System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 231
“Look at her, what a lovely treasure ... brighter than any diamond...” Orin held up the newly forged Griffin steel sword, fingers stroking the blade with near tenderness.
The blaze of the furnace lit the weapon in full. It was a shade longer than a standard steel sword. The refined hilt was wrapped in black dragon hide, comfortable and firm in the hand, and set about with rings of silvery meteoric iron to increase the grip.
The pommel had been carved in the shape of a manticore, making its lineage and heritage plain.
The crossguard was straight.
Below that, the blade followed Hakland’s exotic fashion. It was not the stiff straight line favored in the Northern Kingdoms, but a serpentine blade, like a snake darting through grass. The curving waves ran down in succession from the guard and vanished into the tip, the tip itself like a crimson snake’s tongue.
Orin gave it a splendid flourish. At once the blade hummed softly as it cut the air, while runes and symbols on the steel caught the light in a blue gleam, and the hidden cloud patterns seemed to come alive and surface.
The sword passed from hand to hand among the five Witchers before finally ending up with Roy.
Griffin Steel Sword Type: Steel Sword
Material: Dragon Hide, Meteoric Iron, Moonstone, Emerald Dust, Griffin Venom Gland
Properties: Weight 4.01 lbs, Grip Length 12 inches (0.3 m), Blade Length 37 inches (0.93 m)
Enchantments—
Sharpness: The Griffin Steel Sword possesses three times the sharpness of a standard steel sword, allowing it to easily cut through light armor, though the blade’s toughness is slightly reduced.
Stinger: The Griffin Steel Sword injects griffin venom into wounds, capable of causing death within a short period.
“You’ve worked hard this past week and more, Master Berengar...” Roy said sincerely.
“I should be the one thanking you...” Deep satisfaction showed in Berengar’s bloodshot eyes.
For him, the chance to forge a master-grade set was immensely precious. It let him master rare schematics and sharpen his smithing besides.
Forging enchanted him more than fine drink ever could.
“Master, you look exhausted. You’d best rest a day.”
“Rest? No need. I can’t wait to get my hands around the forging hammer again, and I think Letho feels the same.”
Letho too had fallen into a strange state of excitement, a rare sight indeed. His stiff, solemn face was faintly flushed. “I have touched the bottleneck in forging. Once I cross it, I go a step further. I cannot rest.”
“Er ... suit yourselves.”
Roy paused, then put away the Griffin steel sword for the time being. Better wait until they were done forging before raising anything else.
The three of them left the smithy.
The near-noonday sun cast a rippling sheen over the river in the inner city.
A fine day indeed.
“So then, kid, do you dare have a little bout with me?” Orin stood on tiptoe by the riverbank, Griffin steel sword in hand, excitedly thrusting at the air several times in succession. Each slash tore the air with a sharp hiss, and he moved so fast his form almost blurred into afterimages.
“With pleasure...” Roy drew the sword from his back and was about to step in for a spar.
Kael stood with his arms folded, prepared to enjoy the daily performance, his brother putting a young Witcher recruit through misery.
But an unexpected visitor interrupted the three of them.
A Knight of the White Rose came to the forge.
“Witcher masters...” It was a familiar face. Roy had seen him beside Adda before, Cleveland, one of the princess’s trusted knights. “I have been sent under orders. The three of you must come with me at once.”
“Adda sent you?”
“No...” The knight shook his head, his expression complicated. “King Foltest requests your presence, because Princess Adda...” He swallowed unconsciously. “Something has happened to her.”
“What?!”
...
Foltest was solidly built, not soft and swollen like most wealthy men in middle age. He also had a hard, handsome face. In youth it might well have been called beautiful. Tempered now by the years and the air of one long accustomed to command, it had become strikingly martial.
He was a lecher, and he had the looks to afford it.
“Not even forty yet...” the Witcher muttered after a glance at him.
The king sat in a low blackwood armchair, one hand propping up his chin as he studied the three Witchers. An old yellowing dog lay curled at his feet for warmth. Behind him stood two men and two women, and among them Roy recognized one burly bearded man, Velerad, mayor of Vizima.
This old acquaintance nodded to them with a faint smile.
As for the other three, they were Royal Advisors, three sorcerers, Keira Metz among them.
All wore grave expressions. The hall felt as oppressive as the air before a storm.
“Witchers of the Viper School ... Orin, Kael, Roy.” After listening to Keira Metz’s introduction, the king was silent a while before he finally spoke.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Orin pulled back his hood and bowed his head. This time he was remarkably proper.
“You come from the south?”
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