System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 98
Smaerk Mine’s tunnels had filled Roy’s Loot Satchel to bursting — Nekker eyes, tongues, ears ... guts and assorted organs, hundreds of pieces.
Except for a dozen or so Green Mutagens which had to be kept for brewing Mutagenic Potions, and nails and teeth to be ground into bolts, everything else was to be sold.
Turn it into coin, and free up space.
Ellander, as a principality subject to Temeria, drew merchants from across the realms trading every manner of goods, and among them were always buyers willing to take monster parts.
But the prices required tact.
If a merchant smelled an amateur on the other side of the counter, the seller would be treated like fat to be carved, pressed down until the last coin. Witcher Letho had lived eighty years; he knew the market for spoils well.
He had a peculiar bargaining method. Clean and efficient, he’d name a price to anyone showing interest, then lock them with a pair of amber, icy eyes and say nothing as he waited for the counteroffer.
A third of traders, stared down for five seconds, would increase their offer on their own; within half a minute many would name a figure that satisfied him.
A Witcher’s lame leg, tall, broad frame, keen stare and polished bald head carried the weight of a hundred smooth words.
They struck bargains with three dealers in all; the Nekker eyes, tongues and ears, most of the organs, were sold. Two hundred Crown changed hands...
The money had not even warmed the purse before it was spent buying alchemical supplies.
Elixirs, blade oils and bombs had been spent to nothing; after the torments of the tunnels, their first duty upon seeing daylight again was to restock alchemical tools.
A large procurement followed.
Herbs such as Balisse Fruit and Celandine, special materials — phosphorus, sulfur, saltpeter — Mahakam spirits, cherry wine, mandrake wine and other liquors filled more than half a Loot Satchel.
They found the oldest, most reputable smithy in the city. In exchange for Nekker claws and teeth, they commissioned a hundred special crossbow bolts at twenty Copper per shaft. These bolts pierced deeper than common iron ones, were heavier, and retained a faint Nekker toxin on their heads; their stopping power exceeded that of ordinary bolts by a fair margin.
Letho left his longsword and short sword with the smith for sharpening and repair, another expense.
As for Gwyhyr, though it had seen combat in Smaerk Mine, a blade forged by goblins did not wear so easily; its edge remained smooth and true, sharp enough to slice a hair. Letho could oil and maintain it himself.
Besides, they did not trust a stranger to mind the sword.
To finish the purchases,
the Witcher and his apprentice had a tailor make two sets — one large, one small — of grey leather cuirasses and knee-high boots. One could not keep wearing thin linen and soft shoes forever; they offered no protection and hampered movement.
Such things were not cheap.
When the sun dipped west and Ellander took on an orange wash,
Roy tallied expenditures and earnings after a day at markets, avenues and shops, and nearly leapt from his skin. In a single day they had not only spent the proceeds from the monster parts, they had put more coin out of their pockets.
“Spending coin like water ... Witchers are a high-risk, high-reward line of work—with brutally high operating costs.”
Now only a little over a hundred Crown remained in their pockets; even without drink or women, it was tight.
“Letho, shouldn’t we take a few contracts and earn some coin?” the youth asked hopefully. He needed only one last type of magical creature to complete his hire conditions, then he could wait out the Trial of the Grasses in peace.
Besides, since joining Letho on the road he had not properly browsed the noticeboard for contracts; he longed to see it.
How could one be a proper Witcher without tearing a contract from the board?
“Not for a while,” the Witcher said, his pupils narrowing as he appraised the boy, as if seeing through him. “And Kid, have you not had enough killing in Smaerk Mine?”
“Life needs its balance of motion and rest. For the next few days you’ll assist me with alchemy.” The Witcher laid down the plan without room for argument. “When the alchemical kit is ready and the Mutagenic Potions done, we’ll go to the temple.”
...
As in Aldersberg, the Witcher rented a room with a kitchen in the city, called the boy in, and spent half a day converting it into a crude Alchemical Laboratory.
When all was ready, the familiar iron pot, earthen bowls, alembic, bellows and mortar and pestle reappeared in view. The youth felt a wave of vertigo, as if returned to that sunless time of waking to brew, sleeping to dream of brews.
But with it rose a strange hunger, the craving to, through hardship, fashion that small, perfect potion, to know that immense, private triumph.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.