The Bandit Leader. Face rapidly approaching the colour of an overripe tomato. Finally. Exploded. "ENOUGH OF THIS… THIS… WHINING!"
He'd seen his presumably toughest men. Reduced to blubbering, confessing wrecks. By a skeleton. With a guitar. And a bad haircut.
"What is this WITCHCRAFT?! Are you MEN or mewling KITTENS?! He's just SINGING at you!" The Leader's voice cracked with disbelief and fury.
Grabbed the nearest, largest bandit by the scruff of his greasy tunic. Grok.
"Grok! YOU! Get in there! Smash that musical menace! SMASH HIM GOOD! And if you start crying about wanting to be a goddamn interpretive dancer, or a bloody scone-baker, I'll feed you to the wolves MYSELF! Piece by piece! Starting with your ears so you can't hear yourself scream! ARE WE CLEAR?!"
Shoved Grok forward. The brute. Looked like he communicated primarily through grunts. And the application of blunt force trauma. Probably thought 'sonnet' was a type of small helmet.
Grok blinked. Small, piggy eyes. Hefted his enormous, nail-studded club.
Let out a guttural roar.
Then. By surprise. Stuck his thick, dirty fingers deep into his ears and clamped both meaty hands firmly over them, trying to create a flesh-and-bone soundproof helmet.
Enormous, nail-studded club was still clutched, now held at a bizarre angle against his arm, like a very aggressive, poorly balanced third limb.
He charged. A bellowing, surprisingly agile, fleshy battering ram whose primary weapon seemed to be in danger of smacking him in his own head with every lurch.
Thud-thud-thud-thud
Boots on the forest floor. Each step a promise of impending bludgeoning.
Linkin watched.
Oncoming avalanche of poorly-contained aggression.
Usual air of weary resignation. That, or he was just trying to remember the chords for 'Ode to a Severely Bruised Ego'.
"A ballad of heroic futility? A lament for lost innocence? Or perhaps," voice dropped. Chords strummed. Suddenly heavier.
Grinding, doom-metal intensity that vibrated the very leaves on the trees.
"A thrash metal opera. Detailing the inevitable heat death of the universe. And the ultimate meaninglessness of your temporary bravado?"
"GROK SMASH PUNY BONE MAN!" Grok roared. Voice, somewhat muted by the pressure of his hands against his skull but still carrying the full force of his limited vocabulary. Echoed weirdly.
He was trying. Really trying. Even started to hum. A tuneless, aggressive, buzzing sound, like a giant, angry bee trapped in a barrel.
Trying to create his own counter-frequency of smashing intent.
"THAT'S IT, GROK!" bellowed the Bandit Leader, a manic glint in his eye. "SING THE SONG OF SMASHING! DROWN OUT THE SAD-SACK SKELETON!"
Grok roared louder. Face contorted. Effort. Clearly trying to drown out whatever sonic misery Linkin was about to unleash.
The awkwardly held club wobbled precariously with each bellow.
Attempted to swing the club wildly in a circle as he ran, a preventative measure against any sneaky feelings that might try to accost him.
Keldric watched, morbidly fascinated. Noble effort, Grok. Truly. But I suspect your 'Song of Smashing' isn't quite going to make the top charts against an actual doom-metal-opera-of-despair.
But Linkin's music shifted. It wasn't just sound anymore. It was palpable.
A wave of heavy. Suffocating blanket of pure apathy. Mixed with a crushing sense of cosmic insignificance.
Washed over Grok like a tsunami of 'meh'.
Humming faltered. War-bellow hitched.
"Fingers in ears, a futile stand,"
Linkin's voice. No longer a mournful tenor. Replaced by a guttural, resonant bass. It seemed to vibrate Keldric's teeth. The ground itself hummed with it.
"against the dread of shifting sand! Your fleeting rage, a dying spark, lost within the endless dark!"
The music. Not just heard. Felt.
Even with his ears plugged, Grok stumbled.
Confident charge wavered.
The sheer weight of the song's oppressive atmosphere seemed to slow his limbs, to seep into his very bones.
Still trying to bellow, but it came out more like a confused moo.
"KEEP GOING, YOU OVERGROWN APE!" the Bandit Leader shrieked, his voice hoarse. "IGNORE THE FEELINGS! PUNCH THE FEELINGS!"
Grok stopped. Halfway to Linkin. Club wavering. Face. Previously a mask of brute fury. Went slack.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, lowered his hands from his ears. Not because he wanted to hear. But because the effort of holding them there. The effort of roaring. The effort of everything. Suddenly seemed… pointless.
Too much work.
The last echo of his defiant bellow died in his throat.
"Why... hit?" Grok mumbled. Voice thick. Confused. He looked down at his club. As if seeing it for the first time. Like it was some strange, alien artifact he'd accidentally picked up.
"Club heavy." grunted, testing its weight.
"Hitting… is effort." looked up at Linkin, then around at the trees, a dawning, vacant understanding in his piggy eyes.
"What for? Rocks don't care. Trees don't care if Grok hit."
turned his gaze to the sky. A look of profound, almost zen-like detachment spread across his features.
"Big sky. Grok small. Everything… small."
shoulders slumped.
The fight, the rage, the entire concept of smashing, just… drained out of him. Like water from a leaky bucket.
Let his club fall.
Thwump
Landed with a soft thud on the mossy ground.
He sat down. Cross-legged. Right there in the middle of the path.
Began to stare intently at a particularly uninteresting patch of dirt.
"Dirt also not care," he concluded. Nodding slowly. Then. Very gently. Reached out a thick finger and poked the dirt. Once. As if confirming its profound indifference.
The remaining handful of bandits. Watching this escalating display of emotional devastation.
Wide, terrified eyes. Visibly trembling. One of them was trying to hide behind another, slightly larger bandit.
The air was thick. Secondhand despair.
Scent of pine needles. Faint, lingering aroma of blueberry scone aspirations. And now, a new note: the subtle musk of existential apathy, courtesy of Grok.
Linkin surveyed the scene. One visible eye socket. Glinting. Faint, almost imperceptible purple light.
Took a step forward. Manifested guitar shifted. Looking suspiciously like an electric guitar from Keldric's world. Complete with spectral distortion pedals that shimmered with barely contained gloom.
"And now," Voice echoed. Amplified by some unseen emo-acoustic magic. "For my final number... a symphony of collective regret. Entitled... 'Echoes in the Empty Ale Mug, And Other Assorted Bandit Life Choices'."
Launched into a tune. Bizarre. Yet hauntingly effective. Mashup. Mournful, instantly recognizable chord progression. "House of the Rising Sun." But the lyrics… Oh, the lyrics. Pure, bandit misery. Delivered with Linkin's signature soul-crushing sincerity.
"There is a shack way down in Grimswood Trail," Linkin crooned. Notes dripping pathos. "They call the Bandit's Rest. And it's been the ruin, of many a poor boy, And Gods, I know, I'm one... who's truly messed."
Effect. Instantaneous. Devastating.
The remaining bandits.
Just… wilted.
One started openly weeping.
Confessing to a nearby oak tree about the time he'd stolen a pie from a windowsill.
Felt guilty about it.
For years. Said the crust was a bit dry, but the filling was "a revelation."
Another pair. Clearly rivals. Had been subtly trying to elbow each other out of the way to get further from being Linkin's next emotional victim. Suddenly embraced.
A tearful hug. Babbling incoherently. Something about their constant bickering over loot. Being just a cry for companionship. And who really got the shiniest share of that last haul.
A scene of utter, pathetic, emotional surrender.
The forest itself seemed to sigh with shared melancholy.
Or maybe it was just Bones, who had been watching silently up to this point, letting out a sympathetic rattle.
Linkin ended the song.
Final, wailing guitar solo. Seemed to tear a hole in the very fabric of cheerfulness.
Culminating in a single, high, heartbreaking note that hung in the air.
Fading into silence.
Slung the spectral guitar onto his back.
"Thank you," Voice back to usual quiet monotone.
"You've been… an emotionally available audience. Tip your local existential crisis bard. Or don't. The universe is indifferent to currency."
Keldric just shook his head. Reluctant grin playing on his lips.
So. Linkin's official party role. 'Director of Psychological Warfare and Mass Debuff Specialist (Emo Balladeer Subclass)'. Good to know.
Mental note: never, EVER let him pick the party's road trip playlist. Or write my character's theme song. The sheer concentrated angst would probably give me negative stats. Or make me actually cry about them.
The clearing. A Bizarre tableau of several bandits. Sobbing uncontrollably.
Grok. Still contemplating the profound indifference of dirt. Looking like he might be about to ask it for philosophical guidance.
Chad. Awkwardly patting the scone-aspirant on the back. Offering him a spare protein bar.
"Gotta fuel those new dreams, bro! Baking takes carbs! Serious carbs!"
Specs. Darting between the emotionally compromised individuals. Muttering about "acute situational depression," "mass hysteria triggered by melodic stimuli," and "the fascinating cognitive dissonance of Subject Gamma, designation Grok."
He actually tried to get Grok to fill out a multiple-choice questionnaire on 'Perceived Levels of Cosmic Pointlessness.'
Grok just poked the paper... Then the dirt again.
The Bandit Leader. Stood alone.
His face, which had been a furious, dark reddish-purple, now seemed... deflated.
Pale.
Looked from his emotionally shattered men. To Linkin. Then to Keldric. Back to his men. Mouth opened. Closed. Several times. No sound. Looked like a man who had just witnessed the laws of physics. Not only break. But do so. While singing a very sad song about the futility of it all.
Just as Keldric was wondering if the leader himself was about to confess his secret dream of becoming a renowned tap dancer. Or perhaps a moderately successful interpretive potter.
Strut. Flanked by Snap and Serve. Made her grand entrance. Or rather, she glided. Into the centre of the emotional wreckage.
"Darlings!" Voice a melodic counterpoint to Linkin's gloom. Cut through the mournful atmosphere.
"The lighting is simply divine! For a 'Tragedy, Trauma, and Triumphant Makeover' segment! Such raw, unfiltered pathos! The camera adores it!"
Snap was already in motion.
Flash! Click! Whirr!
"Focus on the glistening tear tracks! The slumped shoulders of despair! So vulnerable! So real! This is award-winning material!"
Serve produced a velvet cushion seemingly from nowhere, upon which rested several shimmering mood boards.
"Fetch the mood boards, you say, Ma'am? Already fetched! I'm thinking 'From Ruffian to Redemption Chic'! Or perhaps 'Highwayman to Haute Couture'! We'll start with a deep-cleansing existential facial scrub! Exfoliate the regret!"
Keldric groaned. Oh, for F@#$'s sake. The chaos. It seemed. Was far from over. And now with added skincare.