System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 125
Standing before the bed, hot with lingering passion, Francis unhurriedly straightened the bow at his collar.
Beneath his pale skin, his blood-red lips curved slightly, revealing chalk-white teeth and a trace of satisfied delight.
On the bed behind him lay a woman who was smiling as well. Her eyes were closed, yet the smile on her face was sweet, blissful, as though she were lost in an incomparable dream.
“Good night, my darling!”
Francis blew her a kiss, then strode forward and pushed the door open.
At this moment, The Peacock Flower blazed with light.
On the first floor hall, the people of Ellander, worn out from a full day’s labor, were pouring out their passions without restraint.
Behind the bar, the bartender shook his mixing tins with dizzying speed; porters wiped ale and sweat from their chins and gulped down cheap, harsh-smelling wheat beer;
Men with a taste for gambling clustered around card tables, eyes unblinking as they stared at Gwent cards and the gleaming Crowns piled beside them;
Servant girls flitted through the hall like butterflies, carrying drinks back and forth, and now and then an unseen hand reached out to grab a handful of their backside, earning a string of curses wrapped in a coquettish laugh.
“Dong—” On the stage, the proper poet holding a lute suddenly sped up, long fingers flying across the strings. The quickened notes poured together like rivulets joining a river, washing away the hall’s lingering dullness, while the accompanying musician bounced left and right, pumping the hurdy-gurdy in time with the lively rhythm.
The smell of alcohol, sweat, laughter, and dance music wove together into a night of haze and abandon.
Francis stood on the second floor, looking down over it all. He quietly spread his arms, closed his eyes, and drew in a deep, indulgent breath.
O night,
the dancer’s gauze skirt,
why not take a nap,
and taste this sweetness like spring.
After reciting the verse, he shook his head, thoroughly pleased with himself. “A fine night indeed. When inspiration comes, nothing can stop it.”
He descended the stairs, threaded through the crowded hall, and headed for the tavern door, fingers turning idly as he shaped the unfinished poem in his mind.
Halfway there, an arm suddenly stretched out from beside a table and blocked his path. A young man with dark-gold pupils raised a cup toward him.
“Coroner, care to have a drink?”
“Oh my ... when did you arrive?” Francis said. “I truly didn’t notice at all. Seems I’ve been too lost in beauty of late, dulled my senses badly.”
He sat down with a hint of annoyance.
“Speak, Witcher. What brings you to me so suddenly?”
Roy slid a brimming mug across the table.
“I was only curious. You have quite the appetite. By day you deal with a pile of mangled corpses, yet by night you still find the mood to indulge yourself. An ordinary man wouldn’t have the heart for it.”
Francis took a sip of the strong liquor and spread his lips, baring a full set of teeth.
“Simple enough. In my eyes, the living and the dead each possess their own kind of beauty, both worthy of poetry. And vibrant young flesh, as well as the artistry of death, provide me with an endless stream of inspiration.”
“You are a poet of great passion,” Roy offered politely.
“Indeed. In truth, I am first and foremost a poet, and only then a coroner. To me, poetry is the finest thing in this world, above all else.”
Francis spoke with feeling, his voice rich and carrying, cutting through the hall’s clamor with ease.
“Actually, I have a suggestion for you,” Roy said. “The substance of your poetry need not always fixate on the living and the dead. You might broaden your gaze and draw inspiration elsewhere.”
“For example?”
“For example, nature, architecture...”
“The most epic currents of this world are survival and death,” Francis lifted his chest and chin. “Why should I choose those trite subjects?”
“All right,” Roy shrugged and spoke plainly. “In my view, the living and the dead are utterly different. One might even say they are no longer the same kind, not the same race.”
“The difference is like that between humans and monsters...”
Francis folded his arms and listened as he went on.