I would cast Repel Maiden upon thee, but it seems another wizard beat me to it.-- Anon Guest
Bards have... a gift of sorts. Their words and music are so well-practiced and well-honed that they have a magic of their own. Many have heard of the magic in a Bard's song - Inspiration. Few have heard of the opposite - Vicious Mockery - the ability to harm or kill with an insult.
It's quite the skill, to be able to read in an instant what a foe might be insecure about, and then deliver the perfect phraseology to cause lasting mental injury. If done correctly, a Bard can kill with a well-delivered word.
Too many people don't know this, and believe Bards are soft sorts who spent all their time indoors before venturing out into the wider world. They think Bards are merely there for support or to be the wing-person. They also think that Bards are thoroughgoing sex gremlins. None of these statements are true for all Bards.
Most people mistake the bright colours of Bardic Motley as advertising. It's actually a warning.
Nimblefinger had been idly strumming his lute, noodling out half a tune, when the nearby shrubbery sprouted a band of brigands. In mere seconds, his eyes ticked from tell to tell to tell. Gathering information in the split second it took to startle at their appearance.
Several of them were the kind of greasy ungroomed sort who blamed women for being repulsed by their unwashed stench. Three were aiming to lure a love life by trying to mimic the romantic bandit aesthetic. They had leaned into the pheasant feathers in their hats, and the green-dyed clothing to blend in with the forest. What they neglected was any kind of fitness or training regime.
Judging by the lack of upkeep in their weapons, this pack of twelve were single young men trying a different tactic to get a date. They likely didn't know how to win a fight and relied on numbers and intimidation to get what they wanted.
Nimblefinger had his lute, a rapier, and a small brace of darts imbued with a potion of slumber. It might actually be a fair fight.
"Give us all yer gold, pansy," threatened the greasiest of the dozen.
It was not going to be fair. In Nimblefinger's favour. He strummed out a lively tune to give himself fleeter feet and an even more nimble way of moving. "Hold you greasy villains/ before you dare attack/ I'd curse your vilest forms/ to shun the maidens that you lack/ I advise you strictly/ turn aside ye from this path/ and gain yourself a lady fair... by taking a good bath!"
All but one fell to the ground weeping in self-pity and self-hatred. Interesting.
Nimblefinger blew him a kiss and said, "I'd invite you to my bed, but I prefer something cleaner... like a mud-rutting hog."
Boom. All fall down.
Nimblefinger went back to noodling out his new song as he strolled leisurely onwards.
[Photo by Donald Wu on Unsplash]
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