Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 7 - Chapter 7

Ending

Ending

Depending on how a tale concludes, the connections one tied—or was made to tie—may change form. Sometimes, GMs may erase broken friendships from character sheets; at others, the system itself may codify the process in writing. Though love and peace may sit high as ideals, the reality of relationships is that some are irreparable.

Today, I was made to know: the triumphant face of a man who’d conquered hardship was enough even to smite a fellow man.

“I’m home.”

On an autumn afternoon, as the countryside was abuzz reaping the year’s crops, Mister Fidelio returned with a sack slung over his shoulder. The traces of a great struggle dotted his figure: bandages zigged and zagged across his body, and a large patch of gauze had been stuck onto his cheek.

Yet the saint walked in as gently as ever. His smile was that of a priest manning their confessional: kind and forgiving.

“Darling!” The smattering of guests be damned, the missus tossed her tray onto a table—that nothing spilled spoke to her many years of experience—and nimbly hopped over the half gate to land in her husband’s chest. “You’re late! You said you’d be home by the harvest!”

“I’m sorry, Shymar. We were all too beaten up to make the trek home.”

I hadn’t heard so much as a peep of worry out of the missus all this time, but now, tears wetted her eyes and a happy purr rumbled from her throat. The hero squeezed her tightly and gingerly back, as one can only do with what they love most in this world.

“Welcome home, sir.”

“We’re glad to see you return safely.”

Margit and I followed the missus out of the kitchen and offered our own greetings.

“Thanks,” he said with a carefree smile. “It’s good to see you two too.”

The wife nuzzled hard into her husband’s chest in a display of passion that would make newlyweds blush; in turn, Mister Fidelio slipped one hand behind her and used the other to scratch at the base of her ears—evidently, bubastisians were not so different from cats. But while enjoying his embrace, the man eyed us up and down with a curious stare.

“Did something happen while I was away?”

Legendary adventurers were really something else. We hadn’t suffered a single injury, and yet he’d managed to spot that something about us had changed.

Surprised, I looked down at Margit to ask what we should say, and she glanced back up at me with a shrug to say that she’d leave the decision to me.

...Well, it’s not like our little adventure would impress a hero. A little happening like ours wouldn’t even be worth mentioning to someone like him.

“No,” I said. “Nothing of note.”

“Indeed,” Margit echoed. “Nothing of note.”

Ours was neither a story grand enough to be inscribed in an epic nor one entertaining enough to outline a comedy. I didn’t want to spoil the wonderful homecoming with such a stupid tale. The two of us placed our hands on our hips to feign ignorance of what he could mean; but note that we didn’t go so far as to shrug—that would have been sarcastic overkill.

“...Is that so? Well, I’m glad you didn’t run into anything serious. By the way, would you two mind watching the place for a bit?”

“Of course!” we said. They could take off until the next morning, if they wanted to. The only times we didn’t help out around the inn were when we took on multiday jobs anyway. I poured a perfectly serviceable red tea and Margit was great with lighter meals; we could hold down the tavern, no problem.

If anyone needed to pay for their stay, then the old master of the inn—who’d come down to see what all the fuss was about—could cover that too. His ears were down and his expression exasperated in a way that suggested he was thinking the same thing.

Easily scooping up the missus into a princess carry—that drew shrill squeals from Margit and our female customers—Mister Fidelio made for the back door, only to stop in his tracks. Having almost forgotten about his plans for a celebratory feast, he turned to me with a request.

“Oh, before I forget, would you mind going shopping later? Get as much meat as you can, and a little bit of good liquor. Just ask at the usual place, and they’ll get it ready.”

“Yes, sir. I take it everyone made it home safely?”

“Yeah. They’re all bottomless pits, but I’m counting on you. Honestly, you’d think they’d take it easy considering how one of us just recovered from a nasty gash in the gut, but...”

Despite voicing complaints about his partymates, the adventurer’s smile betrayed a happy ending. His grin was infectious, like the whole journey had truly been worth every second—I doubted anyone could smile like that if they’d lost a friend on the way.

“Leave it all to us. Please, take a moment to unwind.”

Truth be told, I wanted to hear the freshly picked tale of adventure right this very instant...but I couldn’t bring myself to get in the way of the missus’s joy. The secret to longevity was to avoid silly deaths like walking up behind a horse, and this was one of those moments.

As it turned out, the missus had been worried too. I’d overheard her telling Margit that “He’ll be fine. A good wife can live her own life like usual while her husband’s out,” but of course she’d worry. Here was a hero who’d slain dragons—who’d felled a criminal syndicate in one night—setting aside an entire summer for one campaign. No matter how much faith she had, the anxiety would always creep in.

Rather, it was probably scariest for those who knew him best. She could tell herself he’d be fine, but the inkling of doubt would always grow in the cracks of her heart. That she could push it down and send him away at all spoke volumes to her character, and to a depth of love that could conquer any fear.

“Oh...and Erich.”

“Yes?”

“I plan to take it easy for the foreseeable future, so...what do you say we schedule a match sometime?”

A match... A match?! After a moment of mental processing, pure excitement overtook my brain. I get to spar against a real hero! I can’t see the limits of his power, even with all the training I’ve done until now, and I get to fight him?!

“Yes, sir!”

“Good answer. Okay, I’ll leave the inn to you.”

The living legend walked out of sight on silent footsteps, taking his dearest’s tearful cries of “Darling” with him.

As the couple disappeared, a chorus of sighs flooded the tavern floor. Everyone, customers and staff alike, shared the same overflowing appreciation for the wholesomeness we’d just witnessed.

“Splendid. The homecoming is always the most beautiful of scenes. This is what makes a story shine.”

One of our regulars—a man almost entombed in flashy clothing—took a sip of tea and pontificated to himself. He was a troubadour who roamed the lands around Ende Erde, and his reputation preceded him, especially around here. He rented out one of the nicest suites at the Snoozing Kitten on a yearly contract, and apparently did all his writing here. A virtuoso of the six-stringed lyre—think basically a guitar—he’d even been summoned to perform at the imperial palace before; but he was perhaps best known for his saga, The Saint Comes.

That’s right: he wrote about Mister Fidelio.

The titular saint of the tale tended to refer to him as “the catchpenny scribbler” or “the faux poet” on account of his “exaggerations and romantic notions,” but anyone could tell that his insults were levied with a friendly tone.

Although their relationship might have begun out of the singer’s search for material, any adventurer would be jealous. After all, the poet was ever the adventurer’s greatest fan. How else could they sing with such heart to inspire generations and generations to learn the same tales they so loved?

“The hero returns home, the smile upon his face like any other—wounds boasted not, his triumph made naught more than chore... Hmm, a bit flowery, maybe. Perhaps a bit simpler?”

“Hah, he’s back at it again.”

“Try not to go too far this time! Don’t wanna see you catching another jab in the ribs.”

Quiet yet sonorous, the man’s baritone carried well through the room. His pulling out a memo book and beginning to sing spurred some of the other regulars to merrily pipe up. Perhaps this poet’s presence and the prospect of hearing a new saga in its infancy was what brought many of our guests to spend their afternoons relaxing at an inn in a city where they already lived.

This was the artist’s way of paying back his subject, I was sure. Instead of loudly advertising the Snoozing Kitten’s name, he came here in person to draw smaller, more discerning crowds.

Man, I hope poets will be singing about me one day. I might not have accomplished anything worth putting to writing since coming here, but mark my words: I would one day.

“A relationship like theirs would be so lovely.”

Surprisingly, the statement came from Margit, who let out an affected sigh, her cheeks propped up in her hands. Her enchanted gaze was pointed to the back, where the couple would surely be reaffirming their love to make up for the time they’d spent away from each other.

“What’s the matter? It isn’t polite to stare, you know.”

“Huh? Oh, uh, sorry. It’s just...I thought you’d always be by my side, so...”

Embarrassingly enough, I really did let Margit spoil me. The only reason I could carry myself so confidently was because I was always sure I was safe from surprises; I could only move forward because she had my back. So I’d never imagined that she’d be so taken by the idea of waiting for someone’s return.

“I’ll have you know that I am quite the maiden. Breathing my last by my chosen’s side is lovely, but so too is stirring a pot while waiting for him to come home.” In a teasing tone, she added, “Perhaps that’s a touch difficult for a boy to understand.”

I couldn’t say anything to defend myself on the spot, so I tried to imagine it instead: I marched into danger. Margit wasn’t on my back, but even if I had to pull back and retreat, she was there waiting for me at home.

It wasn’t bad. Everyone needed a place to call home—somewhere they could truly rest without fear. To become certain that home would never disappear was one way of growing stronger, and I couldn’t deny how secure it would feel if Margit was the one watching over it. She was the type to succeed at everything she did, leaving no need for worry. Though her kind of arachne didn’t build nests, I had no doubt she could fashion one most comfortably.

“Well? What do you think of a homely me?”

I thought for a moment and said, “It’d be nice. Nice, but...”

“But?” she cooed with a wily tilt of the head.

Here was yet more proof that I’d been made without the capacity to resist her. If I ever began finding joy in letting her have her way, it was over for me.

“But I bet my back would get really chilly.”

I raised my arms in surrender and coughed up the truth. In return, I heard a little snicker. Neither the sound of a tray being set down nor that of a flapping apron followed before I felt a faint warmth on my back.

Cozier than any mantle, this partner of mine was a treasure more precious than the sturdiest home. Her warmth was enough to make beds out of grass and pillows out of stone; with her, I could brave storms of arrows and whirlwinds of blades.

“Then I’ll be sure to keep you warm. As captivating as the idea might be, I’m sure the kitchen would bore me in two days’ time.”

“Are you sure you don’t mean half a day?”

“Oh? You should know better than to call a huntress impatient.”

Her hand slipped forward to pinch at my cheek, and I obliged without a fight.

Ah, this is so much fun. Adventures were great, but the easygoing day-to-day in between was wonderful too.

But if I can have it my way...next time will be a campaign worthy of a saga, I thought as I listened to the minstrel sing. His voice reverberated into the afternoon, and all I could dream about was what kind of grand tale Mister Fidelio had gone on—but that would have to wait.

For the hero would not be around to regale us until he and his wife walked bashfully down the steps around noon of the next day.

[Tips] Troubadours are keepers of stories who spread tales through song and instrument. Their melodies are proudly passed down to keep ancient accomplishments alive: in this way, they can be said to be both an adventurer’s first fan and final companion.