Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 8 - Chapter 4

Ending

Ending

Looking at one’s character sheet is a fun pursuit in and of itself, but hearing a story retold brings its own pleasures. There are even GMs who put their own spin on your story through the mouthpiece of an NPC or two.

The joy of winter giving way to spring is universal.

Perhaps this year the Harvest Goddess’s slumber was short and the Sun God’s mood was blissful, for the frost thawed earlier than usual—the temperature was mild and the weather clement.

For children, who had spent months cooped up inside with nothing but pickled food to sate their stomachs, the excitement of being able to play outside was second to none. Adults shook off the cobwebs as they removed their clothes’ winter padding and limbered up to return to the fields.

Before work was to begin, however, the spring festival had to be held. Konigstuhl lit up with energy as caravans arrived, and one household in particular received a letter from a certain adventuring member of the family.

“Oho, it’s from Erich!”

The new head of the family, Heinz, received the letter and happily opened it before the post from other relatives.

“Gather ’round, everyone—news from Erich!”

“From unka?!”

Almost immediately a ball of energy lunged at his waist—it was his little boy Herman, just on the cusp of his sixth birthday.

Herman loved his Uncle Erich and treasured the glowing staff that he had received from him two years ago—even if it had gotten a bit battered. The young boy was sad that periodic letters were the only link to his uncle, but his admiration burned just as strong as ever. Despite the distance between them, the fire under him didn’t have time to go out when there was sure to be another exciting adventure within the letter.

“Hurry up and read it, dada!”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t get overexcited now! Let’s wait till everyone’s here.”

At Heinz’s calls, the rest of the family gathered, excited to hear what Erich was up to. Reading the beautiful handwriting upon reams of fine paper, Heinz emulated his little brother’s voice as he read it out to everyone.

“Ahem... Greetings, everyone back in Konigstuhl. I suppose work in the fields will have already begun by the time you receive this letter. Or maybe the frosts are just thawing and you are all preparing for the busy year ahead. It’s hard to tell when this letter will reach you, so I’m unsure just how to greet you.”

The beginning of the letter seemed formal, but it was simply the boilerplate polite opener for most educated folks’ letters. Next came the expected greetings, asking if everyone was well, and then a recapitulation of the various adventures he had experienced, written in the humblest tone he could manage.

In the two years since Erich had come and gone from Konigstuhl, he had sent a number of letters. Over the years, some particular episodes that Heinz had read to the family covered Erich’s tough time getting caught up with a bandit army while defending a caravan, or when he had spent two months stuck in a cave on a quest. Despite the breadth of escapades the letters encompassed, all the details were rather muted.

This letter detailed the misdeeds of a local strongarm in the countryside and how he and his fellows had come up with a scheme to deal with the ne’er-do-well. With only letters to go on, it was difficult to tell what parts were conveyed truthfully and which had been embellished somewhat. This was partially intentional on Erich’s behalf. He had an inkling that a certain surprise might make its way to his hometown one of these days, and had decided to only give his family the barest details.

All the same, these letters were important to his family back in Konigstuhl. It was difficult for farmers to imagine what becoming an adventurer really entailed. It was difficult to visualize fighting off bandits or living in a city where crime could lurk on every corner, let alone a cave so large you could lose even one month in it.

Herman had gotten in a number of fights with some of the local kids because they deemed his uncle’s adventures all fibs. Only Lambert and the other members of the Watch could respond with the knowing smile and nod the tales deserved.

“Unka’s amazing!”

“My little brother... Sorry, Erich sure is.”

Although his oldest son was puffing with excitement at hearing the latest news in Erich’s life, Heinz’s other children—his daughter, second son, and newly arrived third son—were yet too young to understand. As Herman immediately related the letter to them—he had memorized every single one of Erich’s adventures thus far—Heinz inwardly smiled at his eldest’s amazing memory.

“Erich’s left us a bit of money again. The postscript says...use it for diapers for our youngest? Does he want us to make him silk diapers or something?”

“Again? Oh, what a dear he is.”

Enclosed was a signed form approved by the merchants’ artisan union. It was a widely accepted token that could be exchanged for money, and as Heinz read the slip he noticed that it contained the absurd amount of three drachmae. This was a year’s earnings for a regular, small-time farming family. This wasn’t the first time Erich had sent money back home, and every time it seemed to be proof that his stories weren’t lies. Each time, Heinz and his family reeled at it.

Erich had been sending money back since his days as an apprentice in the capital, despite apparently not having a salary of his own. The fact that these payments continued meant that he must have been doing well in his new adventuring career.

Filled with awe at his younger brother, Heinz and his wife gratefully accepted the gift. After all, Heinz could practically see what would happen if they tried to send it back—another reply would come back before long where Erich’s usually placid tone would be laced with frustration and a slip containing double the previous amount would be enclosed. Heinz had learned this the hard way.

“What sort of jobs would allow him to earn this much?”

“Hmm... Back in the old days, I managed to build this house after felling a general, but I don’t know what the going rates for adventurers are.”

Hanna and Johannes had moved to a smaller building to allow Heinz and his growing family to use the family house’s space. Having come to visit to hear about their son’s recent news, they too were amazed by the sum sent back. Although they had sent Erich off with smiles, it was clear that their son must have been getting into all manner of dangerous situations. They were happy to hear of his successes, but anxiety was a constant in between each letter.

“Although,” Heinz murmured, “at this rate it’s looking like all of our kids are going to have their own clothes for their weddings.”

“It looks like it. I know, I’ll use silk for our little girl.”

As the young couple scratched their heads at this happy but slightly worrying amount, a bell rang in the distance. That bell only rang for two reasons, and the sound wasn’t panicked enough to indicate an inbound threat—no, a bard had come to town. It looked like the caravans had brought with them a story for the canton to hear.

“Yay! The poet!”

Herman’s eyes lit up and he dashed over to his grandfather, urging him to take him to hear the story.

“All right then,” Johannes said with a smile. He hoisted his grandson onto his shoulders, his excitement rivaling the young boy’s. Along with Heinz, they set off to leave, and the women merely sighed before reminding them to tip the bard.

“I wonder if there’ll be a new story?” Herman said.

“Probably,” Heinz replied with a smile. “Although I wouldn’t mind hearing ‘Jeremias and the Holy Blade’ again.”

“You really never change, do you,” Johannes laughed. The procession eventually reached the caravans’ various stalls. The poet was tuning his six-stringed lute as they arrived.

“Aw man, looks like we won’t get any ‘Jeremias’ songs today...”

“Sorry, dada.”

“I doubt we’ll hear any epics today either.”

Each poet had their own preferred instrument, but genre also affected the accompaniment. If you listened to enough tales, you could work out what kind of story you were to hear before it had even begun. The lute often accompanied more gentle, pastoral stories which had a lot of heart to them, but also energetic scenes of excitement to rouse the audience. Jeremias’s stories were a bit more sonorous and heroic, so they were hardly ever accompanied by a lute.

One could often tell the extent of a poet’s skill from their tuning. Johannes and his family had a long history of watching poets, so they could easily tell that this one was still relatively new to the game. All the same, they wouldn’t turn down a valuable source of entertainment out here in the countryside. They were dubious that the performance would be up to scratch, but Heinz and Johannes paid an assarius apiece before it began as a show of goodwill. Who knew—if it surprised them, they wouldn’t mind tossing a few more coins into the poet’s hat afterward.

The poet coughed to gather everyone’s attention once a sizable enough crowd had gathered.

“Greetings, one and all. I come to you today with a story that I doubt has graced the ears of any present today—a tale of a new hero!”

This kind of introductory spiel was to be expected; it was another opportunity to gauge a poet’s talent. The same tale in two poets’ hands would inevitably come across differently, regardless of the consistency of the story beats, and this preshow speech helped the audience get a read on their performer’s character.

“Our scene unfolds in the lands in the distant west—a city in the reaches of the Empire called Marsheim. In this melting pot of cultures and people, our story revolves around a young and gallant swordsman.”

The lute rang out with a pleasant tone. This one began with quite a subdued atmosphere to allow the audience to get to know the hero—it was typical fare for a tale with an unproven protagonist.

“O, see how his long golden hair shakes in the wind! Its resplendent sun-kissed glow, like a crown atop his head! The striking sight of his dazzling golden locks earned this dashing young adventurer his sobriquet—Hark! Engrave his name into your hearts!”

The audience were somewhat nonplussed. Heroes were often identified by the splendor of their weapon, the strength of their armor, or the astonishing sight of their builds—but for a story to focus on a hero’s hair? It was usually the heroine of a tale who was praised on their looks instead of their bravery.

“The swordsman’s name...is Erich! Open your ears for a tale of Goldilocks Erich!”

The silent audience erupted in joyful cheers. There were few in the canton who hadn’t heard of Erich—whether that be personally, from seeing his golden crop of hair, or hearing the rumors of his quest for fame and fortune.

“H-Hold on a second—did I bungle my lines?! I haven’t even begun the actual story!”

Shock creased the poet’s face. There were probably only a few people in this world who could keep going after such a surprising turn. He almost dropped his lute in disbelief before someone in the crowd called out, “Calm down, guys! We don’t have proof it’s him, do we?”

“E-Excuse me?” the poet flustered. “What do you mean?”

“Forget it. Sorry Mister Poet, carry on!”

Apologies rippled through the crowd and the poet attempted to regain his composure before returning to his song.

The poet began his tale by illustrating the villain of the tale—the more terrifying the villain, the more satisfying it was when the hero struck them down. The antipode the poet had chosen to single out was a fearsome foe, the cardinal traitor-among-traitors, the Infernal Knight himself.

“Hear the name of Jonas Baltlinden. A slimy, conniving knight was he—a tyrant, a despot, a foul creature. Once the knight to a baron, his master dismissed Jonas from his station, his misdeeds too grave to bear another day. But what did Jonas do? Leave in the good graces of his master? Nay! He slew the baron and all his family in cold blood! Yet the foul fiend’s bloodlust, yet unsated, swallowed up a hundred innocents in the space of two nights! What cruelty—what villainy! As a cold sun rose, the Infernal Knight began his personal crusade of tyranny with fifteen loyal knights!”

Jonas’s own backstory had a sprinkling of artistic license, but no one in the crowd knew, nor did they mind. Despite the fudged numbers, the poet went on to describe Jonas’s rampage through the region, his growing strength, and his murders of local patrols. His tyranny reached a point where he started to demand tribute in women, crops, and coin from the cantons. He and his men didn’t balk at assaulting caravans and robbing them of their lives and goods.

Jonas’s villainy and impertinence in the face of the Empire brought down an incredible fifty drachmae bounty on his head. Drawn in by the allure of riches, many brave adventurers and mercenaries set forth to take on Jonas; even the margrave had mobilized his own personal army against the man. However, each and every attempt was batted away. One night, the Tyrant’s men approached Marsheim and sent the heads of the victims flying over the walls and into the city.

Despite the poet’s as of yet unpolished skills, Jonas’s unending misdeeds sent a shiver down the spines of everyone in the audience. They all wondered what would happen to them if such a menace approached their own canton. Of course they had the Watch, but they weren’t invincible. Murmurs began to circulate; if one Imperial knight could go so bad so quickly, what would become of them if another in their own region did the same?

The poet’s story began to approach its turning point. The army of the Infernal Knight waited on the roads and brazenly raised his banner—a show of confidence that he could lay waste to any caravan. As it grew ever more bloodstained, Jonas’s infamy rose—but never outstripped his true might. His mighty war hammer crushed an endless parade of foes on the field of battle. Merchants who saw the banner ran and left their goods at the earliest opportunity. After all, they reasoned that being allowed the disgrace of running away was far more preferable to a painful death.

“And so the Infernal Knight thrived in his villainy. Yet, one day brought with it the winds of change. Pray tell—was it the caravans laden with annual tax who were to fall that autumn day? No! That day Baltlinden’s place on the wheel of fortune did turn!”

The caravans had with them a noble warrior who had achieved high renown and two epithets already. He was a gallant nemea who had quashed an incursion from the south. This capable adventurer had revived the morale of the panic-stricken caravan.

“The brave hero charged into battle with a mighty roar! He hoisted high his famed weapon above his head—a grand halberd, forged for a giant’s hand—as he faced the Infernal Knight with a smile. The caravans sat with bated breath as they waited for their hero to save them. But the battle ran short—their weapons clashed only three times! Crash! Crash! Crash! With a might that no average mensch could hope to achieve, Jonas smote the poor nemea on the pate and crushed it like a melon half spoiled in the high summer sun.”

Screams rose up from the crowd. A hero’s tale needed a grisly turn or two, but it was still quite something to hear of death in such graphic detail. This story had the power to fire up the crowd despite the poet’s unrefined talents, so the original scribe must have been quite talented.

“The Traitor breathed deep the stench of blood, and a smile broke out across his gore-streaked face. With a cry, he bade his men cut down every last survivor! His men, blood starved, rushed their prey with the joy of wolves upon babes in the wood. Jonas’s front line charged with spears in hand, their armor thick with filth, foul smiles on their lips. ‘O gods!’ the caravan cried, for it was all they could do but wait for death.”

The poet paused here for a moment. Heroic sagas were divided into parts—this was not only to help preserve the performer’s voice, but also to make sure crowds would return to find out what happened next. Leaving his audience on a cliff-hanger was a tried and tested strategy to make sure they came back for more.

This story was in three parts. The first laid the foundations and detailed Jonas’s attack. The second part detailed Goldilocks’s assault on Jonas to avenge the nemea. And finally, the third part outlined Goldilocks’s other feats and got the audience to be interested in what new adventures might be still to come. The poet had been planning to wrap things up here for the day, but the glares from the audience practically shouted that they would rip him to shreds if he stopped now. The poet’s throat was still holding up, so he decided to press on. He had been performing for thirty minutes, so his throat was a little parched, but it was preferable to the daggers being stared at him.

“Though all mortal recourse seemed far away, the gods had not abandoned them. Whoosh! A bolt came keening, ripping through the evening air! Just as hope seemed lost, this golden missile tore the infernal tyrant’s war banner to ribbons!”

The plaintive strums of the lute transitioned into a quicker, higher-pitched melody to stir up the blood. It was a passage that might cause its player a few blisters, but the poet put it out of his mind as he continued the tale.

“Bear witness! His golden figure atop his obsidian steed! Here stood Marsheim’s hero, the bolt-slinger, the flag-breaker—his name: Erich of Konigstuhl!”

The poet’s tale was forced to a halt once more, drowned out by the entire crowd’s thrilled cheers.

[Tips] Poets break up their stories into parts to maintain their voices and to make sure they get return visitors. However, it isn’t rare for a poet to make cuts and adjustments to a story to fit it into one sitting.

What on earth is going on? the poet thought to himself as a cold sweat broke out across his brow.

The poet was a typical member of his ilk—having joined a traveling caravan, he spent the days doing odd chores to earn his keep so that he could perform in the cantons that they stopped at. He had a name, but that meant little if few knew it.

He was a young mensch who, if he was honest with himself, knew too well that his craft was still a work in progress; as of yet he had few stories he could whip out at the drop of a hat. He dreamed of the day when he could manage a solo performance at a theater booked solid by an audience eager to see him.

The poet just couldn’t fathom why a story he had picked up working the western arm of his circuit—added to his repertoire on a whim, just because he liked a few turns of phrase—had garnered this much interest.

Now, in a canton whose name he hadn’t even bothered to learn, he’d found the rapt crowd he’d fantasized about. Since starting the performance, whispers had been shared and the remaining seats had steadily filled up. Now the stragglers were bustling about trying to get a good standing spot to listen to the tale. He wouldn’t be surprised if the whole canton had come down for it. They evidently weren’t here just to kill time. Drinks and food were being passed around—some of the more youthful men had slipped some money to the priest for more booze; the atmosphere was turning downright festive.

Never in his wildest dreams had the poet imagined that his dream would come so soon and so suddenly. His ideal vision of the future was all his friends and family back home finally realizing he did have talent and renting out the local theater just for him. But this? This puzzling situation where he felt like a prisoner atop the stage? What could he do to allay his worries and just enjoy the moment?

As soon as he had announced the name of this tale’s hero—Erich of Konigstuhl—he’d had to put the whole performance on pause as the crowd cried out for confirmation; are you pulling my leg? When the poet announced all he knew about the golden-haired young hero—his azure eyes, simple spread of equipment, and small, wiry stature—cheers erupted that it must be the same Erich. His story stayed on hold a little longer as people scrambled to fetch more chairs. Crowds at shows grew and shrunk like the tide, but his own crowd seemed to be continually on the rise. He hoped the stall owners who had lost valuable customers wouldn’t bay for his blood later...

The poet could never have foreseen such an occurrence. This canton wasn’t particularly special; it was only now that he realized that he had managed to stumble into this very hero’s hometown! For someone who was used to relatively lukewarm receptions out on the road, he hadn’t expected to have found such a fervor so soon. The cantons came and went with such frequency that it was easier to just let the details of them slip through his fingers like water. Of course, he would bring out the more famous tales if he was visiting an area with a known local favorite, but Erich was only a fresh-faced new adventurer.

The sight before him was like a gift from the gods. The village head had slipped a libra into his palm and begged him to perform the tale in full. Of course, he couldn’t say no—whether due to excitement at this direct payment or the look in the head’s eyes. Still a fledgling to his craft, all he could do was nod like a well-trained bird.

“Now then—I believe we’re ready to hear the rest of the tale,” the village head said with a tankard in hand, his voice carrying over the crowd. The poet nodded and picked up his lute with trembling fingers. The village head was sitting in the front row next to a young man who was clearly enjoying the story too. They’re evidently close, but don’t look alike at all. Maybe the village head adopted him? ...Oh, forget that now! I’ve got a job to do! The poet shook his head and regained his composure. A gig was a gig. He needed to pull out all the stops and impress his crowd. Even if his dream had come about unexpectedly early, that didn’t change what needed to be done.

The poet flexed his fingers and repositioned them on his lute. Before he struck up the tune again, he made a silent prayer to the God of Music.

O revered one... Should I perform this song well enough to please You, I merely wish for my name to be spread far and wide... 

The gods are as ever a capricious sort and won’t save someone merely because they prayed for it. The poet knew full well that this show was but a trial that he had to overcome with his own ability.

“Thank you. Now then, prithee allow me to resume the tale of the young adventurer Goldilocks Erich!”

“All right, finally!”

In truth, the poet himself didn’t know that much about Erich or the history of this story. All he knew was that the tale was penned by one of Marsheim’s finest poets, entered circulation around a year ago, and had only grown in popularity. Apparently the incident that the story was based on had happened just over two years ago.

For a society that hadn’t yet developed telecommunications infrastructure, this was about the expected time frame for a story from the reaches of the Empire to reach somewhere like Konigstuhl. In Marsheim, the tales of Erich might have already piled up into a proper anthology, but the poet only knew this one episode. After all, he had learned it secondhand from another poet. Inwardly the poet was praying they wouldn’t ask him to perform any of Erich’s other tales. He pushed these worries down and returned to his show.

As soon as he said the hero’s name, the crowd erupted with joyous cries of “There he is!” and “You’re the finest poet to reach Konigstuhl!” along with smatterings of applause. It was time for the poet to stop worrying and focus on the joy that came from an engaged audience.

“Young Erich was as high noon to the foul knight’s midnight, a slight fellow nigh swallowed in the traitor’s doughty, lumbering shadow. However, with his sword drawn and held high, he appealed to the battle-weary folk at hand. He stoked a fire in their hearts with a simple ease. O, listen to his chiming voice! O, see his valiant stature, undeterred by evil! None could dare fault his stout heart!”

“Unka’s awesome!” squealed a young boy in the front row, a few seats along from the village head. From his tightly clenched little fists, the poet surmised he was a relative of Goldilocks Erich. The poet was struck again by the serendipity of this whole affair.

“Erich cried out! ‘Let not your hearts be broken! Think of your families in your homelands! Leave your despair for your grave! Anyone still with fight in their hearts—to the fray!’”

These lines seemed more fitting to a war epic than a heroic saga, the poet had thought, but it fit the story well—it fit an adventurer who had taken the burden of stepping to the front line and saving those who had lost all will to fight. And so the tale came to the battle—the furious Infernal Knight, red with rage at such a grave insult to his banner, charged forth.

Atop his own mighty steed, the evil Jonas charged toward Erich, crushing the corpse of the brave nemea in his wake. It was the recommencement of a one-on-one duel.

“A mighty crash—a clangor to shake even the heavens! Erich’s sword swung to meet with the Traitor’s mammoth maul! Harken to Schutzwolfe; hear its howl, witness its mighty bite! A sword of justice that would protect his allies and bring an end to evil!”

At these words a man in his twenties smacked the shoulder of an older man—possibly his father?—sitting next to him. The excitement creasing both of their faces seemed to be more from the name of Erich’s sword than anything else...

“Blow met mighty blow! The two knights traded strikes, neither quick to fold! But Goldilocks was swift as the wind—the dreaded war hammer struck above and then below and sparks flew as Schutzwolfe lithely parried each and every blow. Until—the moment had come! Goldilocks’s blade reached Jonas! A hefty strike—the Infernal Knight’s helmet cracked and spun away! Yet the Reprobate clung on tenaciously—unwilling to be bested!”

The audience were all cheers and whoops, but in truth, the poet didn’t really understand this part. Wouldn’t a small mensch like Erich be crushed under the might that had defeated a nemea? He started to think that this equestrian battle might have been a later addition made to punch up a bit that would have been a bit anticlimactic otherwise...

“But Jonas’s mighty swings were nothing in the face of our young hero! Filled with rage at Jonas’s tenacity, Goldilocks—heed!—flew from his steed, catching Jonas in the ribs with a thunderous kick! Crash! The Reprobate tumbled to the cold earth! All he could do was look up at Goldilocks as he deftly returned to his own steed!”

This scene too seemed utterly inhuman, but a poet was a peddler of dreams. If a story said that a young man easily leaped from his stirrups to unhorse a knight clad in plate off his horse in one smooth moment, and the audience was eating it up, what point was there in questioning it?

Despite losing the horseback battle, Jonas refused to yield. His soldiers were fazed momentarily at this impossible sight, but he barked orders at them to once more take up the fight. They regained their composure instantly and set about to protect their master, standing in Goldilocks’s way.

“Seeking to protect their master, the Infernal Knight’s bowmen nocked their arrows at Erich. Did he falter? No! Goldilocks was not fazed in the slightest. For the evil arrows were not to reach him—Hark! Goldilocks’s brother-in-arms emerged from the shadows in the hills to strike down the horde!”

Goldilocks had formed an alliance with an ally he’d been on the job with. Goldilocks had foreseen Jonas’s tenacity in the face of his inevitable defeat and had warned him that the Infernal Knight would never drop his weapon in surrender. The plan had been to achieve a true and incontestable victory.

“Yes, from the trees, atop a steed—the brother of our hero’s own beloved horse—was Goldilocks’s brother-in-arms: Siegfried the Lucky! However, Siegfried had not answered the call of Goldilocks’s pledge alone! Astride the horse was a deadly archer—a chestnut-haired arachne, Margit the Silent!”

More squeals erupted, but this time from a small section of his female audience. Squinting over, the poet could see some girls holding hands as they squealed and a gaudily dressed arachne woman cheering as she hung onto a thin mensch man. So this “Margit” is also local, then, the poet quickly realized.

“Siegfried’s blade shone, his fellowship with Goldilocks as tough as his courage, and in an instant struck down the foul fiend’s foolish followers! Even the cowardly rabble who turned their backs on their evil master were spared no punishment for their years of misdeeds, as the eagle-eyed archer pierced them through with arrows that flew at blinding speed!”

The story was reaching its peak. With Siegfried and Margit laying waste to Jonas’s supporters, further aid came from behind the front lines of their fellow bodyguards.

“However, the evil army still outnumbered the troop. As they surged upon a fearful troop of caravan protectors, a single bottle came hurtling over their heads! ’Twas a beacon of courage and a fearsome weapon in its own might—a protective missile launched by the Merciful Sapling Kaya! A fine herbalist and another from Goldilocks’s party of stalwart allies, she had concocted a potent and vital potion. Boom! A mist sprang from the broken shards; her foes twisted and writhed with fear, their very sight robbed from them! With thud after thud, the vicious vanguard fell from their steeds, their weapons worming from their grasp!”

The poet had heard that her potion would pulverize the eyes and noses of any caught in its blast radius. It was a terrible attack, more vicious than a sword in many ways. He was a bit confused as to why her epithet made her out to be “merciful,” but his crowd was still all in, so he put this aside as well.

“With his allies leading the charge, Goldilocks called out to his fellows. ‘My friends, gathered and bound by the blade! One last push, and the day shall be done! Now is the time for wild hearts! Now is the time to buy your neighbors and your kinfolk all their restful nights to come—pay for them in blood if you must!’ If you could only have heard the deafening roar as a legion of adventurers shouted in fellowship with Goldilocks; their cries rang out past the horizon! The quake of their footfalls! The gleam of their weapons! The surety that the next dawn would shine down on a world that much the better!”

And so, Goldilocks rekindled the fight in the hearts of the fear-stricken warriors as they turned the tables on the battle. Frightened horses bucked their knights and brave warriors struck them down. Their protestations came too late and fell on deaf ears.

Their formation had been foiled.

However, these were foul bandits, preferring death over surrender. While Goldilocks had been rallying his troops, the Reprobate began his final struggle. It didn’t matter to him how many foolish weaklings there were—all he had to do was crush their new figurehead.

Sensing his disadvantage on horseback, or wishing to keep his beloved steed safe, Goldilocks leaped from his horse and took the battle to the ground.

“Despite the setbacks of battle, the Infernal Knight’s strength remained unchanged! His mighty hammer sent whirlwinds through the air, cracks through the earth, and a deafening cry into the ears of all present! It was a hateful thing, pulverizing any and all that stood in its way!”

A mighty foe must remain strong right until the end—a story isn’t exciting if the underdog is completely unchallenged. In a burst of excitement, the bard plucked a presto melody, his own fingers burning under the strain. He could feel his nails straining, but he could not dare dampen his audience’s excitement now of all times.

What was a nail or two for a cheering crowd and the God of Music?

“It mattered not that the mighty Jonas Baltlinden stood before him once again; Goldilocks had one final trick hidden away! He drew Schutzwolfe, readied his shield, and stood his ground! Not an ounce of fear could be seen in the easy smirk upon his lips! What could a mere blunt instrument do in the face of a brave warrior who did not blanch even in the face of death?!”

To a rank pacifist, the image of this young warrior in light armor swiftly evading each heavy blow by the skin of his teeth would seem truly and utterly absurd. People put on heavy, layered armor and took up mighty weapons as insulation against their fear of death. They prayed to their gods for protection and relied on magical barriers to defend them.

But this young hero had cast all of that aside and ignored everything else in his way, all for the sake of securing the felling blow. His leather armor didn’t seem as if it would stop even the weakest sword slash, the slowest arrow, the smallest piece of shrapnel, and yet he charged forward, shielded, it seemed, by his pure confidence.

This was the image of a hero to some, but a madman to others. Only at battle’s end could a verdict be drawn.

All right then, now’s the moment, the poet thought. He readied himself for the hardest bit of the song.

Amid cheers and jubilation...the music stopped.

And then, after a few beats of silence, a vicious strum announced the peak! What followed next was a deft, dazzling passage that seemed as if it had been penned in challenge to any performer who dared to take it up. And yet, despite its difficulty, this time the poet performed it all without missing a beat. He knew just how uncool it would be to mess up the highlight of the story.

“It was the flash of a blade before a whirlwind! The splitting sound of torn armor! The spitting image of martial valor as a single sword strike lays waste to a storm! And, o, behold! A crimson fountain—the wicked man’s wicked hand lopped from his arm, never to be raised against another again!”

This was the moment that stood as the absolute peak of the tale: where the valiant hero defeats the evil villain. Delighted cheers resounded, drinks flowed, and tankards clashed together as everyone present celebrated!

“Look at his pitiful figure—the Infernal Knight crumbling to the ground in pain! Goldilocks tucked Schutzwolfe’s edge under the villain’s throat and proclaimed to Jonas and the crowd: ‘I will not satisfy you with a swift death! You shall walk the long road to your trial, and pay for your innumerable sins against your countrymen!’ This was his tale—let us proclaim his name! The name of this brave hero who laid waste to the Infernal Knight, terror of the reaches of our fair Empire!”

Usually the poet would cheer Erich’s name before the crowd—a way of solidifying the new hero’s name in the minds of the public—but Konigstuhl needed no prompting. Yes, the poet had never had a performance like this before. At first he had been nervous, performing purely in response to the pressure of the crowd, but now he felt the rush of joy. Even the sting in his fingertips and ruined nails felt satisfying.

The poet let go of that dream of performing at his hometown—it wouldn’t matter if he could continue to please future audiences as he had done today.

But...he was at a bit of a loss. He couldn’t finish up his tale unless they stopped cheering and shouting for Erich. As he vamped the victory riff over and over, he wondered how best to calm the excited audience...

[Tips] Audience participation isn’t usually expected from performances in the Empire.