The name’s Davenport. I review games.
So the other day an armored fantasy-lookin’ fella walks into my office with white hair, cat’s eyes, a nasty scar runnin’ down his face, and a sour expression. Couldn’t really blame’im. He looked like he’d been through the wringer.
“Greetings,” he says. “I’m a Witcher.”
“A witch or what?” I says.
“A Witcher,” he says. “I’m a magical mutant who hunts monsters for pay.”
“There much money in that gig?”
“Not much,” he says, “but it’s what I was made for.”
“I can relate,” I says. “So what brings you by today?”
He pulls a book with his mug on the cover outta his bag and drops it on the desk. “I’ve a review job for you. The Witcher roleplaying game.”
I look it over. “So is this about killin’ monsters for not enough moolah?”
“It can be,” he says. “But you can play all manner of characters: A doctor, a wizard, a priest, a bard, a warrior, and more besides.”
“Sounds good,” I says. “I’ll give it a look. But tell me somethin’: Are you sure you don’t make enough money?”
“Yes, quite certain. Why?”
“Seems like someone in your line of work would make a killin’.”