System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 176
Roy moved up beside the honey-haired dryad, carrying Ciri in his arms as he walked shoulder to shoulder with her. Beneath the vivid stripes painted across her face with walnut tincture, the dryad girl’s features were in fact very young, no more than those of a girl of sixteen or so.
Braenn
Gender: Female
Age: 35
Identity: Dryad, Resident of Brokilon
HP: 100
Attributes:
Strength: 6
Agility: 10
Constitution: 10
Perception: 10
Willpower: 6
Charisma: 7
Spirit: 6
Skills:
Bow Mastery LV5: Exceptional proficiency with the bow, granting high accuracy, rapid firing, and enhanced damage at range.
Grace of the Wind (Passive Trait): The Dryad moves with the lightness of the wind, increasing agility, balance, and evasion, especially within forested environments.
Child of the Forest (Passive Trait): Dryads are among the guardians of the forest, favored by nature. They protect flora and fauna, and in return, the forest grants them its blessing. While within it, their stamina, mana, and wound recovery rate are doubled.
As expected, dryads shared a similar bloodline with elves.
“Vado xisa nakuen, what is your name?” Roy asked.
At the sound of his voice, she turned and stared at him in surprise, clearly startled by his fluent Elder Speech. Then, biting her lip, she hesitated before answering,
“Braenn.”
“Then, Lady Braenn, how much longer until we reach our destination?”
“Lost ... traps ... beasts ... one and a half days ... at least.”
Roy glanced at the sleeping Ciri in his arms and nodded. The original plan had been to follow them into the dryads’ capital anyway.
He intended to meet the dryad queen Eithne, whose name by now rang louder than even Francesca’s, and take the chance to investigate the Waters of Brokilon.
After walking a while longer, he caught the scent of sweat on the dryad’s body, and it smelled exactly like that of an ordinary human girl.
A true dryad, according to what he had read in the Bestiary, would have sweat that brought crushed willow twigs to mind.
Then there could be only one explanation. Braenn had not been born a dryad.
She had been transformed by drinking the Waters of Brokilon.
“What was your name before?”
The dryad suddenly stopped. Beneath her striped garment, her small chest rose and fell sharply. She struggled to suppress her breathing, then pressed her lips together, lips that looked as though they had been painted with some natural green balm.
“I don’t remember.”
She turned her head away stubbornly, but the Witcher still caught the flicker of panic in her eyes.
“So, before becoming a dryad, Lady Braenn must have had a past she would rather not remember...”
...
“Not bad, kid. It took me no small effort to learn Braenn’s name before.” The White Wolf spoke in the tone of a man with experience and clapped the younger Witcher on the shoulder. “But let me warn you, do not get any ideas.”
“Unless you plan to stay in Brokilon forever as breeding stock for the dryads, don’t flirt with any of them.”
Roy already knew that. Among the dryads, only women existed. If they wished to bear children, they could only kidnap whatever elf or human male caught their eye and use him for breeding, or put young human girls through the transformation ritual.
“You forgot, did you?” Roy thought, and rolled his eyes at the White Wolf. “Witchers can’t sire children. To the dryads, the two of us are worth less than an ordinary man, say, someone like Fisnet.”
Geralt sighed. Some sorrowful memory had risen in him. Though his face remained stiff, melancholy surfaced unmistakably in his eyes.
...
After that, they traveled in silence, moving swiftly. Braenn clearly knew the terrain of Brokilon by heart.
She led them along hidden branches of the path, through grass, brush, streambeds, and marshy ground, moving as nimbly as a doe.
The three followed. Thanks to the knowledge of traps Kael had drilled into him, Roy noticed at least a hundred ingeniously placed snares along the way.
There were deep pits hidden beneath layers of dead leaves, their bottoms packed with sharpened stakes. There were arrow-triggering mechanisms, suddenly falling trees, and dreadful spiked spheres the size of carts hanging on ropes, ready to swing down without warning and pulp whatever man or beast happened to be on the path.
And there were watch posts everywhere.
At some points, Braenn would stop and give a pleasant whistle. A moment later, the same answer would come back from some leafy giant tree nearby.
At other points, she would halt abruptly, hand tense over an arrow in her quiver, staring fixedly into a thicket, only to stop the eager Witcher from acting.
Unless it was for food or self-defense, dryads did not kill wild animals. They treated beasts with far more kindness than they did humans.
...
Though the four of them moved quickly, the sun still sank at last, and they had no choice but to make camp.
The Witchers all knew how to survive in the wild, of course, but even so, none could match Braenn, who had been born to Brokilon.
She chose a patch of high ground where a warm breeze flowed. After a simple meal of berries and dried meat, they lay down in a row upon dry fern beds, close enough to touch.
This was dryad custom. They slept together under a common cover and shared warmth.
On the far left lay the White Wolf, then Roy, while Ciri and Braenn lay on the far right.
Once the dryad girl closed her eyes, she wrapped her arms around the little thing beside her as though she were seizing a large hot-water bottle, holding her tight.
Roy glanced at Geralt’s weathered face and caught the sour smell of a man who had not bathed in some time.
Hold him?
Not likely.
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