Powerless Boy is reborn as Lustful Elf -
Chapter 47: Welcome to our humble abode
Chapter 47: Welcome to our humble abode
The heavy wooden door of Elaris Hold creaked open on timeworn hinges, groaning softly as it gave way to the space within.
Alex stepped hesitantly over the threshold, his boots brushing against the smooth, slightly scuffed floorboards as he entered.
At once, the air changed. The crisp, raw scent of the outdoors, damp earth, hay, and the faint tang of animal musk, gave way to something gentler, more inviting.
It was a warm, layered fragrance, subtle but distinct: the mellow scent of old polished wood soaked with time, mingled with delicate undertones of dried herbs, aged parchment, and faint traces of lingering paint, perhaps from a recent touch-up or a long-finished project that still left its ghost in the air.
His breath caught slightly as his eyes roamed the interior, widening in quiet wonder.
The space was nothing like Thalorin’s sleek, sharply structured home, where every item had its place and purpose, where clean lines and minimalist order spoke of restraint and control. This place, by contrast, felt alive
The walls of the entry hall seemed to breathe with life, awash in color and brimming with the texture of countless years.
They were not bare or static but vibrant and expressive, as though the very soul of the home had been painted onto them.
Large, detailed paintings of elven landscapes stretched across the walls in frames that looked hand-carved, twisting oak, knotted vine patterns, and curling leaves catching the warm interior light.
The scenes themselves glowed with rich hues: burnt golds and deep violets, cool blues layered with pale silver, capturing the otherworldly stillness of ancient forests, moonlit lakes, and twilight skies.
They shimmered slightly, as if the pigments had stolen the colors of real sunsets and held them in quiet reverence.
Beneath the paintings, shelves lined the walls like silent storytellers, each one laden with wooden crafts so detailed they seemed to belong in a museum rather than a humble home.
Miniature sculptures filled every available space, each one a marvel of patience and skill, mythical beasts caught mid-roar or mid-flight, their wings stretched or jaws open, every scale and feather rendered in careful strokes.
Intertwined branches formed delicate abstract shapes, their lines flowing in ways that defied logic
"Are these animals real?" Alex asked, his voice hushed as he leaned in to examine a sleek, winged creature carved from dark wood, its talons outstretched, frozen in a pose of mid-flight fury.
Thalorin’s smile came slowly, touched with something distant, nostalgia, perhaps, or quiet grief. "Not anymore, sadly," he said, his voice low and measured. "They belonged to a different time. A much older era, before even the oldest stories were inked onto parchment."
Tiny figurines and delicate sculptures were scattered across every available surface, each one placed with a kind of quiet reverence that made the room feel curated rather than cluttered. A slender stag, frozen mid-leap, balanced on the edge of a shelf as if it might spring away at any moment. Nearby, a crystalline bird stood with wings outstretched, its translucent feathers catching the light in soft glimmers, as though it had been caught in the instant just before taking flight.
There was a story in every piece, an invisible thread connecting the artists’ vision to the warmth of the home.
It was clear that this was more than decoration, it was devotion. A shared love for beauty, for craftsmanship, for creation.
"Welcome to our humble abode," Jusin said, his voice rough-edged but mellowed by a warmth that softened the gravel in his tone.
There was a quiet pride in the way he spoke, the kind that came not from grandeur or wealth, but from years of care and personal touch poured into every inch of the place.
He watched Alex take it all in, his gaze flicking from wall to wall, and the faint smile tugging at the corners of Jusin’s mouth deepened.
His boots, still caked with dried streaks of mud from the road outside, thudded heavily against the wooden floorboards.
The sound echoed faintly in the warm, high-ceilinged room, leaving behind smudged prints like temporary signatures on the smooth grain.
But Jusin didn’t glance down, didn’t apologize or fuss.
Griesla lingered quietly at Jusin’s side, her presence delicate and composed, like a still portrait painted into the warmth of the room.
Her pale hands were folded neatly before her, fingers interlaced with a subtle tension that spoke of nerves carefully restrained.
As she shifted her weight slightly, the ruby chain nestled at her throat caught a beam of golden light and flickered with a muted brilliance, one sharp glint in contrast to her otherwise soft, understated appearance.
Alex gave a small, distracted nod, not quite to anyone in particular.
His eyes moved slowly across the room, drinking in its many details with quiet awe.
The light spilling through the tall windows played across the smooth surface of a polished sculpture, making it gleam like something enchanted.
They didn’t linger long in the living room.
With a grunt and a nod, Jusin took the lead, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the walls of the narrow staircase as he began the climb.
Each step groaned beneath his weight, the wood protesting in long, familiar creaks that echoed faintly in the stairwell.
Griesla moved behind him with measured grace, her light steps barely stirring the dust.
The hem of her gown swept along the wooden stairs in a soft whisper, like leaves brushing stone, the fabric catching and releasing the dim light with each movement.
Her figure, slender and ghostlike in the upward glow, seemed to float more than follow.
Thalorin brought up the rear, his cloak trailing behind him, the edge rustling faintly as it skimmed the carved banister.
His steps were quieter than Jusin’s but carried a confident rhythm,
They continued down a narrow hallway where the light grew softer, filtered through a tall, arched window at the far end.
The walls here were quieter but no less alive, lined with smaller works of art, delicate sketches and faded paintings framed in wood that bore the grain of age.
If you find any errors (non-standard content, ads redirect, broken links, etc..), Please let us know so we can fix it as soon as possible.
Report