System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 177
By noon the next day, they reached the Grove of Great Trees.
It was a woodland formed mostly of oaks, yews, and white walnuts.
These trees had grown for centuries, some for a thousand years. Each trunk was so thick it would take several people to encircle it, and their height was impossible to judge. The roots that had once lain buried underground had burst upward and spread across the earth, the exposed portions rising higher than four men’s heads.
Braenn dropped to her knees before the grove and bowed her head in reverence.
Geralt’s face showed awe. Ciri, who had been chirping like a happy bird the whole way, suddenly felt an unnamed pressure; the expression on her little face grew solemn and grave.
Roy, meanwhile, stared at the thickest of all those trees, his dark-gold pupils narrowing.
Maokai
Age:? (Insufficient Perception)
Identity: Sacred Oak (The ancient oak of Brokilon. After centuries of devout worship by the Dryads and bathing in their faith, it has awakened intelligence and become a spirit of nature. It shares its power over nature with select Dryads, together protecting the Brokilon Forest that nurtures them.)
At the very moment Roy used Scry.
On the wrinkled bark halfway up the trunk, two bulges appeared, each the size of a fist, like the upper and lower lids of human eyes. They slowly opened, revealing a pair of ancient, unfathomably deep eyes.
At the same time, a ring of green light stirred among the roots, roots taller than a man. It rose little by little, climbing the trunk.
Like circles of vines linked end to end.
That surging green was faith.
To the Witcher, it felt very much like standing before the goddess statue in the Temple of Melitele, or before Dagon’s altar on Black Gull Island.
But unlike Melitele’s loving inclusiveness, and unlike Dagon’s fury and cruelty, what it contained was the fierce, thriving vitality unique to Brokilon.
Roy drew a slow breath of that rich green presence and glanced at the three around him. Geralt, Ciri, and Braenn alike had noticed nothing unusual.
But the green light gathered thicker and thicker, until at last it burst at the crown of the tree. It fell from above in countless gleaming motes, like endless spring rain. Before it reached the ground, it changed into fireflies, turned in midair, and drifted into the small body of the girl.
Ciri felt something. She shut her eyes and let out a contented little hum through her small nose.
Visible to the naked eye, the dirt and mud on her face, hands, boots, everything she had gathered from the road, vanished as though washed clean with clear water. In an instant, all trace of fatigue left her. Color returned to her face, healthy and bright.
“Little one, what just happened to you?” Geralt noticed the change at once. A trace of bewilderment showed in his dark cat-like eyes. Lady Braenn and Roy were equally curious.
“You didn’t hear them?” Ciri’s bright green eyes stayed fixed on the Grove of Great Trees. She raised her little hand and waved cheerfully. “That big oak, Maokai, and its companions were greeting me. Welcoming me to Dun Canell. Welcoming me to join them.”
“The spirit of nature sensed the Elder Blood and offered a gift of greeting.” Roy seemed to understand, then shook his head. “But she is not meant to belong to the forest.”
Roy, who already knew how things ended, was not worried.
Geralt, however, turned ashen.
...
After paying her reverence, Braenn led the three of them onward at greater speed. They passed through the Grove of Great Trees, walked another hour or so, then entered a damp ravine ringed by beech woods.
Braenn stopped abruptly and addressed the two Witchers. “Gwynbleidd, Roy, come here.” She removed her own scarf, then Ciri’s as well. “I have to blindfold you. It is the rule.”
“Understood.” The White Wolf, having come here once before, obeyed without the slightest resistance.
Roy merely spread his hands and raised no objection to this act of self-protection, though a blindfold meant little to someone with Perception like his.
“I’ll lead you. Hold my hand.”
Braenn’s warm hand closed around the young Witcher’s. Perhaps because both of them shared some measure of elven blood, she seemed more willing to be close to him.
Ciri, seeing that, stamped her foot, unwillingly took Geralt’s rough, broad hand, and muttered, “Rotten thing. Now you’re blind, behave yourself.”
“As you command. But tell me, little girl, do you know why she didn’t blindfold you?”
“Because we’re both girls.” Ciri’s green eyes shifted, then she suddenly asked, “By the way, what does Gwynbleidd mean?”
“It means the White Wolf in the Elder Speech. That is what the dryads call me.”
“The White Wolf, the White Wolf Witcher...” Realization flashed across Ciri’s face. Was this not the same man who had helped her mother Pavetta and her father Duny?
A wave of goodwill rose in her, and she tightened her grip on Geralt’s hand without thinking.
“Mind the roots. Do they call you that because of your white hair?”
“Because of destiny.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ll understand one day ... ah!”
“I told you to watch your step. Walk properly.”
“And you pay attention as well. I’ve no wish to go lame before we reach wherever this is.”
Roy listened to the bickering behind him, a smile touching his mouth. Then he faced forward again. Through the scarf tied over his eyes, Perception told him the ground was gradually sloping downward and the mist around them was growing denser.
“So, we’re almost there at last, the end of the road.”
...
“You may remove the blindfold now.”
Mist swirled around their knees.
“Welcome to Dun Canell, the Land of Oaks, the Heart of Brokilon.”
Roy untied the blindfold. To the sound of falling water, he found himself staring at a sinkhole.
Above them spread a vast, lush canopy of leaves. Curtains of water fell from the heights like a transparent veil. Beneath their feet were damp earth and rock, and from cracks in the ground hot springs erupted now and then, sending up steam and mist.
The air was filled with the clean scent of growing things. For a moment, Roy felt as if he had stepped into some fairy-tale paradise.
It truly was like a fairy realm. The medallions hanging at the throats of the two Witchers quivered playfully, bearing witness to the dense magic visible all around.
“Witchers, follow on your own. As for you, hand here.” Braenn took Ciri’s small hand in a grip that allowed no refusal.
“Ah ... Roy, Geralt, it’s beautiful here.”
Ciri’s eyes widened. Entranced, she slapped at the mist and steam with one free hand. The two Witchers exchanged a glance and saw the same concern in each other’s eyes.
They passed through the sheet of falling water and went on a little farther. Then, at a sharp, clear whistle, a moment later a black-haired elf in a green bark-coat and a slim body came walking toward them along one of the thick roots threading through the sinkhole, graceful as a cat.
In the Witcher’s Scry, she turned out to be a sorceress, one who commanded vines and healing spells.
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