《Polyrhythm Time -- A Bard's Tail》1.8-Bigger Stick
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“Seriously, Mr. P? That was some messed up shit, man. Crazy monkeys. Blood. Ripped my pants. Almost got my junk. Monkey parts on my drum. Healing magic. Is this going to happen often?”
“You did not seem to be taking seriously the danger to your life that this new dimension represented. I calculated that there was about a 80% chance you’d succeed, and a 20% chance you’d die. Provided you succeeded, you have a better than 70% chance of actually adapting to this world and surviving the first 100 days.
“Dude, you gave me three to one on learning vs. dying. Not cool."
“Almost. Fourteen to five. It’s the best opportunity you are likely to have in the next 3 weeks. Also, you may have noticed that the monkey was worth 400 times the thaums that the nuts were. A little bit of hunting could get you a lot of benefit."
“Ok, Mr. Evil, what can I afford now?”
“After buying your drum set and the first aid kit, you had 95 thaums. However, your battle with the monkey netted you 30 additional thaums.”
“Do all plants talk this much? Or just the evil ones? One and a Q. Knew that. What can I buy? How much are sticks. Like Kali or Escrima sticks. I used to use sticks like that on a Taiko. And there’s a whole fighting technique with them. Gotta have something heavy I can swing with. And a big Taiko to go with. Has to be able to be hit with the sticks."
“You nearly died 10 minutes ago, and you want more drums?”
“Dude. It’s part of my practice plan. How much?"
“3 R-thaums for a set of sticks."
“Okay. Need more. I need a Taiko drum set. Like 10 of ‘em. Laid out over here. All big. High here, low here. Can you hang one up above, facing down? There and there and there and there. How much now?"
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“8 more R-thaums. Are you setting up a drum set as a combat training course?"
“Dude...I'm a drummer. If I need to fight, I'm gonna be a fighting drummer. Follow your strengths, man."
“As you wish."
I skitter back as 10 giant Taiko drums fade into existence near me. And the sticks on the floor. There’s 10 of them too. Heavy wood, maybe a pound each and about 2, 2.5 feet long.
“Hey, Green Machine. Are there any more monkeys coming soon?"
“I am required to bring another test to you in another week."
“Groovy. Time to practice. Wait. Hey, G-man. What else can I buy?"
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“Hello! My humble audience! I, the Bard of the North, am going to tell you a tale. Nothing new, nothing old. A story of a hero, some may say, others a poor boy who was hated by the world.” The storyteller paused as he waited, right timing was everything when telling a story. Pacing… Too slow and the audience became bored then left without tossing even the smallest of coins. If he spoke too fast and rushed the story. It would leave the audience confused and having no reason to be impressed. So like any good storyteller, the Bard has to do a balancing act of sorts. Not too slow, not too fast. Just perfectly in the middle. “In a shattered country in the south, a novice princeling has the ambition to mend a torn tapestry that is his birthplace. Struggling to fend off those who would usurp the throne in an unending civil war spanning centuries. A mercenary that left only death in his wake, unable to stave off the monotony and peace of life. He looks back at the path laden with bodies, wondering if it was all worth it. Wandering souls summoned by a madman, travel away from a wasteland in a foreign land, the first alone, the others as companions. A deity, ancient in her years, waiting to be freed from a duty she no longer enjoys. For all these people and their stories, none are the hero of this tale. No, the hero is not grand, not wise, not ready.. he was punished for nothing of his doing, who was an outcast that was unloved by many, including his father.” This was always the big reveal novices use to jump off into their story. He did not start here, instead, like any good fishermen, he set the bait and waited until the fish bit before pulling. As he saw the audience's eyes focus, he then started the backstory. The harness, that stopped the listeners from having metaphorical whiplash. The foreshadowing. “But that is not where the story starts. No, not even the hero's birth. Where the story begins, is the boredom of the deity, a deity many know of. She who hunts for the impossible, the guide for those who have lost the path, the Huntress of Mallon--” A small pause, a short breath. “--All old names for a single powerful being that has roamed the grounds of this continent longer than any line of kings or queens, lords or ladies. A being of worship for many an individual…” One last breath. And he began singing the first verse.
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