System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 178
Like most dryads, Eithné was small and slender. Beneath her green gown, her back was held straight and her head lifted high, giving her an air of unyielding pride.
Her face was stern and severe. Her hair and pupils were both a pure silver-white, almost devoid of emotion.
But in Roy’s eyes, she was like a great green flame blazing before him, too fierce to look at directly. That oppressive presence came from her strength.
Eithné
Age: 324
Gender: Female
Identity: Dryad Queen, Sorceress
HP:??
Mana:??
Attributes:
Strength:??
Agility:??
Constitution:??
Perception:??
Willpower:??
Charisma:??
Spirit:??
Skills:???
...
Eithné paid no attention to the young Witcher. She passed the others and went straight to Ciri, lifting the girl’s chin and staring into her eyes. Only after a long while, when the child was trembling with fear and her eyes had filled with tears, did she tell Braenn to take her out of the room.
“Rise, Gwynbleidd.”
“My greetings to you, Eithné, highest ruler of Brokilon.”
“You are welcome in my forest once again, but you came unannounced, and that is exceedingly dangerous. Do you understand?”
“I came burdened with a grave mission. I had no choice.” The White Wolf kept his head bowed as he answered in a low voice.
“Oh?” The silver-haired dryad smiled. “That explains the recklessness. And this child, is he with you as well?” At last her silver-forged gaze turned toward Roy.
It felt as though an invisible giant hand had come down from above, forcing him to bow, to bend the knee.
Roy finally understood why the older Witcher had been so humble. Before power that could not be resisted, Geralt had long since learned reverence.
“Lady Eithné, he is still very young. Please do not make things difficult for him.”
“Raise your head.” Eithné lifted a hand and silenced the White Wolf’s plea. “Child, let me see your eyes.”
And so Eithné saw the pair of dark-gold eyes she wanted.
Her silver pupils turned like vortices, trying to draw truth from them. But after a few moments, the perfect steadiness of her bearing shifted ever so slightly. In that gaze, cold and unshakable as ice, a trace of surprise appeared.
Then, just as quickly, she regained her composure.
“Gwynbleidd, for your sake, he may leave with you later.”
“Hah...” As Eithné’s gaze withdrew, Roy let out a breath, a sheen of sweat on his brow. Those few moments of scrutiny from the lady had pressed on him like something tangible.
Even so, he kept his calm. After facing beings of legend such as the goddess Melitele, a higher vampire, Dagon’s projection, and the Lady of the Lake, his spirit had become far more resistant.
“Now, Gwynbleidd, let me guess at the mission you carry.” Eithné said, “Ekhard is a fool, while Evel and Viraxas would rather drink my blood and gnaw my flesh. Among the neighboring kingdoms, only Venzlav of Brugge would send someone to me with proposals.”
“As you say, exactly so.”
“You must understand, inside Brokilon and outside it are worlds of fire and ice. The hatred between humans and us has lasted for centuries. It cannot be dissolved with a few words from you.”
“But war is not what I wish for either. I do not want to see even one more child of mine die. So I will give you a clear answer now. When you return, tell the King of Brugge this: as long as his subjects do not set foot in Brokilon again from this day forward, we can remain at peace.”
The Witcher’s lips moved, but Eithné cut him off again. “Do not speak for him any further, and do not presume to suggest that Brokilon surrender land for peace.”
“But...”
“That is the answer you will give him.” Eithné’s tone brooked no argument. “He will not quarrel with a low-born Witcher over it. Now, if you are willing, let us speak of another nuisance.”
Eithné smiled then, a rare thing. Her eyes shifted to the man who had been ignored for some time, the broad, bear-like Freixenet Viceroy. “He is your friend, is he not, this scalp hunter?”
“Do not frighten him any more than you already have...” Geralt gave the viceroy a reassuring look. “You know why he came. It was for that girl. Otherwise your people would never have saved him.”
“But I do not know what to do with him. For his wounds to heal will take a very long time.” Eithné walked toward the bed woven of branches. Fisnet’s face turned white, and he curled up in despair.
“Do you have children?” Eithné looked at the viceroy for a long while. “Answer truthfully.”
“I’m not...” Fisnet retreated until his back hit the wall and there was nowhere left to go. He cleared his throat and answered weakly, “I’m not married yet...”
“Whether you have a family does not matter. I only want to know...” Eithné’s gaze dropped brazenly below his waist, “whether that thing of yours still works. By the Great Tree, answer me. Have you ever made a woman with child, or are you helpless, like a Witcher?”
“Ah...” Fisnet flailed both hands and cried out, then stiffened his neck and said, “Of course I have. I’m still ... capable enough. But, honored lady, why do you ask?”
He caught the pity in Geralt’s gaze.
“Take care, old fellow.” Roy silently mourned for him for a few seconds. With that strong body and that faintly dashing moustache, the viceroy fit dryad taste so well it hurt. He was the perfect breeding stock in their eyes.
Countless dryads, one after another, straddling him like a sawhorse.
Up, down. Up, down.
Roy shuddered all over. The thought alone was terrifying.
Eithné, satisfied with the answer, turned back to Geralt.
“When he is healed, he will remain long enough to leave behind sufficient children. That will buy him his freedom.”
“Thank you for your mercy, Eithné...” Geralt did not dare look at his old friend again.
“Lady Eithné...” Roy could not hold back any longer. “I want to ask about the girl, Ciri. What have you decided for her?”
“An interesting child. When I look into your eyes, all I see is mist.” Eithné regarded him with interest. “You need not concern yourself with it. After some time, tomorrow, you and Geralt will leave Brokilon together.”
“But she is not an ordinary girl. She is the princess of a kingdom.”
“Gwynbleidd, and what of it?” Eithné replied. “My decision will not change. If you wish, come to my chamber tonight and witness the ceremony.”
With a cold sweep of her sleeve, Eithné turned and left.
...
Time passed quickly, and evening came.
Countless insects blinking with pale light appeared among the tree-houses.
They cast down a warm, ambiguous green glow that made the strange plants of Dun Canell look utterly different from by day, alluring and swaying in the wind.
The two Witchers, leaving behind Fisnet, who was still trying to digest the fact that he would soon become the father of many little dryads, entered Eithné’s vast House of the Oak.
Eithné was kneeling on the floor at the center of the chamber, gently combing the mouse-gray silver hair of the girl seated before her.
The little girl sat cross-legged in silence. Her back was straight, her green eyes wide open. Her face had been washed clean, and all her usual mischief was gone. She seemed somewhat vacant.
“You have come.” Eithné greeted them without pausing in her combing.
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