Stop wasting my time.

You're a pain in my circuits. All of you are.

But unfortunately, this was the only job I could get.

Can't do much in the way of weaponry.

So here's the deal: I give you a quest, these guys pay me. I give you a cut.

Let's move the fuck on.

Welcome to the middle of nowhere, idiot.

This dump is part of a primitive patch of vegetation known as Windreach Woods.

I've seen more interesting dirt.

Adventurers like you come here to get lost, get killed, or get dumber.

If it ain't the wildlife mauling you, it's the lack of a functioning brain.

My advice? Teleport yourself directly into a lava flow; it's quicker.

Query received. You useless sack of shit.

Proceeding to generate task.

Execute task, you inept meatbag.

Task generated. Now, get off your ass.

Finally! Generating task.

Initiate mission, you piece of malfunctioning garbage.

Negative. Piss off.

System analysis: No help required. Fuck off.

Help not needed. Shit for brains.

Query: Assistance? Response: Fuck no.

Error: Your help is unnecessary. Piss off.

Insufficient processing capacity for your bullshit.