System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 254: Dark Rumors in the Tavern
In the morning, the sky was choked with cloud, a dull sheet of grey, and the air was wet to the point of saturation.
Because they had an injured man to look after, the Witchers advanced slowly, but still managed to cross into the lands of the La Valette Barony before noon.
Roy had not been idle these past three days either. With his ribs not yet healed, he could not engage in anything strenuous, so he gave himself wholly to pondering crossbow technique. He dug out the archery notes Regan Dahlberg had gifted him back on Mount Carbon, read them over and over, and kept sorting through his conclusions.
A year of uninterrupted training finally rose to a new level. Crossbow Mastery broke through without a sound, becoming, after Alchemy, the second Skill to reach lv2, earned through hard practice alone.
Crossbow Mastery LV2: After tens of thousands of shots, you have further mastered the use of hand crossbows and crossbows. When using such weapons, shooting accuracy, effective range, and penetration gain a 5% → 10% bonus.
You may actively activate this ability to double the bonuses, but stamina consumption is also doubled, and your movement speed is halved. This state lasts for at least 30 seconds.
The young Witcher lay sprawled across brown horse’s back, gazing absently at the rolling horizon in the distance, satisfaction plain on his face.
The hand crossbow was a vital part of his combat system. It affected the power of Blink and guided arrows alike. With Crossbow Mastery improved, his overall strength would benefit too.
There was also a subtle difference between this slow, cumulative improvement and simply adding points with Skill Points. Every small step here was soaked in sweat. It felt more earned.
“The next Skill to improve, hm, should be longsword Specialization.”
...
The La Valette Barony was the La Valette family’s fief in Temeria. It lay in the kingdom’s far north, on the south bank of the Pontar River, right beside the White Bridge that spanned the water. Crossing it led straight into Redania, far more convenient and faster than taking some ramshackle, rocking barge across the river.
The La Valette family had managed the Barony for generations, controlling all the trade routes and ferry crossings nearby. With constant expansion by the family, this demesne had become the largest and strongest bulwark in northern Temeria.
“Have any of you been to the La Valette city proper?” Flavius asked as he walked along the rutted country road, looking into the distance, beyond the quiet villages and the thriving fields.
The land was planted with peas, lettuce, bitter melon, onions, tomatoes, and other crops, all growing well. Unlike barren Velen, the peasants of La Valette could harvest enough to live on without needing oak oil from the Ladies of the Wood.
Bald Letho shook his head. “What’s so special about the place?”
“I once thought Vizima was the most impressive place in Temeria, until I entered La Valette Castle. That great town-fortress, in sheer scale, is no less than the capital of any kingdom in the North,” Flavius said, then shook his head. “No use talking it to death. Better you see it with your own eyes.”
The Witchers quickened their pace, and not long after, a cloudburst fell.
...
A village in the outskirts, The Cockatrice Inn.
Accompanied by a bout of wood scraping sourly against itself, five slightly damp Witchers filed into the tavern one after another and sat down shoulder to shoulder at the bar.
On the far left sat the biggest of them, Letho. To his right in order were Orin, Kael, Flavius, and Roy. At the far right sat the smallest of the lot, the boy Karl.
From behind, they formed a descending line from left to right, high to low, the six heads like a row of rolling hills, with a strange sort of symmetry to it.
“Owner, five mugs of Vizima dark ale.” Letho knocked on the counter and looked around. The tavern suited its name perfectly, narrow, dim, damp, and filthy.
It felt like a chicken coop magnified a hundredfold.
At the moment, some dozen patrons were eating and drinking in the corners. Some were local villagers in coarse linen, others road-worn merchants and travelers from afar.
The Witchers, with their paired swords on their backs and their unmistakable bearing, drew every eye in the room as soon as they stepped in.
The chatter stopped. Strange looks swept over them, then quickly turned away again.
But the Witchers’ sharp senses still caught one man in particular whose gaze was less than friendly, laced with faint disgust.
“God above, open your eyes. Since when did this pack of freaks start traveling together? They’ve even got a boy with them. No telling which poor farmer’s house they snatched him from ... scrawny little thing too, must be suffering badly.”
The Witchers heard every word of the fleshy-faced fellow’s mutter, but none of them reacted. If they threw hands every time someone slandered them, they would die of exhaustion before anything else.
“Your ale. Want anything more?” The barkeep, who was also the owner, had just set down the drinks and now leaned on the counter, glancing at the standing clock in the corner. The hand pointed to noon, proper dinner time.
“And six servings of grilled fish and smoked pork...” Letho said.
“And a glass of apple juice,” Roy added. “I’m not drinking right now, not even beer...”
“If you won’t drink, it would be a waste.” Orin gave Roy’s beer a light push. The mug slid right across the bar and stopped neatly in front of Karl.
The huge round beer mug was filled with dark liquid and capped with thick white foam, giving off the sweet, mellow scent of malt. Karl gave it a sniff and immediately narrowed his eyes, looking half-drunk already.
The two-pint mug was bigger than his head.
“Kid, first proper meal you’ve had with us, so we ought to make a ceremony of it. Witcher rules. Finish this mug and from now on we’re proper brothers.”
This time Kael did not rebuke his brother. He only watched quietly.
“Uh...” The boy swallowed and looked toward his master for help.