System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 99
In the brightly lit Alchemical Laboratory, the quarter-elf youth was checking the alchemical goods on the table.
“Dancing Star ... two,” the boy weighed a green glass jar in each hand, tossed them into the air and caught them; his palms closed and opened, and the clay vessel then vanished oddly.
His gaze moved to a small blue jar wrapped in yellow twine.
“Dimeritium Bomb ... only one, Dimeritium Powder’s short...” He tapped it with a finger, and the transparent glass vial, half the size of a fist, disappeared.
“Dragon’s Dream, two...”
“Swallow, two...”
“Paralyzing Venom, five, Celandine Potion, five...” His even, forceful hand swept over a row of potions, crystal-clear like water, and a row of pale yellow vials.
“Everything’s here.” Roy looked toward Letho seated at the Alchemical Table in meditation and let out a smile of relief. For a full week he and the Witcher had brewed day and night; at last they had replenished the missing alchemical supplies.
During that time they had collected the custom bolts and the serviced weapons from the smithy, and reclaimed the leather suits from the tailor; they were a touch more modest than Roy had imagined.
Next came preparations for the Trial of the Grasses...
“All right, Kid, this is where you step back.” The Witcher rose from meditation; the stone of his face showed a brief gravity, “I need to stay in the Alchemical Laboratory for three days, and focus on processing the materials for the Mutagenic Potions. Remember, do not disturb me.”
“As for you ... use this time to walk around Ellander.”
Roy exhaled in relief; more of this and he might go mad, though his curiosity about the Mutagenic Potions still gnawed at him, “Actually I can handle the odd jobs.”
“At your alchemical level you cannot assist.” The Witcher refused decisively, uncharacteristically blunt. “Mutagenic Potions are grave business; no step can be flawed, or they become outright lethal toxins.”
Roy grew more uneasy on hearing that, “But why must they be taken at the Temple of Melitele?”
“Kid, you’re mistaken about one thing.” The Witcher’s voice fell heavy. “Once Mutagenic Potions are finished, they must be taken or injected immediately. For the next few days I’ll only be performing precise processing of the herbs. It isn’t time for the final brews yet.”
“The reason we place that final step at the Temple of Melitele,” the Witcher explained, “is that High Priestess Nenneke keeps a top-grade herbarium there, cultivating certain herbs essential to Mutagenic Potions. Beyond that, they possess refined alchemical apparatus, and the sorcerer who will assist you through the Trial of the Grasses must be vouched to her.”
“What if she refuses?”
“She owes me a favour ... and I have other bargaining chips.” The Witcher sounded certain. “She will agree.”
“All right. Take your fifth pre-potion now, then you may go out. Return in three days.”
The fourteen-year-old, dressed in black leather, sweating but full of spirit, left the modest Alchemical Laboratory.
It was morning; the sun was mild. The streets of Ellander thrummed with life. Compared with village and small-town folk, the city’s inhabitants dressed with more flair, no longer only in drab greys and blacks; brighter colours embroidered hats, necklaces, rings, belts and headbands.
This was a city alive.
Roy drew in a deep breath, stretched with a bright grin; he felt renewed. In the past he might have run straight for a tavern and a hand of Gwent, but now he had a more pressing urge. Free of the Witcher’s tether for a while, he wanted to try to fulfill a contract on his own.
On the wide, clean street he had not gone far when a heavily made-up, voluptuous woman beckoned him with a finger, a suggestive smile on her face, her shoulder-length hair damp and loose.
Roy glanced twice, then quickly looked away and quickened his pace.
In this world, maidens braided their hair, married women hid it beneath caps or scarves, noblewomen wound it into elaborate styles, female warriors cut it short; only followers of the Druidic Faith, sorceresses and prostitutes left their hair loose to assert independence.
The woman on the street was clearly the last.
Roy refused to fall into bad habits; he kept his hands to himself.
At the city’s centre, in front of the spiderwebbed, dust-covered Notice Board,
the hopeful youth found his courage wilt when he stared at the few crumpled contracts pinned there.
“What is this rubbish ... hm ... looking for a lost cat?” He shook his head in distaste. “I’m not a firefighter, I lack the patience.”
“Suspect a third party and need evidence your husband’s cheating?” he scoffed. “Why not fight fire with fire and keep a handsome lad of your own to return the favour?”
“Care for a paralysed aunt? Sorry, I lack a nanny’s skill...”
His eyes flicked to the bottom-right corner, settling on a fresh new contract; Roy’s face finally took on a bit of solemnity. “Missing son?”
He smoothed the notice and read it carefully.
“Listen here! Urgent, please help! Bounty Hunters or Witchers, whoever you are, Old Hark has a 150 Crown job for you—”
“My dearest son, eighteen-year-old Barshel, vanished after going to fish at the riverside ... If anyone can help me find him, come to the bakery east of Ellander for a talk ... experienced folk only, no impostors!”
Countryside, fishing, disappearance.
Roy rubbed his chin. The scope could be broad; it might not be a monster. Still, this was the most plausible contract on the board.
He would take a look.
Inside the stifling bakery, fifty-two-year-old Old Hark was placing dough, finally proved and shaped, one by one into a great arched oven.
Neatly arranged.
Old Hark had run his bakery in Ellander for over twenty years; at least a third of the townsfolk had bought from him. In better times, setting dough into the oven was his happiest hour, like watching a child ripen to perfect taste; every bead of sweat would seem to smile on his gaunt, dry face.
But the past two days had left that face as grim as a thundercloud. Bread was bread, but kin were everything.
At the thought of his missing son his thin body began to shake; his nose tightened and his eyes reddened; he wanted to clutch his head and weep. Old Hark knew only too well that the missing in Ellander usually met two ends: corpse or mutilated corpse.
Fewer than one in ten survived.
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.