Headed by a Snake

⟬ A few bells later. ⟭

"Two more orders of the lamb," Tycondrius tapped his fingers on the table... before turning to the waitress and adding, "Please."

The curly-haired human girl folded her hands, looking to him and then glancing at the dishes spread out in front of Sol Invictus.

Several empty plates were already stacked by Tycon's side-- coin well spent.

Still, there was nothing apparent to excuse the woman's uncertainty.

"Shall... I put it in a container, Sir?" She asked.

Tycon narrowed his eyes, "No, that will not be necessary. And bring another pitcher of drink..."

According to the quality, he did not choose to remember its name.

"Y-you'll be eating them here?" Said the wide-eyed waitress.

Tycon placed his palm to his forehead.

Oh, no.

She was an idiot.

When food is ordered at a restaurant... it is best consumed at the table.

...Was that uncommon knowledge in the Eastern States?

In the past, Tycon dined with feral Wolfbangers and fool Gorgons, and even they knew that much...

"Yes," Tycon answered curtly. "Please. And thank you."

Though it was a struggle, he reigned in his frustration before waving the waitress away.

The woman should have been ecstatic. Tycon was a paying customer and the bill would not be small. Yet... as she walked away, she carried a look of what would logically be concern.

"LT..." Krysaos frowned, "Are you okay, man?"

"Such is relative, Krysaos," Tycon scowled. "For now, I will be *okay* once I eat my fill."

He refilled his own cup and half of the Captain's with the remains of the final pitcher.

Tycon downed the mediocre, bubbly drink immediately, closing his eyes to enjoy the nigh-insignificant hint of drunkenness that came with it.

Krysaos shifted uneasily in his seat, "LT..."

"If you've eaten your own fill, Krysaos, then at least finish your drink."

...The half-god hesitated before taking a polite sip from his cup, "We've been here for two bells, Tycon. Both Thunder God and I have both eaten two-- almost three full frickin' meals."

Ridiculous. If Hades were present, at least the Death Orc could have kept up with Tycon's consumption.

A single tear rolled down the cheek of a certain shirtless god, "I... can no longer feel my face."

"And it would be a blessing if I could no longer see it," Tycon rolled his eyes. "And what, then, of the drink?"

Krysaos crossed his arms, "Altogether, the four of us have emptied two kegs. And that Tarquin guy..."

Tycon crushed the wooden cup in his hands. The violent crack was pleasing to his ears.

Destroying things... though generally wasteful, was mildly effective in lifting his mood.

"If you find my company overly tedious, Sea God, then I shall restrain thee no longer," He groaned, "Go. Be free. Galavant about the city. Partake in recreational drugs..."

Tycon felt his blood growing hot-- "But remain faithful to Mina or, regardless of your status and my safety, I will forcibly insert three fulms of adamantine up your--"

"I get it, I get it," Krysaos held up his palms in surrender. "You're pissed off at somethin' and taking it out on the food."

"The grilled lamb at this fine establishment," Tycon growled, "is. f*cking. Amazing."

It was the only thing better than average... but that was enough.

Krysaos stole a glance at the party's collection of empty plates, "Y-yeah. No arguing there. But c'mon, LT. If something's wrong... we can talk about it."

Tycon narrowed his eyes, "I'd much rather distract myself via pleasures of the flesh."

"Yeah?" Krysaos leaned forward, "And then what?"

...Taking a deep breath, Tycon leaned back in his chair, "Then... I'm going to get a haircut. And then I'll pay a visit to the Messenger's Guild."

The Captain clenched his fist, "Tight. Now we're getting somewhere. What should we do then, guild leader?"

Tycon raised an eyebrow, "Mockery does not become you, Brother-Captain."

"Whatever, guy," Krysaos shrugged. "We had an agreement a long while back. I'm in charge of sea shite. Land ops are all yours."

Fair.

Tycon raised his hand and began cracking his knuckles.

"...Mister Wroe, I'll have you seek an audience with the Arcanite Princess. Have her artifice a new device to track the Blades of the Forgotten King."

Hexblade Tarquin Wroe crawled out from underneath the table.

"W-what? Why me?"

Even at the distance, the miserable Warlock's rancid breath made Tycon want to slit his throat. However, as Wroe was more useful than a wooden cup, he refrained.

"Because... Ophelia is a friend to our Sol Invictus, you are her fiancee, and she has romantic feelings, trust, and faith in you. Furthermore, you, Tarquin Wroe, owe her an explanation for your absence and for your emotional infidelity."

Wroe sat cross-legged on the floor... "But I... but we... it was an arranged marriage, Boss."

It was a flimsy excuse-- one that would not hold in a court of law... but Tycon understood the issue. If one partner did not agree to a lifelong bond, forcing its completion was... distasteful.

"Then out of respect to Princess Ophelia, make your intentions known to her. Afterward, perhaps she can move on-- regardless of how many decades it will take her. Respond."

The Hexblade dipped his head, "Aye aye, Boss."

"F*ckin' cold," Krysaos whispered...

"Brother-Captain," Tycon steepled his fingers.

"Go 'head."

Tycon flicked his wrist, summoning a vial of a waxy, white liquid and placing it on the table.

"Find the enclave where House Vulkoori resides. Kill every man, woman, and child there."

"Whoa! WHOA!!" Krysaos waved his hands, "What the literal f*ck?!"

"Whhh-ghhhkk!!" The Thunder God was choking on something.

Tycon reached over and grabbed the back of the shirtless man's neck. Pushing the fellow's head down, he then struck a hammer-fist to the man's back.

With a violent cough, a rib bone flew out of his mouth and onto his lap.

The Thunder God coughed several more times before bowing his head, "I... I cannot condone the slaughter of innocents, Maedar."

",