Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 9 - 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.

As he pondered for the umpteenth time that day what series of events had led to his good fortune, the poet took his first sip of wine to quench his overused, parched throat—it tasted incredible.

The song he had played in full today had originally been planned to be spread out over multiple days. Not only had this medley rendered his throat red and raw, the original writer had written fiendishly difficult passages, almost as if to mock whomever might attempt to perform it, that had tested his mettle. The strings had left painful grooves in the tips of the fingers on his left hand, and a few nails on his right had begun to peel off.

He doubted that the wonderful taste of this wine came simply from the relief that came in the wake of pushing one’s body to its limits.

“Mmm, this is fantastic. My throat feels like the fields after the first rains at the end of a long drought... Perhaps I’ve won the God of Music’s favor?”

The white wine was perfectly refreshing—a sweetness remained on his lips without overstaying its welcome. The fragrance of the grapes had tickled his tongue before evaporating, the nectar-like aftertaste fading perfectly away like powder snow. It was a delicacy unfit for a poet used to scraping by on pocket change from idle chores with the caravan.

As he took another sip, he suddenly recalled the teachings of his old master: the gods reward a satisfying performance by making the first drink taste like sweet nectar. His master was a pious sort and remembered all the teachings of the old days. Each nugget of wisdom he had imparted had always seemed stuffy and outdated, and so the poet had never made an effort to retain them, but perhaps there was some truth in them after all. After all, this second sip he had just taken—chasing that ambrosial first gulp—tasted like a delicious wine; nothing more, nothing less.

“Good, right? Take it as thanks for your performance today."

The older gentleman gave an oddly generous smile as he poured another glass.

“It’s delicious. I bet Goldilocks enjoyed something equally satisfying after his own battle.”

The poet couldn’t bring himself to share the god’s bounty that he had tasted just now. The fact that this was a pleasure to him and him alone made the nectar that much sweeter. The finest future he could envision was to tell of this day, with pride in his chest, to the next generation of poets.

He glanced at his hand clasping the cup. It would probably take a while for the nails on his throbbing fingertips to heal. He would have to hold off on practicing for a while, and he doubted whether he would even be able to perform at the next canton, but that was fine when the wine tasted this good.

His satisfaction didn't end there—he felt a swelling joy in his chest that he had risen in the caravan’s estimation after stealing away the crowd. The people of Konigstuhl were in high spirits and had invited everyone in the caravan to join in the festivities.

It was as if a second spring festival had come; locals and travelers alike wore the same smiles. Exquisite dishes passed from hand to hand, and the liquor flowed free and easy. In all the depth and breadth of the Empire, there was no one within who would air a complaint at this scene.

The poet snapped out of his reverie—reflecting again on how this day was truly something unexpected—and pulled out his notepad. It was a personal thing, full of not just the lyrics and scores from other poets he had met in his travels, but also his own ideas in preparation for the day when he would pen and release his own original song. It was a tool of the trade that he valued almost as much as his own life.

After cheerfully passing him another drink that was sure to go down well, the older gentlemen clasped the poet’s hands and said with heartfelt emotion, “Thank you for delivering this tale of my son to us.”

Aha. So this man is our hero’s father—he does seem a mite too tough to be any ordinary farmer. In other words, he had a whole bunch of stories that no other poet in the world could possibly know.

Part of being a performer was using your own poetic sense and knowledge to vary up or add bits to a song and make it your own. He hadn’t yet found an audience that didn’t enjoy a taste of something personal about the hero—especially if it came from their youth.

The poet had never even met Goldilocks Erich, yet here he stood with a direct line to precious, precious source material. The caravan’s circuit would bear them out west; if he was lucky, there would be yet more to learn in the vicinity of Marsheim. This research would put his own unique footprint on the story and bring it to even greater heights. Most poets did their own “pilgrimages”—a tongue-in-cheek title for their research trips—but none had yet come to Konigstuhl. It was sure to elevate his status as a poet—practically a blessing from on high.

If things went well—a big if, mind—then he’d be able to foster a personal connection with the family of a hero from the scene’s absolute bleeding edge. What better way to embellish and lend depth to the work than with the testimony of a primary source. It was a surefire ticket to popularity with his audiences to come.

As soon as he mentioned that he wanted to hear a few tales about Erich’s childhood, a throng of eager gossips formed up around him, ready to share their personal anecdotes. They seemed unconcerned with whether or not he'd invited any given one of them to share.

Apparently, Erich was always good with his hands, and had made a whole set of ehrengarde pieces and donated them to the communal meeting room. Not only that, he had also crafted a statuette of the Harvest Goddess to be gifted to the church. Then there was the time when he had taken on dozens of foes during one of the Watch’s training sessions, his cool expression never wavering. He was a caring lad, remembered fondly by his peers and juniors alike. And so on did the stories go.

This onslaught of detail had come upon him because the people of Konighstuhl knew that he wanted something extra for future performances. One of the kids even presented a rather well-crafted toy that Erich had made during his return when he was fifteen.

"Unka’s awesome! He made this staff which, look, glows when you wave it!”

“He made me a sword too! It goes vwoom when you swing it!”

“Yeah, but look at my spear! It sticks to your back like this!”

“My turn, my turn! Look at my bow! You can shoot arrows like pew, pew, pew, but it doesn’t hurt at all!”

This is exactly what I wanted, the poet said inwardly, giving a beaming smile.

Some people didn’t like to hear about the hero's daily life, as it got in the way of the action, but they were a necessary element to flesh out the character. Heroes were beings that the masses looked up to, but it was important to sometimes show their human side. It didn’t just create a connection between the audience and the hero; it drew them into the world of the song.

If people shared their favorable impressions of a beloved hero, then he could elevate the song to an indispensable classic.

It was true that sometimes you hit upon some...less favorable elements when researching a living hero, but cherry-picking the best bits was part of a poet’s job. Fortunately for him, Erich was beloved even outside of his family, with the worst stories amounting to “He sometimes says pretentious stuff without a shred of self-awareness;” it made him an easy “character” to work with.

The poet couldn’t hold back help his laughter as the details poured in without him even asking anymore. He even began to think that it would be a waste to use these tales to simply pad out his performances. No, with this much intimate reportage, he could probably create a tale or two of his own! He could write one about Erich's childhood with a pastoral accompaniment—a sweet romance about his irreplaceable partner, Margit the Silent. That would be sure to capture the hearts of a female crowd.

The possibilities were many—from the story where he had shown his prowess with the sword and disarmed several opponents without even grazing them, the tale where he had secured an equal footing in games of foxes and geese against a natural-born huntress, and the famous incident where he saved his beloved sister.

“He fought them all off on his own?”

“You bet he did! He took down dozens of them one by one.”

"Dear, stop that! Your brother didn’t take down that many.”

Apparently when Goldilocks Erich was only twelve, he went out alone and fought off a group of bandits before they could kidnap his sister. The poet had reasoned that this story seemed a little bit exaggerated and nodded as the wife of the man the poet assumed was Erich’s older brother cut him off.

His master had also shared another kernel of wisdom: only believe eighty percent of what you hear from a hero’s family.

“They only captured about ten men,” she went on. “That means he must have taken down fewer than that. Right, Mister Lambert?”

"I think it was only five, actually. To be honest, I was surprised that he managed not to accidentally kill any at his age. There was one with a dagger stuck in his shoulder; an inch off and he would’ve been a goner.”

And yet, here was a trusty-looking fellow with a warrior’s trim, happily corroborating the most outlandish parts! No matter how much of a backbone Erich had grown from attending spartan training sessions with the Watch, it was objectively absurd for a twelve-year-old to defeat even five bandits.

“We sent a report to the magistrate; the documents should be around somewhere.”

“Oh yeah, we did get a receipt for that, didn’t we?” Erich's brother said. “I remember that noble lady paid us in advance. Generous of her. Now what was her name again?”

“Hmm, Agnes? Angelika? Something like that.”

“Wasn’t it an Imperial name? It seemed kind of Orisons-y.”

"No, no, no,” the wife said. “If it was an Orisons name it would be longer and more graceful. It was just an old-fashioned name.”

The poet wasn’t keen on prying into that side of the affair. Everyone had a story about some performer who’d lost their head for inadvertently smearing one aristocrat or another. As such, most poets with any sense wouldn’t even allude to any particular noble folk; ambiguity just spread the risk around. The sagas were so vague and spotty about who was in charge when less because of the ravages of time and the limits of mortal memory, and more because songs whose singers risk losing a few fingers in the singing tend not to stay in circulation long.

And so, the poet internally decided that his ending would be “And a noble who could use magic cleaned everything up. The end.”

“He had loads of stories when he was an apprentice too.”

“Yeah, unka wrote about alfar! He said whenever wintertime comes around, we should hold a, um...a serviss for one of them!”

This story about how he became an apprentice for a magus to save his changeling sister—something no one had written poems about—was a good way to change the subject. The poet idly listened to the children’s stories—told with gestures and lots of excited sound effects—as he interviewed Erich’s family for more details.

“Ahh, yeah. The alfar story happened not long after, when he was still twelve. He said he failed to save an alf,” his brother said. ‘‘The ink on the letter was all smudged with tears.”

“Thinking back on it now,” his father added, “I think he wanted to process what happened by putting it into words.”

Before he felt any sympathy, the poet felt a spark of joy that he would be able to really flesh out Erich's character. He sighed at himself inwardly and reflected that this was why people looked down on his trade as a cruel and low one.

The fact of the matter remained that a compassionate and loving hero was beloved in all ages. Alongside romances where a hero finds love with an incomparable beauty or one of their adventuring partners, the story of one man plucking up his courage and rising from a nobody into a hero never failed to rouse up the audience.

Feeling that this would definitely come in handy, he gleaned all he could from the family in their excitement. Despite his occupation as an adventurer, Goldilocks Erich was apparently a ready writer with skillful penmanship, and had sent letters of all kinds back home over the years. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t show the poet the actual letters. He wrote at length about things that brought him joy, and although the poet got a lot of little anecdotes that would sit well in a more encyclopedic work on the man, they would be difficult to employ into a drama in verse.

This would be where his mettle was truly tested. The poet decided that he would try his luck with boarding another traveling caravan later down the line and stay in Konigstuhl canton for a little while to pad out his cash cow.

If he didn't get more tales to pen into a song of his own, then his beloved lute would make decidedly unmusical sounds of despair. To add to it, his fingers were in no state to help his current caravan’s upcoming business. His bed and board had been paid for in chores and odd tasks, so his time and money would be better spent staying here and doing research.

However, there was something that stuck in his mind.

Goldilocks Erich was a hero who swung his sword atop a steed. The poet knew little of the way of the sword, but Erich had the head of the Watch’s own awestruck seal of approval—it must have been the real deal. This man spoke of Erich as if he were his own son; he plainly couldn't put the boy’s talent into coherent sentences.

That was all line and good, but what didn’t make sense was just how much Erich’s nephew complimented his uncle’s magical skills.

There were many adventurers in this world with the gift for magic, but the poet could not recall any scenes in the stories he’d heard of Goldilocks Erich where he’d put it to use. It didn’t make sense for someone with such an incredible asset not to leverage it against a foe worth a small fortune if returned alive. If the poet were in Erich’s shoes, he would never have been able to keep his sorcerous skill under his hat. He would have gone into that battle with every measure he had and stolen the spotlight.

After all, even in the Age of Gods, it was rare to find someone blessed in the ways of both sword and sorcery. One of the most famous cases was the wandering Sir Carsten, who had been raised from mere mortal stock by a miracle later in life, imbuing him with superhuman strength.

The world had no shortage of oddities, though. The poet dimly recalled a rumor he’d heard—it was hardly his field, so he’d never bothered to really probe into it—that certain legendary ehrengarde players would, in challenging certain opponents, declare that they would simply never move one of their key pieces and still claim a victory. Yet the field of battle was no idle board game. Short of truly unhinged stakes, such pastimes would never claim a life. So who would dare do such a thing in a real fray?

"Unka’s magic was so cool! He had this pipe, yeah, and made a ship out of the smoke that was like whoosh!”

“Ooh, yeah, I saw him do magic too! It was snowing and he was like, Take this blizzard attack!’ and sent snow flying everywhere!”

If Goldilocks Erich did, as it seemed, do such a thing in real life, then he was a veritable madman.

From the excited way these children were talking, it seemed like his magic wasn’t just a parlor trick—he was the real deal. The poet had seen smoke rings before, but never something so complicated as a smoke ship.

If that wasn’t enough, his neighbors explained how Erich had fixed their roofs or created a magical source of light in their homes to help with housework. This was no mere dabbler or hedge mage’s work.

The poet was intrigued, but was uncertain whether he should share this side of Goldilocks’s. It would paint a beautiful image to have this young man with flowing golden hair swinging his sword and unleashing mighty spells, but he couldn’t rid himself of the question of why he had chosen not to do so in his duel with Baltlindent.

It was true that songs about adventurers walked the line between fact and fiction, but they could never stray too far from the truth. If he worked the magic angle into this particular tale, people would start to question his sources.

Despite these concerns, the poet could not resist probing deeper.

“Hold on a sec! It’s unfair for you to just be listening! Don’t you have any other tales?”

“Oh yeah! You’ve been around with the caravan—you must’ve heard some rumors about him!”

"If you don't got any, then sing us another song! Your fingers look pretty beat up, but you can do it acapella, right?”

The poet had wanted to probe the crowd further as they grew yet more sloshed, but their request had floored him. It would not be understating it that the song he'd performed today was the only story he knew of Erich of Konigstuhl. He was at a loss for words and in deep trouble.

Someone called out that if he didn’t have any more songs, then he could perform something on the spot with the information he’d been penning down. The poet prayed to the God of Music once more.

As he rifled through his notepad and kneaded the various stories in his head, he found himself thinking he was still too slow, too rigid, to really be worthy of his own aspirations yet. The poet had never before performed something impromptu.

He was sure that if the subject were here, he would proclaim that he didn’t recognize this version of him in the song, as all the anecdotes were bungled together, but the poet pushed those thoughts to the side as he prepared to sing once more, his throat feeling mysteriously quenched once again.

[Tips] When poets add their own flair to a song, the performance can start to take on different forms from region to region.