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About Plzen

I dove in, mates—controller in hand, expecting a romp. What ho! ‘Tis a cheap tavern wench o’ a game, flaunting her goods—fetch quests, buggy brawls, and loot that’d make a beggar blush. Thee knows the sort—promises a banquet, serves stale bread. Made me rage, it did! Hours lost to glitchy nonsense—my axe swings, foe laughs, stuck in a wall. “O cruel fate!” I cried, like Ofelia facing the Pale Man’s stare. Yet—ha!—I chuckled too, ‘cos the absurdity? Shakespearean farce, I swear.