Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World: Volume 3 by Schuld

Author:Schuld [SCHULD]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: J-Novel Club
Published: 2022-04-04T00:00:00+00:00

[Tips] Treants are technically humanfolk, but at heart they are nearer to spirits. They boast high magical competence as a result, and use their innate ties to nature to bolster their strength.

The bathing places of the Trialist Empire were minor amusement parks, of sorts. They had beds where one could order a massage, benches where friends could sit and chat, and even small exercise areas where patrons could enjoy a bout of wrestling.

Sir Feige and I left the sauna and found a bench near the cold water bath to cool off on. Seeing him in full, the peculiarity of the treant form struck me with renewed intensity. His face and limbs looked like gnarled bark that had happened to twist into the shape of a man. Without the twinkle in his eyes, his features could be written off as the effects of pareidolia manifesting on an old bit of timber.

Silver leaves adorned his crown like a head of hair, and the derricking of his branches evoked the image of an ancient tree. In this way, treants failed to differ from mensch: his body quietly told the tale of his age.

“As I’ve gotten up in years, all the water’s left my body. I come by the bathhouse to soak my dried lumber,” he said, waving over a waterboy—vendors dealing in food and drink were common sights to extend a visitor’s stay.

“Aye, ol’ man,” the waterboy said. “Here ’gain? Y’sure don’t tire o’ the place.”

“Baths’re all’s welcome,” Sir Feige responded. “Be here till I wilt. Ah, pour me yer finest.”

The old treant was apparently acquainted with the waterboy, who dutifully poured out a cup of refreshingly tart-smelling water into a glass.

“Give ’im one too,” Sir Feige added, treating me to a cupful. A bit of citrus and bark had been steeped in the icy beverage. “Feel free to drink up. Water that follows the drowning of steam—”

“—Is sweeter still than nectar?”

I blurted out the end to the familiar poem and took a swig, letting the reinvigorating moisture soak through my dehydrated body.

“Oh?” Sir Feige stroked the gray moss on his chin like a beard. “Familiar with the classics?”

“Bernkastel, yes? The great master of prose poetry?”

The line that we’d quoted came from a pastoralist song dating back to before the foundation of the Empire. This region had a long history of arrhythmic, emotionally muscular poetry, popularized in part thanks to its transmissibility amongst the uneducated. On a night long ago in woods far away, Margit and I had played a game that had evolved from this linguistic tradition.

At one point in my youth, I’d shut myself up in my local church’s library, reading through everything I could get my hands on. Theological works were a given, but the collection amassed by several generations of bishops included many anthologies of poems that spoke to peasant sensibilities. Rural bishops were ultimately rural people, and their tastes naturally reflected this.

“Indeed,” Sir Feige confirmed. “Quite fine work. He doesn’t need to affect some rarefied dialect to achieve elegance.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.