System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 162
Inside the tent at the center of the marketplace.
A small creature with the head and talons of a vulture, the body and tail of a lion, crouched quietly outside a large black iron cage. Its bright, sharp eyes stared unblinking at the man opposite it, unease and vigilance flickering within.
The Witcher approached with a mild smile. In his left hand he dangled a rabbit, skinned and gutted clean. With his right he crooked a finger. “Hungry, Griffin? Caught it last night. Fresh.”
As he spoke, he suddenly thrust the flayed carcass closer to the creature’s beak, letting the scent of blood and flesh thicken in the air.
“Grr—kraa—”
The gesture backfired. The young beast seemed offended. It snapped its long beak wide and screeched in protest.
Its entire body tensed as though facing a mortal enemy. The gray ruff at its neck bristled upright. Its backward-jointed hind legs straightened to lift its body, and it battered its gray-white wings in agitation.
The iron cage rang with sharp metallic clangs.
“Easy. I only want to make a friend.” Roy stepped back helplessly and lowered into a half crouch. “As a sign of good faith, I buried your parents’ remains so they wouldn’t be defiled by scavengers.”
“So could you spare me a little trust?”
He tossed the rabbit at the Griffin’s feet.
The creature showed no gratitude. It swatted the carcass back with a claw and let out a proud, piercing cry, wings striking the bars again.
“Galar was right. You’re vindictive and stubborn. Five days now, an hour each day, and you still treat me like the villain.” Roy shook his head and sighed. “If gentle won’t do, then we try something harsher.”
A flash of blood-red light flickered across the Witcher’s dark-gold pupils. The Griffin, mid-display, went limp at once and collapsed at his feet, slipping again into that trembling, cowed state.
“Good. Intimidate still works.” After each use of Intimidate, the Griffin would remain docile for at least half an hour before reverting to its old defiance. Roy had confirmed that pattern over the past few days.
The rabbit was set before it again.
This time it did not resist. It lowered its head obediently and began to eat. The hooked claws at the edge of its wings pinned the meat. Its sharp beak pecked once and tore away a strip of flesh with ease, then tilted its head and swallowed with a wet gulp.
A hand settled upon the soft ruff at its neck, sliding back along its feline-sleek spine all the way to the tip of its tail.
It was remarkably compliant, allowing the touch without the slightest hint of food-guarding instinct.
“Mm. Stroking a Griffin isn’t so different from stroking a cat.”
Except far more satisfying.
A Griffin was leagues more dangerous than any housecat, an apex predator of the wild. Seeing such a creature lie meekly upon the ground brought a deep, private satisfaction.
Roy spent a full quarter hour petting it, until the Griffin rumbled with contentment. He even plucked more than a dozen fleas from its hide before finally withdrawing his hand.
That was the goal, to accustom it gradually to his presence and touch, so that later it would be easier to proceed further.
He felt a measure of relief as well. This Griffin was still young. A balance of pressure and reward could still shape it. An adult Griffin, proud to the marrow, would sooner die than yield.
“Right. I’ll keep this up. A little friendly exchange every day. Sooner or later, the Griffin will submit completely.”
If not, the conditions for Forced Taming should soon be met.
When that happened, he would become the first Witcher able to take to the skies.
With a Griffin at his command, could he not rightfully claim leadership of the Griffin School?
Who would dare dispute him? Produce your own Griffin first.
After coaxing the creature back into the cage, Roy left the tent and waved farewell to Galar, whose face shone with eager flattery.
He had barely gone halfway when he collided with a hurried Orin.
“Roy, stop daydreaming about taming Griffins. Those things don’t raise tame. We’ve got real work.” A trace of gravity crossed Orin’s plain features. “After days and nights of searching, I finally found a lead on the Child of Destiny.”
“At number one-eighty on Tung Tree Street in the south of the city, there’s a girl named Silma. Her face is malformed. Her parents keep her locked indoors most of the time.”
Roy froze.
The true Child of Destiny who drew the Wild Hunt, Ciri, was still in the royal palace of Cintra.
So who had Orin found?
Another seed of a Sorceress, perhaps.
...
Under bright sunlight, in a dead-end alley drowned in shadow.
“Hah ... hah...”
A thin girl of eight or nine bent over, gasping for breath, her back pressed against the cold wall.
Her deformed, filthy little face was mottled with bluish bruises. Her expression held stubborn defiance and deep, gnawing fear.
Soon, a pack of boys her age drove her into the corner of the alley. They flexed their fists, faces twisted with a cruelty and malice rare for their years.
“Monster. Bastard. Why’d you stop running?”
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