The only way to get more comfortable is to post more often.

I just want you to know that I rarely post written works because I'm so critical of myself, so thank you for brightening my day!

Sorry, I think I forgot to put away the onions!

Thanks. I don’t write a lot, and don’t have much faith in my own writing (especially dialogue). Already see plenty of stuff I feel like needs to be edited here. But at least people are appreciating the core of it.

Damn this legit made me tear up as I read the last line🥺🥺

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This was cheerily dark.

This was my favorite. Because she totally belongs down there with him, but she played the system exactly like a demon would.

God not caring about intent sounds exactly right for this day and age.

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Trellod looked up at the sudden silence around him. Realized he couldn't speak, neither. All round bodies slid off of blades as ten-thousand minds were stilled by a whisper.

Neither side was spared. Her voice had pierced their will in an instant. Sapped them of the strength to resist even before they'd found need. Wordlessly, mind ignoring the missing arm and body feeling it all too well, he turned with the rest of the enthralled to find the source of her voice.

There, in a sea of bodies destroyed by boot and blade alike, gathered five finely dressed Thressadians. Three elves and two identical devils all clad in the miltary blue and black of the Thressad Quintarch, each with their own instrument of death. In sync, the twin devils danced to the front of the group. Icy white braids swirled in a flurry of motion, settling as they strummed their lutes with a flourish.

Bowels voiding, Trellod wept as the front ranks were reduced to a thick red cloud by the wave of force from their first note. Blessedly he could not hear their screams over the ceaseless whine of his demolished eardrums. He fell to his knees gasping as what was left of soldiers he'd known for years -Hells, some for his whole life- softly pattered onto his face like misty rain. The fact that those remains were of his enemies as well held little comfort for Trellod.

The massive human in the back stepped forward and beat a drum Trellod was grateful not to hear. Each beat shattered Trellod's body anew. His last arm broke, then his right leg. On the ground, writhing, his left leg shattered and with it went sensation. Two invisible voices rent the ground beneath his leaking husk, and Trellod died screaming before he reached the fissure's bottom.

*****

As the last body was swallowed by the furious earth, Reis took a moment to reflect on her sins. She didn't like it. Turning to Mathis, she stifled a laugh. The drums had blown his kilt off again! Blushing, he rushed off to find it.

"Strix's sake, Reis," Roledo droned, "Why keep embarrassing him for what he can't control? Those blasts are immense, you know. It's a wonder any of his clothes stay on at all."

Reis liked the way the suns hit Roledo's horns. Gave him the visage of an angelic goat. The goatee didn't hurt that either.

"If you must know Roledo," She sneered over at him, "It keeps me away from my less refined habits like self-reflection and thinking about how easy it would be to slip a knife right up behind those horns."

Ollie guffawed at her brother's expense from where she was piling what few remnants of loot spared by the hungry earth, and Roledo stormed away in a huff. He really doesn't like it when I say I want to kill him. Good. Fear bred respect, her papa had taught her that much at least. She'd let him keep thinking he was in charge for now. Send the Quintarch Tertius the good news. Project Warband was a wild success!

Very, very nice.

I loved this, you had me with talk of the mystical, and then, wow.

When people see bardic magic, they think it's some kind of "music of the spheres" nonsense. Like the world is listening for just the right poem and it'll flood you with power like life was some kind of poetry contest. No. Bardic magic is like any other kind of magic. You need focus, study, a bone-deep understanding of your art, and a spark to get it going. I spent a decade studying music and arcane magic at the College. I spent another bumming my way across Creation with nothing more than my trumpet and a song in my step. I learned to keep my head in the middle of a crowded bar, how to calm a violent crowd, how to turn riot into revelry. So when the College called for graduates to come help out to defend its home soil, I saw it as a great opportunity to show off what I had learned.

We looked an odd bunch, strolling up to the forlorn warcamp. Myself with a trumpet, an old friend of mine with a barrel-sized drum, some young one with this high-pitched electrical doo-dad... I could understand why we didn't seem exactly helpful. But they knew we had magic, and they weren't in any position to turn us away.

We spaced ourselves out on the field, it wouldn't do to have our music overlap. The soldiers around me shot me looks as I warmed up. Some annoyed, some sneering, some just terrified at the battle ahead. None of them expected to live long, I could tell. But I relished their attention all the same. Someone annoyed at my trumpet's hooting was someone not thinking about their imminent death.

The enemy came marching in just after dawn. I started playing in earnest, a rousing tune with just a hint of magic to wake up our soldiers and buoy their spirits. Not much on an individual level, but across a hundred? It'd buy me the time I needed. I couldn't afford to give them any more at that scale; when your magic targets an army, you can't just be powerful, you need to be efficient. A glance around told me that whatever their opinion of my music, they were listening. Good.

See, the real secret of bardic magic? The real core that makes it work? It's not that we've tapped into some primal heartbeat, it's not a secret song flowing through creation. We have knowledge, instinct, and a magical spark. But that fourth ingredient? The superhuman focus needed to control incredibly powerful magic? No one ever said you had to focus alone. And what makes people focus more than hearing a great tune?

I felt the people all around me listening to my song. Mental magic at scale is difficult, but it's much easier when you're just changing something small. "This is a good song" can become "listening is more important than killing" without much effort. With each mental touch, the hundreds of minds that surrounded me paid a bit more attention to my song, lending focus to my power, shaping the spell for me. Soon, all of their hearts beat in time. The sounds of battle faded, and I noticed with collegiate pride that my colleagues were having similar success. The music swirled and built, mesmerizing soldiers on both sides before coming to a grand crescendo, the slowly-modified thoughts of the combatants crafted to a single magical point: a compulsion to put down arms and embrace each other as friends. To dance and sing together, to throw themselves into a grand celebration of life.

By the next morning, none of the soldiers who had come to invade were willing to touch a weapon again. The raw power of a day-long party gave us the power to make permanent and lasting changes to their outlook, and none of them was willing to keep fighting such a clearly immoral war. They were effectively routed, and would undoubtedly tell their fellow soldiers back home what happened, that they were done with killing. A victory won not just today, but for many days in the future.

And now, when a warlord comes knocking, they know that when they see an army accompanied by an unarmed person wearing no uniform and carrying nothing but a musical instrument, they should turn around and fight another day, lest they never fight ever again.

The entirety of the r/humansarespaceorcs subreddit is about this

War Band indeed!

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

Reminders:

>* No AI-generated reponses 🤖 >* Stories 100 words+. Poems 30+ but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* [RF] and [SP] for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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"Your Majesty, forgive our late arrival."

King Wendland looked up from his command tent, face creased with stress. The past few months had weighed down his mood, aging him years in a shorter time frame. Today was the culmination, as his troops waged a desperate last stand. If they were to fall, his kingdom was doomed.

Before him stood a woman in bright red. Her suit was tailored to hug her body, fashionable yet functional. She wore a small plumed hat, a badge bearing crossed lutes on its front. She had an air of calm around her, as if this was a simple business meeting.

"I am Esma Religol, of the College of Performance. We did send word to expect our appearance."

The king frowned, rubbing his head. The guards flanking his tent entrance stood ready, watching his every move. One gesture and they would arrest Esma.

"The College? I was expecting you days ago!"

The constant tension finally broke, as an outlet for his emotions stood before him.

"You were supposed to build morale up! What use are you to me now, now that my men are fighting and dying?!"

Esma nodded, flicking her hand. A conductors baton appeared with a flash, as she held it lightly.

"Morale is not the only thing we are here to bolster. We are the War Band, and this is our first performance. Listen to our music, and know that you have the bards on your side."

With that she strode out of the tent, heading towards the front lines. Her troupe were lined up ready, thirty bards holding various instruments. Fifteen held drums, sticks ready to go. Ten had bugles to their lips, taking deep breaths to full their lungs. The final five showed bagpipes, waiting for her orders.

Esma wasted no time, raising up her baton as she approached. Around them the sounds of fighting quietened, as though the world held its breath. She took her place at their head, and let loose the first beat of the drums.

The effect was instant. The flagging troops, worn down from weeks of fighting, felt rested. The beat drove away exhaustion, in body, mind and spirit. Wounds numbed, and grips tightened. The rising despair was shattered by the beat, courage taking place.

The bugles soon followed, resonating in their chests. Their armour felt lighter, but strangely heavy at the same time. Strikes from their enemies shifted in mid-air, hitting protective metal over flesh. Their own weapons adjusted their paths, scoring wounds a plenty.

Esma conducted them, before increasing her speed. As she did, the pipers joined, their notes following her baton. With a flourish she let some loose, causing earth to split beneath the feet of some enemy reinforcements. Chasms swallowed them up, before slamming shut around them.

Another flourish let loose a stream of streaking lights. They whipped overhead, arcing down with deadly intent. Each struck a leader within the opposing force, throwing them to the ground. Even if they survived the strike, the fallen bodies were soon trampled by subordinates as fear took over.

She conducted the band with firm precision, letting their combined strength astonish. King Wendland watched and listened, shock and respect in his expression. Their performance eased his concerns, as the looming defeat was upturned. Their survival was all thanks to the College, a debt he knew he would never be able to repay. Yet in the moment his concerns were ignored, as he enjoyed the show before him.

Thank you! I'm glad you liked the story and it caused emotions.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not quite sure. It could have been simply an abusive situation, (Parents or other adults taking advantage of the power dynamic between an adult and a child.) Or, because Alex was different, either with powers or something else. I left that to the reader's imagination.

Thank you for reading!

Thank you! Alex popped into my head with they/them pronouns, so that's how they were written. :) I'm glad you liked the story!

Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it!

Love it. Let’s get it trending.

Nice. I should learn to always expect zombies.

Simantropy; the measure of a fictional narrative's rationality per page or minute (or other suitable measure of time duration), that is unavailable for avoiding plot holes. Because rational narrative is obtained from properly considered consequences and responses, the amount of simantropy is also a measure of the irrationality, or bullshit, of a story. ^(nudgenudge)

Love it! Time loop or child. Wish you had more, but don't want it ruin!!

Ah ok