Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 1 - Chapter 10

Henderson Scale 0.1

Henderson Scale 0.1

A derailing event that has no impact on the overarching story.

For example, a conversation with a random NPC could run too long, prompting the players to rush through a minor battle.

Female ogres spent the better part of life staving off boredom. They were born warriors: the alloy in their skin thwarted attacks and their metal bones were tenacity itself. Their joints were as strong as their adamant skeletons, and their impressive musculature allowed their massive bodies to dance with ease. The chiseled gifts from the heavens that they called bodies were nothing if not fit for the art of battle.

However, the superior build of a warrior race alone would have been insufficient for stray ogres to find themselves welcomed throughout the land as state-sponsored fighters. Their instincts were as finely tuned to the sport of combat as their bodies. Just as lesser creatures sought out a mate, ogres sought out the thrill of battle.

The instinctive urge to fight can be found in all life: conflict is often required in matters of survival or securing a mate. Yet most species’ inclination for violence pales when compared to the ogres’. Most lifeforms consider hostility as only a means to an end, such as the preservation of life or the acquisition of material. But the ogres see it as no means—it is the very purpose of their lives.

Training is a means to experience purer battle; consumption exists to continue fighting; victory is but a segue into the next encounter. All that they do leads back to the thrill of the fight. Some fundamental part of their soul craves it. Those who fall ill or are too injured to take to the fields of war often take their own lives within half a year. From the moment of birth, life apart from combat is unthinkable for them.

However, their perfected physique brings more than the delight of battle. With it comes an unbearable hunger, for there are few who can match their innate power. A sword of mundane make can hardly leave a scratch on their skin, and cheap tricks falter in the face of their towering stature. Furthermore, their exceptional metabolism blesses them with long lives free from disease.

Although their downright unfair bodies are objects of envy for many, that same advantage was the root of one of the fundamental tragedies of the ogre condition. Even adolescent ogres can trample experienced fighters with ease. For a people who prize the heart-stirring dance of a well-matched battle over a quick, one-sided beatdown, their physique is too extraordinary. If they amounted to no more than a band of savage brutes who used their natural build to bulldoze through everything in their way, no one would honor them with the title of warrior. There was a vast gulf between wearing that title and merely being synonymous with violence.

The strong are plentiful in this world. Giants dwarf ogres in both size and power, and their population is still sizable despite the ravages of plague. Dragons terrorize the skies and lay waste to everything in sight upon landing, akin to living divine calamities. Yet these were actors of primitive violence, only interested in pushing the powers of their birthright to their fullest extent. There was nothing particularly strange about this. After all, a tiger is strong because it is a tiger, and it reigns over its territory using the strength befitting it. To train further would be to admit weakness—it was plenty strong enough.

Ogres beg to differ, polishing their insurmountable power by studying the art of war. An ineffable militancy in their hearts compels them to hone their bodies into the perfect weapons.

Nevertheless, the more they train, the further they stray from satisfaction. They sometimes settle for a lesser challenge, but the disappointment of the affair only torments their growing sense of hunger. Fighting weaklings is like eating a single bite of bread on the brink of starvation.

Knowing better than to let internal conflicts consume them, the ogres split long ago into small nomadic tribes that wander the continent, looking for new battlefields that could offer higher heights.

Some, driven by this same end, leave their clans behind to walk the path of a lone warrior. They make ends meet as bodyguards or tourney fighters (though rare is the circuit that will admit one), all while searching for an opponent that can satiate their craving.

Lauren of the Gargantuan Tribe was but one of these many wanderers who found herself employed as a merchant’s bodyguard. Honored with the esteemed title of The Valiant within her clan, she had left them behind in the western reach of the continent and found herself touring the land. Her people had settled down in the West long ago because the land was rich with conflict, but Lauren had tired of battling farmhand draftees and made her departure a few years prior.

Now, on the inner western reach of the Central Continent, she was surrounded by the Trialist Empire and its satellite nations—all famed for their tranquility. While burglars and highwaymen weren’t wholly unheard of, there were few bandit camps notable enough to be named, and frequent patrols by the authorities worked further still against the development of villainous infrastructure. Further, the prime roads were patrolled by dragon riders several times a day, so those foolish or desperate enough to turn to highway robbery were few and far between.

Why, you may ask, would a demon starving for battle come to this peaceful region to work as a jeweler’s bodyguard for fifty librae a day? (As an aside, this was several times the going rate for the average bravo.) Despite its pacifism, the Trialist Empire was full of well-trained warriors.

From the moment of its founding, the Empire had warred with all its neighbors. Ages of blood washed away with blood instilled a cultural certainty that eras of peace were but time to prepare for the next outburst of violence; Rhine’s warrior class was exceptional despite the amicable times.

Local tournaments drew in those confident in their skills, and nobles could often be seen attending contests of strength or mock battles. These competitions were a means for those involved to hone their skills more than idle entertainment or a space for the pursuit of accolades.

Lauren had drifted into the country following word of this abundance of worthwhile fights. Each and every mercenary trained in this region accomplished much in foreign battlefields, so she’d been excited to see a plethora of strongmen in their land of origin.

Besides, Lauren had grown tired of war. Though it may be difficult to comprehend, a sharp gulf stands between warfare and battle as ogres understand it: translated to more familiar values, she was more gourmet than glutton.

Thinking back on it, she considered the act of war to be an utter waste. After years of training, skilled warriors were cut down like helpless weeds by stray arrows or lucky spear strikes from common farmhands. Worse yet, they could be blown away by a blast of magic without a chance to show their skills or assassinated in their sleep. In the very worst case, they could starve to death without claiming a single head if a siege lasted long enough for them to exhaust their supplies.

Consider a marbled steak that could offer unimaginable flavor with just a light sear; these crimes would be akin to drenching it in unnecessary marinade. Of course, the steak would still taste good, but there was no need for such things—or at least, such was Lauren’s refined opinion.

Rhine, on the other hand, was much to her liking. Unlike the cowards who surrendered as soon as they sighted an ogre on the battlefield, there were people here who would go out of their way to pick a fight with her to test their mettle. What was more, her simple job paid obscenely well, and the bandits that she beat down every now and again were all skilled enough to eke out a living in this well-protected country.

Lauren struggled to find opportunities to swing her blade in comparison to the battlefield, but the quality of each individual encounter was better here by far. It was just enough to satisfy her perennial quest to stave off boredom.

As Lauren awaited her next epicurean meal, she followed her employer and the caravan he sponsored on their southbound journey away from the incoming cold of winter. Tomache Gresham was the head of procurement at the Gresham und Gesell Trading Company, and he’d stopped at a small canton on his way to buy new stock in the South.

It was an unassuming place; countless cantons like it littered the Empire. The head of the local Watch who’d come to greet them caught Lauren’s eye, but he’d totally rejected her advances. Other than him, there was little of interest around.

They were to fill their waterskins and kegs, borrow a bathhouse, and relax under a solid roof while earning some extra coin at the local harvest festival. The reasons they had for stopping by were typical, and today was meant to be no different than the day before or after—or so the ogre had thought.

As the celebrations in the town square intensified, the monotony of the dwindling crowd caused Lauren to heave a massive yawn. A tear floated to the corner of her golden eyes, their demonic vertical irises quickly shifting to look over the mensch running toward her employer’s stall. Despite her blurred vision, she had no trouble examining the little visitor.

Lauren may have been a bodyguard, but she protected her client from more than brute force. Sticky fingers were a common threat, and it was her job to keep an eye on every customer that came her way.

The girl who’d come running toward them was a mensch toddler. The ogre had a strange feeling about her, but there was nothing odd about how the child excitedly beamed over a jewel. From her size and unsteady footing, Lauren surmised that she was around four years of age.

“Mr. Brother! Pretty! Pretty!!!” the child squeaked.

“Yup, they sure are pretty.” Behind the girl, another person emerged, happily watching over the child. As soon as he entered into view, Lauren squinted sharply. The chaperone accompanying the “customer” was a young, slender mensch boy with a feminine face. He was on the better side of ten years old, and his worn clothes’ frayed patches announced that he was a farmer’s son.

Not exactly a pretty boy of unmatched beauty, he seemed like little more than a farmhand to the average eye. However, his still unrefined form lightly plucked at Lauren’s heartstrings. He had muscles that perfectly followed the center line of his body in a way that only trained fighters did.

Whether walking or crouching, his balance was stable, and his prudent steps left him free to act at any moment. The center of gravity for four-limbed creatures on two legs lay just above the belt, near the navel, but Lauren doubted that he’d fall over even if she’d given it a little shove. This had to have been the result of constant practice. The scent of a warrior rolled off of him in waves.

Lauren glanced at his hands and saw a litany of calluses. Though this in and of itself was a common sight on farm children, she recognized that he’d developed some in places no farmer would. The calluses on his right thumb and index finger were indicative of a single-handed sword, but those on the base of his left ring and pinky fingers were more common for two-handers. Further, his wrist had a spearman’s kink, and the marks on the back of his hand and bare arm betrayed the use of a shield.

The marks his training left on him painted him in vibrant hues as part of a mercenary tradition she knew too well. Lauren found the memories of fighters tossing their weapons as they snapped like toothpicks nostalgic.

His vision was keen too. He maintained eye contact while speaking, but the tiny movements of his eyes showed that he was taking in the positioning, hands, and equipment of his conversational partner—even if he himself didn’t know it—all while keeping their shoulders and hips (that is, the fulcrums of movement) in the corners of his view.

The fact that he’d stiffened up for a fraction of a moment when he’d seen Lauren was even more reason for praise, in her eyes. It meant he had the intuition to ascertain an opponent’s skill. The way he’d slid back an awkward half-pace showed that he was sensitive enough to danger for his instincts to push him out of striking distance.

He was a good warrior. Despite looking like nothing more than a scrawny farmer, he emanated the scent of fine cuisine—or better yet, Lauren’s favorite, whiskey. Unlike the sickly sweet of mead or the feeble kick of wine, the devilish caress of the whiskey brewed in the islands of the far north was potent enough to fell even her kin.

With a metabolism in a separate realm from mensch, ogres have difficulty enjoying drunkenness, and the color of their face hardly changes without a seriously powerful spirit. And among these spirits, the amber lover whose years of fortification in some far-off barrel gave it the strength to cradle them into a blissful intoxication had the entire ogre race enchanted.

Lovers of liquor knew when a drink was ready, and Lauren deemed this glass to be much too unripe, as his appearance might have suggested. He didn’t have enough kick—perhaps good enough for a quick taste, but there was no fun in that.

No, alcohol was best when left to age. Personally, Lauren preferred the glorious smoky fumes of peat-infused whiskey over the stuff without any quirks. Followers of the Wine God agreed, considering that the Trialist Empire now fermented some of its own, but the finest drinks were still the oldest of the original barrels in the north.

And this boy will age just as finely. Lauren swallowed back her prophetic hunch, but desire began to creep to the surface. Like a test batch of liquor, she wanted to take a sip. Of course, she wasn’t so boorish as to scuffle with him. While he wouldn’t crumple in one strike like the weaklings in the West, she knew mensch were quick to break down.

As her gaze swam looking for a means to test him, she noticed that the perfect stalking horse was right before her eyes. There was an insignificant stuart merchant who dealt in swords—the kind even commoners could buy, too flimsy and disposable to bother regulating—that had an open helmet-cutting challenge he used to earn extra coin. Lauren had wanted to try her hand, but the fool had begged her not to, tears streaming down his face. She’d reluctantly given in when he started to sob, clinging to her employer.

Although it was beaten up, the ogre could only imagine where the rat had managed to get ahold of a helmet with a mystarille finish, and she decided that he’d made more than enough money from this scheme by now. By taking advantage of the sister’s infatuation with a pearl, Lauren managed to send the boy forward without him catching on to her hidden intentions.

As luck would have it, the dull sword at the stuart’s stall cleaved straight through the old helm, mystarille coating be damned. The pleasant whistle of it splitting in two rang in the ogre’s ears like a bell announcing good tidings.

When this boy’s body ripens and his mind is full of experience...I’m sure he’ll age into a liquor so fine that a single sip will be unforgettable.

“Now then,” Lauren said, “I sent you forth with the promise that you would obtain five drachmae.”

“Right. But you’ve already done more than enough for—”

And so the ogre thought a reservation was in order. She would be livid if a barrel of this quality were to be opened before the time was right by one of her less cultured peers. To lay down her claim while the product was still fermenting had its own charm: the time spent waiting only enhanced the flavor, turning into a side dish that accompanied the drink better than any other.

“Will this suffice?” Lauren asked after an exchange of lips. Among ogres, a “spit trade” denoted a woman’s claim. The occasions where ogres committed their lips to another were rare: their matriarchal society meant that the idea of a lone mate was foreign to them. Though they pinned down their male counterparts to breed—or simply to pass the time—they did not kiss as a display of emotion.

The mouth was sacred to ogres; it was second only to the hands that wielded their weapons. The mouth declared one’s name, roared in battle, and offered eulogy to any who managed to best them. It was not to be sullied—ogres prided themselves on the beautiful words they bestowed upon their enemies.

Thus, there were only two times when an ogre thought to kiss: when she wanted to mark someone as her property or when she wanted to show the world that she had found a future foe. Until the day that one of them perished at the hand of the other, no outsiders were to intervene.

“Very well. My people will treat you well if you give them the name Lauren of the Gargantuan Tribe. I’ll tell them I found an interesting mensch boy.”

The various tribes that roamed the land maintained contact in passing, and the rules of honor prevented them from swiping another’s challenger from underneath their nose. After all, they knew well the depths of rage they would feel if it happened to them.

“I look forward to the day you come to challenge me as a full-fledged swordsman.”

I don’t ask that you hurry, Lauren thought. She would outlive the mensch, so she had plenty of time to wait. Bubbling with excitement, she flashed a fiercely beautiful smile. All I ask is that you age into something delicious.

[Tips] The “spit trade” is a traditional ogre oath of possession. This formal peck lets one’s battle-starved sistren know that a foe is off limits. Evolving from their habit of leaving survivors in the hopes that they will return as potent challengers fueled by revenge, the ritual is a peculiarity of their combat-centered culture.