System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 164
Torchlight lit the narrow spiral passage as a clean-shaven attendant in red robes, his hair tied back in a ponytail, led the Witcher steadily upward along the winding stairs.
“Hold on. Where are you taking me? Shouldn’t I be presented to the queen by now?”
Hassock turned around and fixed the Witcher with a quiet gaze. “No. Your disheveled hair and those ragged clothes are hardly fit to appear before Her Majesty the Queen and the princess. So first, I must see you washed and dressed.”
As he spoke, he leaned closer and twitched his nose, then flapped a hand before the air with a faintly fastidious little grimace.
“Forgive me for speaking plainly, but you do not smell especially pleasant.”
“That can’t be right. I bathe every day.” Unless he was stranded in the wilderness with no village in sight, Roy was far more particular about cleanliness than most Witchers.
Compared with rough brutes like Letho and the Orin brothers, he was nearly a neat freak.
Even so, he lowered his head and sniffed at both shoulders. “Well ... I did work up a sweat in training this morning, and I haven’t had time to clean up yet. You understand, surely. A Witcher lives with a blade at his throat, we have to train to keep the body in proper condition...”
“There is no need to explain. Come with me.”
Once the attendant turned away, he muttered something under his breath, so low it was almost impossible to catch.
“Still, you do have a very masculine scent.”
“Uh...” The Witcher’s body instantly went rigid, his hearing far too sharp for his own good.
...
Roy soaked in a tub full of foam, his neck resting against the slick rim, the sharp smell of soap lingering stubbornly in his nose.
Amid the crisp snip-snip of steel, a pair of black shears moved back and forth through his hair.
“Your hair is in excellent condition.”
The barber’s nimble fingers lightly brushed through the Witcher’s dark hair, his expression that of an artist at work.
“With your face shape, it only needs a little trimming. Then perhaps we tie it back in a ponytail?”
“Do whatever you like, as long as you don’t leave it too long.” Roy sat stiffly in the bath, nerves taut. The last time, at the Temple of Melitele, after the Trial of the Grasses, all his hair had fallen out.
Then, in only a few short months, perhaps because of hormones, it had grown down past his neck, just long enough to pull into a rather dashing ponytail.
Letho had laughed himself sick over that.
“A Witcher with long hair? Hot, irritating, and full of lice waiting to happen.”
“And what would a bald man know of the happiness of having hair?”
That had been Roy’s answer, and Letho had worn a cold face for the rest of the day, refusing to speak to him.
“There, done.”
The barber put away the shears and wiped the Witcher’s face and the back of his neck with a linen cloth soaked in Angelica Tincture.
Roy rose from the bath, accepted the towel the attendant handed him, wrapped it around himself from the waist down, and stepped out, leaving wet footprints across the stone floor.
Once he had dried himself and rested a little, Hassock came over and gave him a careful look from top to bottom, then nodded in approval. “You look far more handsome now.” He gestured to one side. “Your shirt, underclothes, trousers, doublet, and boots are all prepared.”
“So many layers?” Roy frowned. “I’d rather wear my own clothes. And this doublet, be honest with me, is it women’s wear?”
“Please do not make this difficult for me,” Hassock said expressionlessly.
The Witcher hesitated for a long while, then slowly pulled on the garments. The coarse fabric and tight fit made him feel as though he had been strapped into heavy shackles.
“At this rate I couldn’t even kill a single drowner.”
“Mind your tongue. Do not disgrace yourself before Her Majesty and the princess.” Hassock handed him a delicate little glass bottle. “Here.”
“What is it?”
“Perfume.”
“That’s enough. Take it away. Keep it far from me.”
In the end Hassock yielded. The Witcher did not wear perfume.
“Now I shall teach you the basic etiquette of the Cintran court. I will demonstrate once, then you will follow.”
“No need,” Roy said thickly. Back at Mount Carbon, Letho had already taught him these noble formalities.
...
After a long and miserable round of preparation, the Witcher was led into a spacious, splendid chamber. At the far end, seated upon a bench of golden nanmu wood, sat an imposing woman with a crown upon her head and a golden mantle around her shoulders.
Beside her sat a little girl in a white gauze dress, red leather boots, long stockings, and a hair clip. She stared at the Witcher without blinking, her eyes bright with interest.
After a brief exchange of formal greetings, silence fell.
The Witcher’s gaze deepened as he studied the little girl in secret.
“So it really is her...”
Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon [Scan Complete — Target Identified]
Identity Profile Sex: Female Age: 8 Status: Princess of Cintra / Heir to the Cintrian Throne
Vital Parameters Health Integrity: 50/100 Mana Capacity: 150
Attribute Matrix STR: 3 AGI: 4 CON: 5 PER: 4 WIL: 4 CHA: 6 SPI: 15
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