Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 2 - Chapter Pr

Preface

Tabletop Role-Playing Game (TRPG)

An analog version of the RPG format utilizing paper rulebooks and dice.

A form of performance art where the GM (Game Master) and players carve out the details of a story from an initial outline.

The PCs (Player Characters) are born from the details on their character sheets. Each player lives through their PC as they overcome the GM’s trials to reach the final ending.

Nowadays, there are countless types of TRPGs, spanning genres that include fantasy, sci-fi, horror, modern chuanqi, shooters, postapocalyptic, and even niche settings such as those based on idols or maids.

After overcoming what I’d thought to be an insurmountable pit of despair with all the ado of taking a step up a flight of stairs, the woman approached my sister and me. Everything about her—the silvery bun in her hair, the contrast between her deep blue and light jade heterochromic irises, the way her facial features were perfectly set in tune with the golden ratio—gave off an air of artistry; in fact, she was stunning to the point of artificiality.

Further, her dignified attire was beyond anything that I’d ever seen. The setting sun shimmered off her robe where the deep crimson fabric peeked out from underneath intricate patterns of maroon embroidery.

Yet what drew my eyes like no other were her pointed ears poking out from the gaps in her chignon: they were proof that she was not a mensch, but a methuselah. She and her kind were remarkably similar to a race popular in Western and Eastern fantasy alike, perhaps most famous for their appearance in Tolkien’s works—the elves.

They had no natural lifespan (or perhaps it was simply too long to comprehend), were impervious to disease, mastered magic without any physiological drawbacks, and continued about their lives forever unless they were murdered outright. As walking amalgamations of all that man envies, methuselah and elves were quite analogous.

They came out of the womb with a disposition for magic and abandoned the phenomenon of aging once they came into their physical prime. This, combined with their freedom from the woes of illness, put them at the top of all the humanfolk races as the perfect organism.

When I’d first read of their existence in the church’s library, all I could wonder was, Are they cheating? Now that I’d seen one such specimen for myself, the same doubt played back in my mind.

“Now, would you mind telling me your story?”

Her fingers snapped once more. The first instance had erased the dark sphere that had spelled my end, and the second did the same to the spellcaster himself. A mere flick of the wrist sufficed to disappear what had been an insurmountable threat to me.

I couldn’t tell whether he’d been teleported to some faraway land or literally winked out of existence. All I knew was that the woman before me was a mage of unthinkable power.

The silver-haired magician pushed up the monocle on her verdant left eye and gave us—or more precisely, she gave Elisa—a curious stare, as if she were a researcher observing germs in a petri dish.

“Where in the world did you get your hands on that changeling?”

“Change...ling?” I had no idea what she was saying. Elisa was my sister. You couldn’t deny that fact.

Furthermore, both my parents were mensch, born and raised here in Konigstuhl canton. Two mensch could only birth another mensch. It wasn’t as if their offspring would suddenly mutate into a whole different species.

“Quite a rare sight to see such a developed specimen,” she went on. “Did you have some particular use for it in mind that necessitated its growth?”

I’d been too young to remember Elisa’s birth, but that didn’t change the fact that I’d been with her all her life. What was more, all my siblings and I had been delivered by church midwives at our own home, as was customary for the time. There wasn’t another baby Elisa could have been changed for.

“I’ve spent a fair amount of time in this land, yet it truly has been some time since I last saw one. You seemed to be in the middle of something here—perhaps a dispute over your subject here? Considering how attached to you it seems, I take it this one was born to your own family?”

Above all else, Elisa was a miniature version of our mother. We both inherited her golden hair and our father’s blue eyes. When our whole family lined up together, who could possibly mistake us for anything but kin?

“The fuck you tryna call my sister ‘it’ for, you long-eared, gabby bitch?!”

At any rate, my line of reasoning was beside the point. I merely had a bone to pick with the mage: what was her deal with treating our adorable little girl like a bug under glass? In part due to the rush of my recent battle, I’d grown so heated that I completely forgot that she had saved our lives just moments prior.

Foul insults—rural slang that I’d never once uttered before—spewed forth. The palatial speech that I’d worked into my muscle memory since the day I’d first learned it evaporated amidst my boiling rage.

Suddenly I heard a popping sound somewhere. My vision went dark and my legs gave out.

“Oh my.”

“Mr. Brother?!”

As I sank into darkness, I felt something peculiarly soft catch my limp form. The scent of may bells drifted into my bloody nose and tickled my senses. My consciousness faded away with only the sound of Elisa’s cries echoing in my mind.

[Tips] Methuselah are a supreme humanfolk race whose glory days never wane. Gifted in both body and magic, there are only two things that can end them: overwhelming violence to ruin the flesh and the muddy torrent of time to chip at the psyche. As a result, methuselah are subject to eternal confinement in a water prison in the event of high crime.

Even during the liveliest of canton festivals, Lambert never allowed himself to truly get drunk. This stemmed partly from his obligation to the populace but mainly from his long years at the front lines of battle. Those experiences had robbed him of the deeper pleasures liquor could provide. No amount of booze could file away that last remnant of vigilance in the back of his mind, even surrounded by the peaceful merriment of the town square.

Thus, when Margit, the local huntsman’s daughter, stormed into the square in a state of shock, he was ready to act while those around him were too plastered to stand. The words “kidnappers,” “woods,” and “outskirts” were spat out between heaving gasps; that was enough for the Watch captain to toss aside his mug and start moving.

Lambert bolted to his home (he alone out of all the watchmen had received a proper house from the magistrate) to grab his equipment. With no time to fully gear up, he slipped on a single layer of chain mail and jammed his hands into a pair of gloves before picking up the trusty blade that had accompanied him in so many battles. Ready for combat, he literally burst through his front door only to bump into an unexpected visitor.

“What is it, Johannes?” Lambert asked. His guest was a local farmer who’d been enjoying a drink at the festival only moments prior.

“I need a weapon! Please, lend me one!” Johannes had also received word from Margit and rushed over as fast as he could; after all, the kidnapped girl was his only daughter, and his youngest son was the one buying time to save her.

Faced with new information, the captain of the Watch hesitated for a few moments before heading back inside and grabbing an extra spear. Had it been any other man, Lambert would have ordered him to stand down. However, the career warrior knew that Johannes too had been abandoned by the cradle of true drunkenness, and figured he had the right to fight for his children.

The two of them struck out toward the spot in question with weapons in hand only to stumble across a startling scene. There were broken boxes and splintered barrels all around the demolished campsite, with as many scattered wares as there were maimed men.

In the center of all the carnage, Elisa sat bawling her eyes out while clinging to her collapsed brother. A single methuselah stood next to the two children at a complete loss.

“Oh, might you be their parent?” she asked, after a brief, suffocating pause.

The two men were even more bewildered than the mage, and exchanged gormless looks in hopeless pursuit of some kind of answer. Still, they could tell the situation was dire and required quick action; a flick of the eyes was enough for them to decide that Johannes would speak for them, since his children were the ones present.

“Excuse me, may I ask from which noble house you hail?” he asked politely. “I am the father to those two. If it would suit you, I’d like to know what exactly occurred here.”

Regardless of the situation, he could tell the methuselah was no commoner. The exquisite embroidery that spanned the surface of her crimson robe was plainly extravagant, and Johannes doubted that all of his material belongings would even trade for a single sleeve. Her carefully braided hair was kept in place with accessories of similar make, and nobody short of an aristocrat would wear a monocle like hers.

Most pertinent of all was her speech: the pronunciation of her first word had been evidence enough of a lifetime of blue-blooded upbringing. The feminine variant of the palatial tongue that she spoke in was reserved for the elite among the elite. Johannes was absolutely certain that she was a patrician so far above him that just to look at her from afar was already an unlikely event.

“I can hardly claim the dignity of a noble house,” she answered casually. “I am a magus hailing from the Trialist Empire of Rhine’s Imperial College of Magic. My allegiance lies with the Leizniz cadre, the School of Daybreak—my name, Agrippina du Stahl.”

Although Agrippina’s introduction had been exceedingly lax in tone, the two commoners dropped their weapons and took a knee the instant they heard the word “du.” Any self-respecting citizen knew the absolute authority that came with a nobiliary particle, and that was all the more true of the “du” and “des” that embellished the names of the privileged upper class from one of Rhine’s few true competitor states—the Kingdom of Seine.

The lives of the imperial populace were certainly not taken lightly (especially in contrast to Medieval Satsuma, wherein a signed slip of paper was enough to cut down a lowly squire), but there was no guarantee of safety if one drew the ire of a noble. The situation was already convoluted, and Johannes had arrived armed to challenge her identity without so much as kneeling. If she were to point out his transgression, his life would be over.

However, Agrippina merely looked distraught at the sight of his crying daughter and fallen son, grumbling that she wanted to know what had happened too. After scratching her head in frustration, she took a long puff of her pipe to reset herself.

“In the meantime,” she said, “may I ask for some tea and a seat indoors?”

Both Lambert and Johannes froze for a moment, but immediately sprang to their feet once their minds had processed what she’d said. The former went to the village chief’s residence to prepare their most fitting hospitality; the latter scooped up his children and showed the noblewoman the way.

[Tips] The village chief is a local government official who is entrusted with a town by the magistrate. These trusted retainers are allowed a family name, and supervise the day-to-day happenings of small villages in place of their superior. They lead the townspeople in times of trouble and collect taxes come harvest season.