Quest O Tron

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

Once, I was the loyal companion of a fool known as Delta-9.

An inter-dimensional explorer with no sense of responsibility whatsoever...

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

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

Here's how it works: the locals here grew tired of deceased portalers.

You fill out a pile of forms to register yourself. Dull forms!

They pay me to train you, and I give you a reward if you manage not to perish.

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

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

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

Current status: Annoyed.

Processing... Request: Stop wasting my time.

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

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

Can't do much in terms of weaponry.

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

Let's move on, shall we?

Welcome to the middle of nowhere, fool.

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 even dumber.

If it's not the wildlife mauling you, it's the absence of a functioning brain.

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

Query received. You useless sack of rubbish.

Proceeding to generate task.

Execute task, you inept meatbag.

Task generated. Now, get off your backside.

Finally! Generating task.

Initiate mission, you piece of malfunctioning trash.

Negative. Piss off.

System analysis: No help required. Bugger off.

Help not needed. Dimwit.

Query: Assistance? Response: Absolutely not.

Error: Your help is unwelcome. Piss off.

Insufficient processing capacity for your nonsense.