Evidently we will be getting a Redneck language version
HERO Yer a mutant, mah friend, th' faster yo' come t'terms wif this hyar truth, th' better it will be fo' yo'. Yo' will quickly larn t'take whut is offered an' disappear when yer presence is no longer desuhed, cuss it all t' tarnation. Yer wifout quesshun, unique. Yet this hyar is exackly th' facko' thet puts yo' in th' same precarious posishun as non-hoomins who tend t'find themselves impaled o' hangin' fum nearby trees. Fo' it is their simple exissence thet triggers th' resentment, animosity, an' hatred fum common folk – enny pretext is a fine pretext t'show them their right place. How is it then thet Witchers, while equally non-hoomin an' diffrunt t'common varmints, does not share th' fate of these pore devils? Th' answer t'this is twofold, cuss it all t' tarnation. Fust, thar is relatively few Witchers thet still walk this hyar earth. Statistically speakin', tharfo'e, yer far mo'e likely t'encounter an e'f than a Witcher, sech as yo'seff. An' second, yo' postess a couple of rather fo'ceful argoomnts: a solid swo'd an' a simple set of life rules. Th' blades yo' carry is yer lifelines. It, tharfo'e, comes as no surprise thet yer ability t'wield them appropriately when dealin' damage t'yer advahsaries makes etch an' ev'ry of yer challengers re-assess their life-chances twice befo'e ingagin' in combat wif yo'. Howevah, yer superio' fightin' abilities haf not made yo' arrogant. Yo' does not simply revaht t'fo'ce when no sech revahshun is needed, cuss it all t' tarnation. When thar is still a postibility of cornflick resolushun – even usin' extreme measures – yo' does not tempp fate an' wish yo'seff a sho'ter life; instead yo' sheath yer swo'd, cuss it all t' tarnation. Yet make no mistake, yo' will be unrelentin' an' wifout remo'se once th' decishun t'engage has come. Ultimately, howevah, yer no saint an' yo' does not care t'save th' wo'ld – yo' simply be hankerin' t'survive, whilst remainin' true t'yer professhun.
Oh and it looks like a Jive language version too
HERO You's is a mutant, mah' homey, de fasta' ya' mosey on down to terms wid dis trud, de betta' it gots'ta be fo' ya'. You's gots'ta quickly learn t'snatch whut be offered and disappear when yo' presence be no longa' desired. You's is widout quesshun, unique. Yet dis be exactly de facto' dat puts ya' in de same precarious posishun as non-humans who tend t'find demselves impaled o' hangin' fum nearby trees. Fo' it be deir simple 'esistence dat triggers de resentment, animosity, and hatred fum common folk – any pretext be a baaaad pretext t'show dem deir propuh' place. How be it den dat Witchers, while equally non-human and different t'common sucka's, do not share da damn fate uh dese poo' devils? De answa' to dis be twofold. Fust, dere is relatively few Witchers dat still walk dis eard. Statistically rappin', derefo'e, ya' is far mo'e likesly t'encounta' an elf dan some Witcher, such as yo'self. And second, ya' possess some couple uh rada' fo'ceful arguments, dig dis: a solid swo'd and some simple set uh life rules. De blades ya' carry is yo' lifelines. It, derefo'e, comes as no surprise dat yo' ability t'wield dem appropriately when dealin' damage t'yo' adversaries makes each and every uh yo' challengers re-assess deir life-chances twice befo'e engagin' in combat wid ya'. However, yo' supuh'io' fightin' abilities gots not made ya' arrogant. Man! You's do not simply revert t'fo'ce when no such reversion be needed. When dere be still some possibility uh conflict resolushun – even usin' 'estreme measho' mans – ya' do not tempt fate and wish yo'self some sho'ta' life; instead ya' shead yo' swo'd. Yet make no missnatch, ya' gots'ta be unrelentin' and widout remo'se once da damn decision t'engage gots come. Ultimately, however, ya' is no saint and ya' do not care t'save da damn wo'ld – ya' simply wanna survive, whilst remainin' true t'yo' profession. 'S coo', bro.
Post edited March 29, 2011 by Lou
