Chapter 8: Qarth's Underbelly
Qarth's undercity pulsed with shadows, its tunnels damp with seawater, the air thick with mold, salt, and the faint hum of forbidden magic, the walls carved with faded sigils that glowed under torchlight. The city above slept, its marble palaces silent, the stars hidden by clouds. Adam Stiels crouched by a tunnel entrance, his black cloak damp, his HUD glowing: [SYSTEM: LEVEL 1, 15/100 USES, 10-MINUTE COOLDOWN.] His hazel eyes pierced the darkness, his fingers twitching to snap, his smirk wide as he sensed warlock activity, his boots silent on the slick stone, the air cool with underground chill. Qarth's got secrets, and I'm the guy to crack 'em, he thought, his cloak brushing the wall, its sandstone rough, his breath visible in the damp air.
Adam snapped his fingers, casting Aard, a gust of force roaring through the tunnel, clearing collapsed rubble, the stones scattering to reveal a chamber with warlock sigils, their eerie glow pulsing like a heartbeat. [SYSTEM: AARD, 1 MINUTE, 16/100 USES.] He found ritual clues—vials of blood, dragon scales, a charred scroll—hinting at a plot against Daenerys' dragons, his HUD pinging: [SYSTEM: QUEST: UNCOVER WARLOCK PLOT. REWARD: 100 XP.] Adam pocketed the scroll, its parchment brittle, his fingers tracing the ink, the air heavy with the scent of old magic. Warlocks are playing dirty, but I've got the edge, he thought, his smirk sharp, his sword hilt cool under his palm.
At a tavern, Adam bonded with Jorah, sharing a Witcher contract story about a shadowcat hunt, its claws glinting in his memory, the knight's eyes softening over a mug of ale, its foam spilling. "You're almost fun, Ser Frowns," Adam said, tossing a coin, its silver flashing, Jorah's laugh gruff but genuine, his armor creaking as he leaned back. At a Qartheen feast, Adam pranked a noble, casting Axii to make him dance wildly, his silks flailing, the crowd roaring, their goblets raised. [SYSTEM: AXII, 30 SECONDS, 17/100 USES.] "Dance lessons free, courtesy of me," Adam said, the noble's glare sharp, his turban askew, the music swelling.
Adam spotted a system NPC in the tavern, his glow faint, a Gwent deck on his table, its cards worn. Adam's Geralt card crushed the NPC's Nilfgaard deck, winning a Triss card and gold, the coins heavy in his pouch. [SYSTEM: GWENT WIN, TRISS CARD, 3/10 MATCHES.] "My deck's hotter than Qarth," Adam teased, the trader's laugh warm, his hands shuffling cards. Adam explored the undercity, finding a basilisk nest, its scales glinting, its hiss low, his sword drawn but unneeded, the air thick with its musk. He crafted a Grapeshot bomb, mixing wildfire traces and sulfur, its fuse sparking, testing it on crates, the explosion sharp, wood splintering. [SYSTEM: ALCHEMY, GRAPESHOT CRAFTED, 2/5 POTIONS.]
Adam flirted with Daenerys at the feast, her violet eyes bright, her silver hair catching torchlight, her laugh soft as he leaned close. "Dragon date? I'll bring the snacks," he said, her hand brushing his, warm and fleeting, the air warm with wine and music. He bantered with a Qartheen guard, deflecting questions about the tunnels with a quip: "Just sightseeing, friend. Got a map?" The guard's eyes narrowed, but his nod was grudging. Adam reflected on his Witcher empire, pacing the tunnels, the damp air chilling his skin. Orphans, not slaves, for my crew, he thought, planning to recruit more, his HUD pinging: [SYSTEM: EMPIRE'S GROWING. DON'T SLACK.]
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