The Wilderlands of High Weirdness
Why are you an adventurer?
Dig this: one day in the midst of your eleventh or twelfth year or so, you woke up and looked around you at the rolling green hills of your homeland, dotted with your strong herd of fluffy white sheep, and you came to the realization that your father was a shepherd, his father was a shepherd, his father before him was a shepherd, and your mother was a shepherd’s wife. It’s likely that your life will revolve around sheep, too, if you don’t get right the fuck out of town. The average life expectancy in the Wilderlands is twenty years, give or take, and chances are all twenty of those years will be spent in shit-covered poverty, rising with the dawn and resting with the dusk, with little but toil in-between until you die in your father’s fields, unless you’re pressed into service, in which case you’ll die by greenie spear or skindick axe. Your body will feed the crows where it falls and nobody will remember your name.
And unlike just about everyone else in history, this is not enough for you.