System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 296: A Dangerous Dark Syndicate Offer
“Scum. Useless singer.”
In an alley in northern Novigrad, beside a narrow house painted pink, a slender elf man with a seductive bearing stood in his nightclothes on a rooftop terrace filled with flowers, looking down. He seized a flowerpot and was just about to throw it.
Below, a handsome man with two little mustaches and an olive hat decorated with feathers leapt backward like a goat, barely dodging the flowerpot as it shattered into a thousand pieces before him.
Then a lute flew down, and the man dodged it in a flurry.
“Please, Ariel,” he shouted with a bitter smile. “Don’t believe their nonsense. I’ve been loyal to you. I absolutely have not sought out other men. If I’m lying, may I stay chaste for the rest of my life.”
“Rogue. Devil. Don’t bother me again.” The elf man roared and ran back inside, slamming the window shut.
“Why won’t you believe me? What man could compare to your peerless beauty? Of course ... women aside.” The handsome man muttered as he picked up the lute from the ground. Like a prairie marmot, he warily looked all around, only relaxing when he saw no one had noticed. Then he calmly straightened his bright-blue, notched-lapel tight jacket with puffed sleeves.
“If this place won’t keep me, another will. Just as well I go to that boss’s banquet and change my thoughts. Perhaps I can find some inspiration.”
The bard regained his composure, held his lute, tuned the strings, and plucked a few notes to test them. As he crossed the narrow alley, he played a low, trembling melody.
...
“Master Dandelion, welcome to the poetry lovers’ assembly...” Outside the Vanilla Inn, located in Novigrad’s most prosperous district, two doorkeepers wearing blue armbands bowed to the newcomer. “It has been a month since we last met. Have any new works of yours come into the world?”
“Your home is shrouded in white snow, frost covers river and lake...” Dandelion sang one line in a magnetic voice, and only one line. Then he looked askance at the two doorkeepers, as if unwilling to discuss elegant art with such crude men. “You two are not trying to hear my Winter before Boss Alphonse, are you?”
“We wouldn’t dare, wouldn’t dare. Is this poem called Winter? A marvelous name.” Panic flashed across Letho’s face, and he stepped aside. “Sadly, Boss Alphonse is not here today. Steward Bogart is presiding over the gathering ... He is waiting for you inside. Please enter, master.”
Only then did the bard proudly push open the wooden door of the Vanilla Inn.
The Vanilla Inn was one of the largest inns in all Novigrad. Its first-floor gathering hall was frighteningly large, enough to hold over a hundred people in revelry at once.
At the moment, the tables and chairs that usually filled the hall had been moved to the edges, covered with all kinds of delicacies, drinks, and fruit juices to accompany the meal. In one corner of the hall, there was a great bonfire with roasting spits set over it.
Bundles of mistletoe and heather hung high on the surrounding walls. Beneath two groups of magic lamps on the left and right sides of the ceiling stretched a red ribbon, bearing several striking words: Novigrad Poetry Lovers’ Assembly.
By tradition, the inn was also hung everywhere with “garlands” woven of garlic, to frighten off vampires no one had ever seen.
Dandelion put down the lute in his hand, comfortably lifted a cup of wine, and took a sip. His gaze could not help settling on the stage in the central open space.
Though the place was crowded, it was not noisy. More than thirty poetry lovers from Novigrad and nearby areas were gathered here. Most were petty nobles pretending to refinement, wealthy merchants, and bards, along with bodyguards and thugs from the Willie Gang in the corners, all quietly listening to a young woman’s captivating performance.
The woman wore an elegant long dress and sat on the stage, accompanying her pleasing song with the lute across her knees. She looked under twenty, with a shapely figure and golden hair falling over her shoulders.
Dandelion had arrived a little late, just in time to hear her sing the last few lines in a voice round and bright as an oriole’s. The crowd responded with thunderous applause and cheers, but she merely nodded slightly, her long hair swaying with the motion.
“All right, esteemed ladies and gentlemen, friends.” The tavern owner lifted his beer mug and shouted, “Let us once again thank Lady Vesprala for her splendid performance, and also thank Mr. Alphonse. Because of his generous and selfless sponsorship, the broad ranks of poetry lovers and like-minded souls can take part in such a wonderful gathering.”
“To Vesprala, to Alphonse Willie.”
On the left side of the hall, a well-dressed middle-aged man, Alphonse’s steward, stood and raised his beer with a face full of reverence.
...
After a long while, the bardess squeezed out of the crowd. “Hi, Dandelion.”
“Hi, Priscilla. That song just now was lovely. Your signature piece has improved quite a bit. I said long ago, if you cannot write songs yourself and inspiration is always withering, you might as well borrow some from others. Do you do that often?”
“Not really,” Priscilla answered tit for tat. She smiled, revealing small, white teeth. “There simply are not many songs worth borrowing. Either the lyrics are too vulgar and poor, or the melody is too monotonous and fails to meet the audience’s expectations. But what about you, Dandelion? Have you written anything new recently? I have not heard of any for quite some time.”
“No wonder.” The bard sighed. “The places where I sing invite only the most gifted and famous artists. I have never seen you in those places.”
Vesprala’s face flushed. She blew at her hair. “If your words reach that boss’s ears, guess whether he will be pleased or angry? Guess whether you will still be able to earn a meal in Novigrad after that?”
The one whose face flushed became Dandelion. He attended a gathering held by a gang boss only to fill his belly and gather some benefit. Though Alphonse was obsessed with poetry and greatly admired Dandelion’s work, unfortunately, he was hardly a proper poet and had dirtied his hands with gang business. Dandelion outwardly cooperated with his hobby, but inwardly looked down on him somewhat.
“All right, old friend, let us stop trading barbs...” Dandelion’s eyes rolled, and he changed the topic. “I cannot keep Steward Bogart waiting. I should go over.”
“No hurry...” Vesprala shook her head and glanced toward Bogart, a strange brilliance in her eyes. “The steward is meeting several honored guests and has no time for you just now.”
“What honored guests are more important than me?” Dandelion followed her gaze and saw three utterly unfamiliar figures by the gang steward’s table. They were completely different from most of the fashionable, bloated, or thin and feeble guests around them. Their clothes were simple and plain, their bodies strong. From their backs alone, they gave an impression of hardness and steadiness.
“Foreign poetry lovers drawn here by reputation?” Dandelion saw the amber vertical pupils of one of the men, and another familiar old friend suddenly appeared in his mind.
“They are the protagonists of my next work. Witchers.”
...
“Boss Alphonse didn’t come today?” Orin was the first to lift his beer toward the middle-aged man across the round table. “I’ll drink this cup first, as respect.”
Today, three Witchers had come to the Vanilla Inn. Roy and Kael sat beside Orin, while the others stayed at home with Old Mole.
Beside the man were several gang thugs, their faces hostile and their eyes wary.
Several waves of guests who had wanted to come over and offer toasts had already been frightened away by the atmosphere at this table and left on their own.
Roy swept his gaze over the people one by one. A faint, hidden light passed through his dark-gold pupils, and then he raised a brow.
A few strong bodyguards with outstanding physiques were nothing strange, but not far behind Bogart stood a middle-aged man exchanging cups with the bards. He wore a thin gray robe, a silver ankh hanging from his neck, and his body emitted a faintly discernible magic fluctuation.
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