Headed by a Snake

"If I may... Sir," The elf bowed, deeper and more sincere than previous. "House Vulkoori's roots are deep... waging war against--"

"You may not," Tycondrius interrupted, speaking quickly in a monotone voice. "I very much do *not* care. Thank you for your sincerity. Our business is concluded. Keep away from House Spider Crab for three suns. P l e a s e . l e a v e . "

The elf was taken aback, his or her face aghast.

Tycon's response was highly inappropriate, considering Elven social customs.

According to their reaction, speaking as such was worse than wanton murder.

"I... I hear you," The elf nodded. "Then... if there's nothing else."

Tycon waved them away. Regardless of that person's status, his was higher.

The way they shook as they left implied that they would take Tycon's words to heart.

Three suns was a gross lower estimate.

House Vulkoori had sent an agent to implicitly attack Sol Invictus. The hand they used was a woman that Krysaos grew to care for.

If the sea god did not have the heart to murder every man and elf wearing the Vulkoori crest, then Ishmael would do so before the morning sun.

Failing that, Tycon would not hesitate to cut any remaining loose ends.

It was a good quest... and a simple one. If a person or organization revealed themself to be an enemy of Sol Invictus, they should be eliminated immediately and without prejudice.

It was how things should be.

Tycon resumed his jog, sprinting out of the alley, and slowing to a brisk pace when could again hide amongst the crowds.

...He wondered just when everything grew so difficult.

As far back as his memories went... he had to complete three quests to free himself from his debts.

The first was to eliminate a man in the Kingdom. That was done with great violence.

The second was to eliminate the enemies of a certain woman in the Holy Country. Needless to say, that was also done in a violent manner.

The third quest... would be completed in the Free Nation.

...Tycon was not in the Free Nation.

He was in the gods-damned Eastern States trying to retrieve a pair of overvalued knives. And the reason for the difficulty... was that his fool human companion failed to keep his hands to himself.

Barza Keith... the Lone Shadowdark.

The quest to recover him and the Blades of the Forgotten King had grown into several quests, each just as complex.

It started with an earnest request from High Oracle Troia... the Princess of the Holy Country and the sponsor of their Hero.

--Nevermind that, at the time, Tycon was more interested in proving Archbishop Crucis wrong than running errands for the purple-haired whelpling.

Ophelia of House Whitehearth was reliant on him, as well... as both a friend and an ambassador of the various Elven-dominated organizations.

--Nevermind that Tycon was ridden with guilt for her pathetic treatment by the man supposed to be her loving fiancee.

Then... Lone's female companion, Coraline Heartsong, was potentially the most powerful Circle Mage that Sol Invictus could recruit for at least a decade.

--Nevermind that he would do anything and everything to avoid the disappointment of the Sapphire Tower's Archmage.

Tycon's quest to recover the Blades of the Forgotten King could not be ignored... nor could it be abandoned.

...And none were qualified to see it to its completion, save for him.

He was tired.

He'd been questing for years... longer than most, not as long as some.

But... there was a goal.

And that goal was in view.

To reach it, he merely had to continue on.

One foot had to be placed in front of the other. Every obstacle in his way, he'd cut it down. Eventually... the difficulties would end.

One infuriatingly complex side-quest.

One. single. primary quest.

Then, Tycon would be done.

And what after?

...Perhaps he could focus on earning the favor of a young, blonde, Tyrion woman with the intent to marry?

He could seek out a master of the board game, Pettaia... and learn the ways of its sages.

...He could hire a Necromancer to resurrect Quay from the dead, just so he could strangle him for so many faults past.

There were no ends to asinine and ultimately forgettable quests.

​ But by then... at the very least... he'd be free.

...Yes.

That sounded nice.

Tycon took in a slow, full breath, wiping his palms on his face.

He had to keep heart.

The quest would be complete. Anything less was unacceptable.

...

Tycon opened his eyes, sensing two light raps upon his inn room door.

He closed his eyes, opening his senses. By the light and airy feeling beyond, someone with the blood of angels had come.

He hoped it was Wroe. That person wouldn't be harmed by the defensive formation Tycon placed on the inn room.

If it was not... the surly Popoto innkeeper would surely bill him for cleaning up the blood and charred remains.

A silver-armored Daeva quietly entered the room, his head bowed. His eyes were narrowed on account of his full smile.

"Evenin', Boss!" Wroe greeted, "Oh, you got a haircut! Lookin' good. And it smells nice too?"

Seeing a professional barber was a must for Tycon.

Long hair was oft worn by Martialists and Wizards who mistakenly assumed that physical age correlated to skill. As he was neither, the look did not suit him.

As for the scent of flowers... he'd paid well to visit a bathhouse.

"Thank you," Tycon returned a polite smile of his own.

...He would send Wroe to the same place within the bell.

"You uh... get those letters sent, Boss?"

Wroe continued to smile... a smile almost stifling in its radiance.

It could not be helped. In this Realm, a man could not choose his bloodline.

"Indeed," Tycon nodded, "You look well, Tarquin Wroe. Tell me, do you bring good news?"

"Nope!"

A sharp pain jolted through the side of Tycon's head.

He blinked his eyes several times... but the smile on Wroe's face did not disappear.

Tycon wondered...

...if perhaps...

--he had... misheard?

"Ahem," He cleared his throat. "The... scrying item. Were you able to procure one from Princess Ophelia?"

"Nnnnope!" Wroe twisted his head to the side, accentuating the shamelessness in his failure.

"Ah..." Tycon pursed his lips... and nodded absentmindedly, "I understand."

He rotated his wrists, stretching them lightly with his opposite hand.

Then, flicking his left wrist, he summoned his hand crossbow out of his spatial ring.