Bear School Astartes

Sure, here’s the translated text:

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Early the next morning, the two rode horses galloping down the road, guided by the cormorants in the sky.

The winter wind mixed with the moisture from the lakeside made it feel both wet and cold.

The clouds above remained bleak, and the wind emitted a low moan as it passed through the reeds.

It seemed Sir Fist was having quite a time with the lady who cast the curse.

The places where they met were centered around Ham, spreading over several surrounding villages.

Lann and Geralt rode into a rather ordinary small village, indistinguishable from other villages across the mainland.

On the dung-filled, muddy road, dogs, cats, and poultry walked by, barking and clucking.

The villagers hid behind closed doors as the two hooded knights sped past, not daring to speak.

Fortunately, their target wasn’t in this village either. The knight had gone far away to rendezvous with his lover; the target certainly wasn’t this small village.

Geralt lifted the brim of his hood and gazed upwards, quickly locking onto a white spot in the sky.

”Pass through, it’s not far southeast from here.”

With a slight tilt of his head to explain, the White Wolf squeezed the carrot’s belly and shot forward.

Lann nearly matched his pace in the instant he started, pushing Bopai to move simultaneously.

He certainly didn’t want to be splattered by ’mud pellets’ flicked up by the carrot’s hooves for being a step behind.

The young Demon Hunter revealed a mischievous smile from underneath his hood.

”This old guy looks like a scarred star, but secretly... he’s sly!”

Not the kind of ’bad’ that harbors ill intentions to harm people, but rather like a mischievous child who loves to prank!

How old is this old guy, anyway?

Lann speculated idly about the age of this elder.

Soon, the two passed through the village, arriving at a stretch of fallow fields, tangled with many withered branches on the ground.

This patch of ground, divided by furrows, seemed to belong to none of the farmers here.

The cormorant had already landed nearby, seemingly hesitant to approach, standing on the furrow in the barren field, pointing a wing at the pile of dry branches and squawking.

”A patch... of rose bushes?”

The two dismounted and walked to the edge of the dry branches, and Lann’s alchemical knowledge allowed him to quickly identify the original appearance of the shriveled branches.

Instantly, the countryside lad, Mr. Lan, added a touch of admiration in his gaze towards the cormorant.

”You brought your lover to see this patch of roses growing in the furrows of the field... In the fields! In plain view! Public place!”

Lann didn’t believe Fist Knight had come simply to admire the flowers.

Even though people in this world are open about ’sex,’ doing it in the field where others are working... bulls-eye!

The cormorant squawked, turning its back to Lann, motionless.

Geralt smacked his lips meaningfully before calling over to Lann.

”Alright, the client’s personal hobbies aren’t within our service scope.”

Thus, the two began to investigate around this not-too-large flower patch.

The bear and wolf necklaces showed no tremors, proving there was no lingering Chaos Magic Power here, and it wasn’t the source of the curse.

To transform a robust human male into a cormorant, the magic traces of such a curse should not have faded away invisibly after just two years.

”Do roses wither so thoroughly in winter?”

Lann muttered as he pulled apart the intertwined branches.

What should have been flexible flower stems had become rigid like twigs, shaking up a cloud of ash when pulled.

Geralt was unsurprised.

”Before the cormorant curse became notorious, villagers would probably take care of this flower patch, but once the curse spread, they probably wish they could burn it down; now they’re afraid to touch it because they don’t want to get involved.”

”Ha, got it!”

Geralt pulled out a small piece of cloth from the solidified soil, tearing it out along with soil clumps.

After shaking it clean, he found it was black fabric with silver thread.

”Good fabric and workmanship, certainly not typical of women from this village. And the torn part... bitten and pulled by teeth?”

Geralt had a habit similar to Lann—or perhaps all Demon Hunters shared this habit—they would murmur to themselves about phenomena perceived through their extraordinary senses.

At the end, Geralt held up the cloth towards the cormorant.

”Is this the clothes she was wearing then?... Do you like using teeth to bite?”

The old Demon Hunter, who had seen and experienced much, felt the knight was into some wild fetish.

The cormorant hopped a little further away.

Geralt shrugged, considering it solid evidence.

He commented to the young man who was keenly watching the drama.

”See, here lies the difficulty in lifting a curse. Those afflicted by the curse always resist revealing their privacy, communication is challenging enough, yet they are unwilling to make an effort to communicate with us.”

The young man smiled, nodding, indicating he had learned another lesson.

Then, the two rode back into the village, beginning to ask if anyone remembered the events of that year.

The villagers avoided the curse, showing no intention to communicate with the two Demon Hunters.

Ultimately, it was Lann who approached the village elder directly, pressuring him with Baron Ham’s name and the safety of the villagers, reluctantly instructing the villagers to say what needed to be said.

Geralt watched in surprise as Lann effortlessly made the village elder break out into cold sweat with just a few words, though he glared angrily at the two, he cooperated obediently.

”I was ready to use King Aivelle’s letter just now.”

Geralt patted his satchel.

”That thing is useless; villagers don’t care what a distant king says or signs. Baron Ham, who can shake out grain during harvest, is much more revered by them.”

Lann shrugged indifferently, during the time he stayed with Old Allen in Auridon, he had pretty much understood people like village elders.

Geralt nodded: ”Seeing you so proficiently, you’re practically a capable Demon Hunter who can roam around making money if curses weren’t involved.”

”That’s the issue.” Lann picked up the topic.

”I believe what Demon Hunters know, I should too, and be good at it. Call me obsessive, if you will. Curses are a fascinating study, even if I don’t use them, I should at least know how to deal with them.”

”Ha, a sense of crisis.” Geralt sharply commented on the young man’s thoughts. ”A practical and necessary feeling, my mentor always wanted me to keep that sense. He said ’although no Demon Hunter can die peacefully in bed, maintaining a sense of crisis can make your death a bit later.’”

Lann agreed with this.

”Wise words.”

”Indeed.” Geralt admitted, ”But it’s just exhausting; we’re human too, and our souls can grow weary. So most of us find ourselves at taverns taking a serving girl upstairs for some extra cash, or revisiting preferred brothels. Anyway, even my mentor would ’relax’ occasionally.”

”Honestly... there’s probably no Demon Hunter in this world who doesn’t patronize prostitutes, right? How else would they survive?”

Lann only smiled at this topic, not responding.