The joy of spring’s arrival, following a long and boring winter, is equal for all people.
This year, the God of Fertility did not sleep in, and the Sun God seemed to be in a good mood, as the snow melted earlier than usual, and the temperatures became gently warm.
The period of staying indoors and enduring preserved salted food had ended, and the children, who hadn’t been able to play outside for quite a while and thus accumulated frustration, happily left their houses. The adults too began to move, removing the cotton from their clothes they’d long relied on, thinking it was time to put their energy into field work.
And just as everyone was about to start work, the festival began to celebrate the arrival of spring and pray for a bountiful year to the God of Fertility. Around this time, caravans would arrive, sometimes bringing cheerful news to begin their own trade.
“Wow, from Erich?”
A certain caravan delivered a grand letter with a wax seal to a farming household at Königsstuhl Manor. Addressed to the dear family, it was correspondence from the younger brother who had been adventuring for a long time.
Heinz, the current head of the family, who received the letter, happily opened it among the relatives’ seasonal greetings.
“Hey, everyone, it’s a letter from Erich!”
“From Uncle!?”
At the sound of joyful news, a small shadow charged towards him with the force of a swing, cutting into his waist. It was Herman, Heinz’s six-year-old eldest son.
As a child, Herman had only met his uncle Erich once when he had made him a shining magic wand, which, though slightly worn, was still cherished. He adored his uncle Erich, who was now far away; these days, the only connection he had with him was through the occasional stories written in the letters.
“Read it! Father, please, hurry!”
“Alright, alright, once everyone’s gathered.”
Upon hearing the news of the letter’s arrival, the household gathered in anticipation of its contents. Heinrich read aloud with great dignity, in a beautiful handwriting that looked like it could be from a professional scribe, and the letter spanned multiple pages, detailing recent updates.
“Yes, dear fellow townsfolk, by the time this letter reaches you, has the planting already been completed? Or are you still busy with preparations? The movement of caravans at this time of year is hard to predict, so I apologize for the lack of a proper greeting…”
Though lofty in its introduction, the content followed the etiquette expected of those educated in such matters, followed by the usual report of health as in other letters. Thereafter came the thrilling narratives of escorting caravans and defeating bandits, and being trapped for two months in what was supposed to be a simple cavern exploration as it unexpectedly turned into a minor dungeon.
“Wow, Uncle is amazing!”
“That’s true…my brother…no, Erich is quite something.”
Calming his son, who was excited and blushed from the letter’s contents, Heinz found that his son, still overwhelmed with excitement, began recounting his uncle’s achievements to his eldest daughter and younger brothers, one of whom was an infant. The child had memorized all the adventures recounted in previous letters, and his father secretly wondered if he might be a genius, succumbing to the folly of parental pride.
“However, the postscript says ‘use it for the youngest’s diaper expenses’…does he mean silk?”
“Ah, here we go again…,”
Attached to this modest postscript was a draft issued under the Merchants Guild, bearing the sum of three drachmas, a figure unimaginable for common folk. The couple felt less shocked by this amount, which was equivalent to the annual income of an average self-sufficient farming family, as they had gotten such extravagant remittances even when Erich was a mere servant apprentice. On the contrary, considering the daring adventures he recounted, they felt it was not unreasonable.
‘Troublesome younger brother,’ thought the couple as they graciously accepted the remittance, knowing that if they refused, it would return doubled with a note saying ‘shut up and take it.’ They had experienced this firsthand in the capital era.
“How could he earn such an amount?”
“Ah…in my prime, defeating a single bandit chief would have allowed me to build a house, but what do adventurers do these days…?”
Johannes and Hanna, who had moved into the household and now lived in semi-retirement, groaned heavily at the astonishing amount. While the adventures Erich wrote about in his letters were certainly evidence that they were not false, they also signaled that their son was engaged in incredibly dangerous endeavors. As parents, their smiles were tinged with concern as they sent him off.
“However, at this rate, we’ll be able to send all our children off with brand-new wedding outfits.”
“Indeed…perhaps we should use silk for the bride’s dress?”
The young couple, though grateful, were also troubled by this generous but somewhat perplexing gift. As they were pondering this, a bell’s sound echoed from afar. The crude ringing was not an ominous alarm but rather an announcement heralding the arrival of a bard.
Apparently, the poet traveling with the caravan would hold a recital. They attracted an audience by ringing bells beforehand, setting the stage for their performances.
“Oh, it’s a poet!”
Herman, who had been about to finish talking, his eyes brightened at the sound of the bell. He clung onto his grandfather rather than his parents, silently pleading to be taken along.
“It can’t be helped…”
Though grumbling, the grandfather lifted his grandson up. His son, warning him not to spoil the boy, announced his intention to attend the recital himself. The women sighed at the men’s behavior and tossed a few coins at them as they were chased out.
“I wonder if we’ll hear a new story?”
“Indeed. I wouldn’t mind hearing the epic saga of Jeremiah’s Divine Sword once more.”
“You’ve been obsessed with that since you were a kid…”
As they had a pleasant conversation, the procession arrived at the square where the caravan had set up temporary stalls. Fortunately, the poet, having just completed his rounds around the manor, had returned and was tuning his six-stringed lute.
“Ah, this doesn’t seem like Jeremiah’s saga…”
“What a pity, Father.”
“But this guy doesn’t seem too skilled, does he?”
While the choice of musical instrument varied among bards, the choice of instrument influenced the types of songs they performed. The six-stringed lute, while capable of producing soothing emotional compositions, was especially suited for vibrant and exciting performances that built anticipation and excitement in large crescendos. It was unsuitable for the slow and resonant storytelling of grand sagas like the Jeremiah’s Divine Sword.
Moreover, just as the choice of instrument gives an indication of a bard’s repertoire, the tuning of the instrument gave Johannes, who had heard many bards’ songs in his lifetime, an immediate sense of the bard’s relative inexperience.
However, bard or no bard, even if the performance was somewhat lackluster, a rural area with scarce entertainment saw such performances as a rare source of amusement. Even when the performance fell short of expectations, out of politeness as an audience, they threw a copper coin into the hat placed on the ground.
Once satisfied that the audience had gathered sufficiently, the bard cleared his throat and began his prelude.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let us now recite a tale that you around here might not have heard before—a story of the latest hero!”
In this introduction, known as the ‘pillow speech,’ the bard’s skill was further revealed. The tales bards delivered could vary greatly depending on the bard, and the same story could leave entirely different impressions depending on the teller. The nature of this entertainment thus deeply reflected the bard’s style even in the introductory phase.
“The stage is set far to the west, in the land’s edge known as Marsheim, a gateway to many lands and a crucible of opportunity where the story of a young and brave swordsman began to sprout.”
The gently plucked notes of the lute began quietly. The introduction seemed to set the stage for understanding the character’s background rather than diving into action immediately. This was neither an epic tale nor something entirely new; rather, it was a freshly composed poem, which often lacked the depth of traditional stories.
“Behold, such a radiant head of golden hair. Its brilliance, akin to a radiant crown under the sun, flows gracefully. Let us praise the illustrious reputation of this adventurer with a serene and valiant countenance.”
The audience thought it was peculiar that the bard chose to focus on describing hair rather than the adventurer’s valor or prowess in arms or armor. It seemed that instead of presenting the adventurer as a heroic warrior, this approach painted him more like a damsel in need of rescue.
“The name of this individual is Erich. May you please lend an ear to the tale of golden-haired Erich.”
The bard’s request for attention was shattered by a chorus of astonishment and confusion, as everyone recognized the name of a golden-haired adventurer called Erich.
“Wait, what? Am I hearing things? Isn’t this just the introduction?”
Confusion and shock reverberated, halting the bard’s hands. Indeed, to be addressed thus loudly and interrupted mid-performance would be a challenge for anyone in this world to remain composed.
The agitated manor residents caused the bard, who nearly dropped his valuable tools of trade, to falter but were eventually calmed by someone who said, “Now, now, settle down. Nothing’s yet decided.”
“Yes, yes…? What is it?”
“Well, forgive us, please continue. Come on, everyone.”
The perplexed bard, now encouraged by the gathered crowd and additional tips, gathered his composure once again to restart the song after a brief disruption.
The tale itself was quite ordinary, with no particularly noteworthy technique or artistry. In the traditional bardic style, it began by painting an image of a powerful adversary to be defeated, an antagonist so strong that the hero’s victory would naturally seem more grand and satisfying to the audience.
The villain introduced in the tale was no other than the notorious fugitive knight, Jonas Bartlinden. Dismissed from his position due to oppressive rule, this disgraced knight not only harbored resentment but also betrayed his benefactor’s grace by launching an unexpected assault on the Baron’s residence. All those present, including his family, guards, and even the servants, a total of forty-five souls, were mercilessly slaughtered in a single night. Along with the bloodthirsty criminal’s group of seven mounted riders, they fled with their heinous crimes.
They continued their reign of terror, plundering young maidens, crops, and treasures from various estates, even going so far as to slaughter imperial patrol officers. Caravans traveling the roads did not escape their fury either, meeting the same fate of robbery and death.
In response to such unspeakable acts that tarnished the empire’s image, a bounty of an astonishing fifty drachmas was set upon their heads. This immense reward attracted many famed adventurers and mercenaries, even impromptu crusades and armies set out to eliminate Jonas. None triumphed. In fact, Jonas dismissed each attempt with ruthless mockery, flinging the severed heads of his defeated foes into the city of Marsheim using slingshot.
Even the spine of the listener, though told by a less skilled narrator, turned cold at such tales. If such a villain were to approach the manor, one couldn’t help but imagine one’s own fate. Despite the manor’s diligent militia, no plan was foolproof. The strategic brilliance and raw power required to overcome imperial knights with fewer men painted a daunting picture of fear.
The wretch waited on the road, hidden beneath the dawn, for the next prize to approach. Fearlessly, when an impressive caravan arrived, the outlaw knight raised his banner. This banner—mottled with blood from the slain lords it once represented—served as both a symbol of defiance and a mockery of justice.
For an enemy like this, not only was the sight alone a formidable weapon capable of sapping an opponent’s will, but it was also an indelible mark of terror that few had the courage to challenge. Hence, many caravans succumbed to its dread, willingly surrendering their cargo in exchange for mercy rather than facing the certain doom of battle.
However, a renowned warrior with a distinguished epithet traveled amongst the caravan’s dedicated guards on this occasion—a lion-man of imposing stature from the south. With his mighty mane and fierce cry, he faced the villainous knight, his presence a testament to his own formidable martial prowess, capable of regenerating a battered guard’s morale.
Wielding a massive halberd, the lion-man advanced boldly, aiming to challenge the arrogant foe.
The clash ensued; a warhammer struck, a second blow, a third, but there was no opportunity for a fourth. The inhuman strength of the human foe sent his weapon flying, and with a force that mimicked a split watermelon, the lion-man’s head was shattered.
The cruel description elicited a stifled gasp from the manor audience. Even though, as part of the hero’s tale, a greater conflict was likely coming, the sheer horror was undeniable. Here, the story captivated the crowd beyond the bard’s own abilities, indicating that a more experienced bard had penned the original tale.
The bard hesitated, pondering. Heroic tales were usually divided into several parts, naturally restricted by the narrator’s vocal endurance, with each installment spanning days, climaxing just before a pivotal point to build suspense and secure gratuities for the next day’s recitation. This particular story was planned in three acts—act one detailed Jonas’s attack, act two detailed Jonas’s combat with golden-haired Erich, and act three would conclude with Erich’s history and aftermath. But…
“Continuing this tale until tomorrow might get me killed,” the bard sensed an eerie vibe from the enraptured crowd. With his throat still in good condition, he decided to offer a service by advancing to the second act. Though already a quarter hour into the session and slightly parched, the bard considered the alternative—the pressing hostility from the audience—preferable.
“But despair not, even the gods do not abandon those who pray earnestly. Cutting through the sky with valor, a mighty arrow flies. Breaking the desolation and forging ahead is a luminous path that pierces through the nefarious banner.” The low tones of the six-string lute began with a somber melody that gradually climbed into an heroic tone, a piece so intense finger pain was imminent. The bard played with all his might, prioritizing future gratuities and personal safety.
“Behold yonder, the brilliant golden-haired hero atop a formidable black steed, wielding a crossbow with precision, piercing the enemy’s banner and valiantly standing against tyranny. An adventurer of Marsheim, Erich of Königsstuhl Manor…”
But just as before, the bard’s efforts were drowned out by a second exclamation of astonishment…
