Headed by a Snake

"Boss... what are you doing with that?"

Wroe's voice contained a hint of uncertainty-- perhaps even fear.

Either or both were perfectly reasonable.

Tycondrius flipped his palm upward, a sleight of hand that revealed a single crossbow bolt.

"Um... BossSS?" Wroe's voice sharply rose in pitch. "If that's... for me, I can still cast ⌈Mana Ward⌋. Hah. It's... it's something you made me practice. A lot."

Ignoring the Warlock's blathering, Tycon began to apply poison to the bolt's tip. It was the same waxy substance recovered from the dark elves of House Spider Crab.

He was looking forward to observing its efficacy.

That is... unless his bolt was stopped by a ⌈Mana Ward⌋.

To circumvent that, Tycon gathered mana into his palm, shaping it to his designs.

​ And... with the purpose of inspiring fear, he made no attempt to hide the name of his Skill, "⌈Warlockslayer⌋"

"BOSS!!"

It was an impromptu rework of the ⌈Legionslayer⌋ Skill.

The basics remained. In particular, Tycon kept ⌈Legionslayer⌋'s mana-shape, rigid with a tapered tip, proven effective at punching through steel plate.

The difference in ⌈Warlockslayer⌋ was in its modified mana-signature. Upon cursory inspection, it appeared identical to Wroe's shielding, a mixture of water and metal essences and a touch of lunar empowerment.

If Tycon's theory was sound, his 'disguised' bolt would delay the activation of Wroe's ⌈Mana Ward⌋... or perhaps even disrupt his mana circuits and cause a feedback loop.

With a light smile across his lips, Tycon used a reload tool to draw back the heavy bowstring, slow and smooth.

Then, he took aim at the warlock's center of--

"MISTY STEP!!!" Screamed the cowardly Warlock.

Whipping his body around, the angel-blooded buffoon leapt into the nearby wall.

--whereupon his head bounced upon its hard surface. Recoiling from the damage, Wroe stood for only a breath longer before collapsing to the floor in an awkward manner.

Conversely, stood fast, suffering no obvious signs of damage.

"Tss..." Tycon scoffed, "Fool..."

He had taken care to fortify his inn room against magic, both inside and out. It was a given that Teleportation-type spells were included.

...Tycon *always* fortified his personal quarters against magic, even the temporary ones.

Unfortunately for Wroe, the oversight ensured his painful, poison-wracked death.

Wroe woke up from his short bout of unconsciousness, gasping for air.

"Boss! Y-y-you can't kill me!" He pleaded, his bloodied nose not helping his case in the least. "We have a contract! Th-think of the magical feedback!!"

"Tarquin Wroe," Tycon began, his voice monotone, "id est, Landris Wyndham, you have willfully disobeyed a lawful order. As such, I, your superior Officer, have the right to administer punishment."

"By KILLING ME?!"

"Nonsense," Tycon groaned. "I'm merely shooting you. Whether you live or die is up to you."

"But you're using a POISONED ARROW!!!"

"A poisoned *bolt*," Tycon chided. "Fear not. If your ⌈Mana Ward⌋ is up to par, you will come away from this experience with naught but mild injury and-- perhaps, greater urgency for quests I assign."

"Boss, you're aiming at my FAAACE!!"

"While aiming at your chest is standard practice, at this distance, I--"

Tycon squeezed the trigger, the satisfying 'chnk' sound, even more pleasing to the ear than Wroe's head against the innroom wall.

A bright blue flash of magic lit the room... a side-effect of Wroe activating his ⌈Mana Ward⌋. It gave the gentleman enough time to throw himself to the floor... and much to Tycon's dismay, relatively unharmed.

The crossbow bolt bounced off the mana-fortified wall, its pointed end, cracked and ruined.

Tycon lowered his crossbow and clicked his tongue.

He had been too greedy.

There was no fault in his ⌈Warlockslayer⌋ Skill... but Wroe narrowly avoided death on account of his reflexes.

The thought of a well-placed shot going through the Warlock's left eye was too tantalizing to not attempt.

If he had aimed for Wroe's center of mass, it would have been much more difficult to dodge.

"You really SHOT AT ME!!" Wroe cried.

"...You have the strangest complaints, Mister Wroe."

A few suns ago, the piteous fool was practically begging for death.

Suddenly, the door swung open.

Krysaos and the Thunder God were in mid-conversation but abruptly stopped.

Their weapons were still drawn, an elegant rapier and a handsome waraxe.

Blood stained their attire.

...Tycon would send them both to the bathhouse-- along with Wroe, provided the latter survived the bell.

"What... the f*ck is goin' on?" Asked a wide-eyed Krysaos.

Tycon narrowed his eyes as he summoned another crossbow bolt to hand, "Do *you* bring good news?"

"If I say yeah, can you *not* shoot me?"

"I wouldn't dare attack you openly, Krysaos," Tycon gave a noncommittal shrug, "Even as a half-god, you're far too powerful."

"Aha... yeah," Krysaos chuckled-- "Wait, what do you mean 'openly'?"

"Report, if you would," Tycon smiled politely... as he began applying poison to his new bolt.

"Job's done," Krysaos grinned. "Queen B*tch is dead."

"Justice has been served, Friend-Maedar!" The shirtless god proclaimed, "T'was a tale for the ages, the noble Sea God spearheading our assault, and I, the great--"

"Oh, yeah," Krysaos raised his hand. "We ran into Ishmael on our way out. He signed a few things to me-- I don't know what it meant, exactly, but he's probably completed his task, too. With the Bone Rats, right?"

That was incorrect. Ishmael was tasked to ensure every life in the Vulkoori Enclave was extinguished. The fact was something that neither Krysaos nor the Thunder God needed to know.

"I'm glad," Tycon nodded. "I appreciate your reliability... both of you."

Kryasos leaned his shoulder against the doorway, "If that's the case, how about you uh... *not* kill that Wroe guy? What he do, anyroad?"

Tycon spun his crossbow's reload tool around his hand, "Before that, Brother-Captain, please step inside and shut the door."

"Oh, nuh uh," Krysaos grimaced, shaking his head. "Can't do that. If I know you, you always put three or four magic formations in your room. With the door closed, the loops in your spell circles get closed-- which is why, earlier, we didn't hear anything resembling a Warlock screaming like a li'l b*tch."

"Slight correction," The blue-haired buffoon perked up. "Compared to Boss, I'm a pretty big b*tch."

Tycon turned up his nose, "As proud of your stature as you may be, Mister Wroe, it means little if you're on your knees."

"Boss," Wroe stood up shakily...

"Tarquin Wroe has willfully disobeyed a lawful order," Tycon declared. "As such, he is subject to appropriate punishment."

"I hear that," Krysaos tilted his chin up, "But... don't you think you're being a bit harsh, LT?"