you know the trope of the old retired warrior squeezing into their armor for one last fight?
i just had a mental image of me digging up my old leather jacket and my bass guitar and giving myself a mohawk at the kitchen sink, and joining a party of old adventurers as the punk bard. pretty sure i still remember the bass line for ‘wave of mutilation’.
which really should be a dnd spell, btw.
oh!
it is always the warrior that does it isn’t it? I really like the idea of some other class (retired) gearing up for one last adventure. But I suppose the thing is, Warrior is one of those classes that might retire? Wizards just get more wizardy after all, monks get more monkey you don’t expect other classes to stop and take up another job the way warriors do.
even the trope of the bad ass old gunslinger is essentially a warrior, isn’t it?
gonna think on this if you don’t mind.
i mean, not every old bard settles down to open a guitar shop, but we can’t all be henry rollins. 😀
was going through my gaming tag and found this, and it got me thinking on the trope some more. the old bard would have different challenges than the old warrior. the old warrior has skill and patience and combat reflexes, but is no longer as fast or strong as they once were. the old bard, though, unless they have arthritis in their fingers, they’re only going to get better and better.
imagine a story that kinda leads with the old-warrior-comes-out-of-retirement trope, and he’s got his old adventuring party with him. the wizard just got more wizardy, after all, so the narrative has to sideline that guy early on to maintain the challenge. the healer’s still trucking too, but uses up half her spell slots every day just keeping the rest of them upright. the rogue’s fingers aren’t so quick anymore, but she’s the wiliest creature alive. the bard knows all the songs; ALL of them. together they get the warrior to his Fated Last Battle, but there’s one more obstacle – a penultimate group of villains who have a goddamn rock star of a young bard who challenges the old bard to an improv duel. no old standards, grandpa; just music versus music.
the young bard is fast, REALLY fast, death metal fast, and pulls out all the stops devil-went-down-to-georgia style. he weaves a bewildering wall of power, a wild wailing force of pure rage. it seems like there’s nothing the old bard can do against that. even if he could pick that fast, he doesn’t know that style, he’s a support guy, what can he do? but he looks really calm as he brings his guitar around and sits down on a handy chunk of rubble.
young bard: you’re SITTING DOWN? you better take me seriously, old man! *plays even faster*
old bard: … all right, son, if that’s what you want.
blue smoke coils around the young bard’s fires and extinguishes them one by one. somewhere in the wreckage a neon beer sign flickers fitfully, even though neon hasn’t been invented. everyone finds themselves nodding. when the final chord falls silent, someone says, quietly but with feeling, “yeah.” the young bard is appalled to realize that it was him.
the villains stand aside to let the heroes go through. the old bard touches his hat and the young bard nods. it’s like the song says: ain’t no shame in being beaten by a master.
just moving along like everyone else 