System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 273: A Farewell at the Edge
“Findabair, I’m sorry. We came late.” The leading Aen Seidhe jumped down from the wall, his eyes moving over the elven lady with concern. “Good. You’re unharmed.”
“After leaving Bretanna for so many years, everyone is still willing to accept me? I...” Aveline’s voice caught. Her eyes reddened, tears glinting in them.
“What young soul has never rebelled? If a few years are enough to see a mistake through to its rotten root, it is not too late.” The elf comforted her. “Everyone still believes in you. The Summit of the Mountains is willing to receive a child who has lost her way and found it again.” The elf stepped closer to Aveline. “The Blue Mountains and the Valley of Flowers will always be your home. We will always be your brothers and sisters.”
...
“Roy, Kantila, let me introduce you.” Aveline’s hand passed over the elves before her one by one. After a moment’s recollection, the strangeness in her eyes quickly faded. “They are my brothers and sisters from the edge of the world, companions I grew up with...”
The edge of the world usually meant the Blue Mountains, which stretched down the eastern side of the entire Northern Realms.
“This is Seil.”
Aveline pointed to the elf who had just spoken with her.
Over a loose green satin shirt he wore a short green vest, with close-fitting wool leggings tucked into riding boots.
The Witcher’s thoughts stirred. He remembered seeing a similar style of dress somewhere.
“This is Vasili...” Aveline pointed to a middle-aged elven woman with long lashes and skin of unusual pallor.
Many circles of leather straps hung around her neck, strung with golden birch strips. In her hand she carried a birch staff carved with intricate patterns.
A faint thread of magic flowed between her slender fingertips and the birch staff. Without question, she was an elven sorcerer.
“This is Toruviel...” An elven girl, petite and holding an old lute, with a somewhat defiant expression. Her hair was black as ink and fell over her shoulders, with two thin braids tied near her temples. She dressed like a bard, though at her waist there was an extra strip of brightly colored cloth hanging down to her knees.
“And this is Kensafa...” A male elf who was holding Vyrt’s and Turnip’s vegetables in both hands and greedily eating them. His face was cold and foul, like a debt collector nursing a belly full of resentment.
After hearing Aveline’s introductions, Roy nodded in greeting to the four, though his gaze subconsciously studied the surroundings.
He was thinking through tactics.
The elves of the Blue Mountains had fought humans for years over ownership of the Valley of Flowers, and they had never been particularly friendly toward humans. If conflict broke out in such a narrow alley, he would be at a severe disadvantage.
He also noticed that all four unfamiliar elves were thin, with sallow faces, as if malnourished. Their physiques were not much better than ordinary humans. But they were experienced, faintly forming a battle array, and each bore, to greater or lesser degree, battlefield Skills such as One-Handed Sword Mastery or bow specialization. Clearly, they often took part in combat.
The other side was also observing the Witcher and Kantila.
The elven girl holding the lute was the first who could not restrain her curiosity. “Sister Findabair ... cough, cough ... I know this Zerrikanian girl. Kantila, yes? Seems she suffered with you. But who is he?”
“Roy. One of my best friends,” Aveline said.
“You never told everyone we had to bring an ape-man along.” The elven girl stared at the Witcher, then a flicker of doubt suddenly crossed her bright black eyes. “No. He looks familiar...”
“Familiar how?” asked the cold-faced elven man, biting off a large mouthful of carrot.
“His ears. The shape of his face. Look carefully!”
The elven girl plucked the lute strings in a disorderly way, then tried calling to the Witcher, “Que glosse? Quel’ en pavienn ell’ ea?”
“Nell’ ea.” Roy immediately answered in fluent Elder Speech. “T’en pavienn Aen Seidhe.”
“I knew it, friends, see...” Toruviel turned to the gluttonous elf. “This ape-man speaks the mother tongue! Cough, cough. He’s Aen Seidhe! No wonder I didn’t smell the stink most humans carry.”
“Ape-man? Is that how pure-blooded Aen Seidhe see humans?” The Witcher found the description a little amusing. He could already clearly sense the elven girl’s attitude softening, because of that shared thread of elven blood.
“Roy, was it? You don’t look old, but your body’s strong enough. Better than most of the sickly men in the mountains. Home needs vigorous young men like you. Come back to the Blue Mountains with us.”
“Enough, Toruviel. Don’t be absurd.” Seil’s gaze swept over the Witcher’s dark-gold pupils and the medallion at his neck. “This gentleman cannot possibly come with us. Can’t you see? He is a Witcher who cast off his identity as a Son of the Hill and chose the road of mutation instead. You expect a Witcher to stand with us against humans?”
“A Witcher. A human lapdog who works for coin?” Toruviel immediately pouted. Remembering something unpleasant, she lost all interest in Roy.
“Please don’t say that...” Aveline hastily explained. “I owe Roy my life. He got me out of the dungeon. Otherwise I wouldn’t have lived long enough to wait for you.”
“A Witcher saved an Aen Seidhe...” The four elves exchanged astonished looks.
Seil paused, then bowed to the Witcher. “Friend Roy, I apologize for my offensive words just now. You saved Findabair. That makes you a friend of the Sons of the Hill. You are welcome to visit the edge of the world, Dol Blathanna. You need only give my name to our kin. But this time, we are pressed for time...”
Seil turned to Aveline. “Lord Filavandrel is still waiting for you on the summit. If there is nothing else, we should set out.”
The elven lady nodded. She turned to face the Witcher and her Zerrikanian companion, her eyes complicated, as though preparing some solemn farewell ritual.
“Not so fast, all of you.” The Witcher suddenly interrupted. “I’m curious. How did you contact Aveline from the Valley of Flowers, thousands of miles away?”
For the past month, The Sea Scorpion’s Enigma had been under strict guard by the barony’s soldiers. By rights, they had no chance at all to contact the elves of the Valley of Flowers.
“I’ll explain for Findabair.” Seil stepped forward. “She carved her name on the pyre in the square, in our mother tongue. One of our people happened to see the mark and sent word back to the Blue Mountains.”
“Your people?”
“You don’t think all elves are holed up in the mountains, do you?” Seil smiled confidently. “There are Aen Seidhe brothers and sisters all over the world, and there will be more and more.”
“So you mean to take Aveline back to Bretanna?” Roy’s questioning tone carried dissatisfaction, displeasure, and opposition.
“That’s right. Is there a problem, Witcher?” Toruviel seemed unable to bear the Witcher’s dawdling attitude. She said impatiently, “And I spoke well of you just now. Are you trying to stop a Son of the Hill from returning to her homeland?”
“Toruviel, patience. So, Master Roy, what is your advice? Findabair should not go back?”
“You’re right.” The Witcher swept his eyes over the four elves and took a step forward. “Returning to Dol Blathanna is absolutely not the right choice.”
“Why do you say that? You must give me an explanation, Roy.” Aveline asked, looking at the Witcher, her lovely face drawn tight.
Roy took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and weighed his words for a moment, arranging his thoughts.
By now, he finally understood why Seil’s clothing gave him such a strange sense of familiarity.
The green color all over the Aen Seidhe was clearly the color of the infamous organization that would later be known as the Scoia’tael. They, too, had been exploited, oppressed, and driven into the Blue Mountains by the humans of Aedirn. Compared with the true Scoia’tael, they lacked only the squirrel-pelt adornments.
But it also reminded the Witcher that Dol Blathanna was one of the Scoia’tael’s strongholds.
If Aveline followed them back, there was no doubt she might join the Scoia’tael later. When the southern empire sounded its horn northward, she would inevitably shed blood on the battlefield beside her kin.
And what end did most Scoia’tael meet in the Northern Wars?
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