Headed by a Snake

Tycondrius drifted deep into thought as his party began bickered about something asinine.

Escaping was not a viable option... not for any of them.

He cleared his throat, which immediately silenced the table.

"Ahem... The Thunder God is correct. Krysaos, you are bound to this Realm by your past actions... or at least half-bound."

The newest Sea God of the Realm grit his teeth, "There uh... ain't no easy way around it, huh?"

"Nothing comes to mind without risking your physical body or your human psyche."

"F*ck."

"And for you, Mister Wroe," Tycon leaned forward over the table, "only in our current Realm does your object of affection exist as she is."

"My love exists everywhere, Boss," Wroe countered. "All worlds are hers... and no one world lays claim to her."

"While that may be true, this Realm offers you a unique image of your goddess. Here, your ability to... communicate to her was enough to establish a pact. Elsewhere, these things become uncertain."

Wroe's gaze hardened-- as if he were challenged, "My love is eternal."

"And *my* advice is sound, is it not?" Tycon scolded, "Your relationship is complicated enough without half of it traveling to a different Realm."

"...Y'got me there, Boss," Wroe shrugged before slumping back in his chair like an impoverished ruffian.

"Fix yourself."

"Sorry, Boss."

The Thunder God stood up, brimming with energy.

Could the gods ignore a Realm-spanning calamity?

If that were true... Tycon doubted that one could.

Compared to the power the Death God and even the Ancient Elf King were able to muster, the Thunder God was only half-step into godhood-actual.

"What is our plan against this calamity, Maedar?" He asked.

Tycon shook his head, "The missives I've sent the previous sun, I only sent after reading Ravidius' warnings. I've pressured an active response from my contacts. They *will* respond... but that will take time."

"Hmm," The Thunder God nodded, "And in the meantime, what is our plan for City-State Whitehearth?"

"I propose we split the party," Tycon answered.

...

Wroe was adamant against the idea.

...It was admittedly a fair concern for people of their profession.

However, Tycon's party was not in a Dungeon filled with traps or the hostile wilds. Within Whitehearth, he would utilize each individual of his group with their strengths in mind.

He sent Krysaos to buy an airship.

The Thunder God was adamant against the idea.

His, however, was entirely selfish and self-centered.

The shirtless god prided himself in his ⌈Thunder Teleport⌋. Unfortunately, while it was useful to return to places visited previously, a proper airship afforded their group more flexibility.

Wroe was a useful tool for bartering with both men and women (and useless dealing with Ophelia.) Thus, he was sent along with Krysaos.

The Thunder God wished to accompany Tycon. However, he had no formal attire... going as far as to refuse to don such trappings. He cited 'religious reasons'... as if he was not the sole decider of his religion's rules.

He was sent to the other two.

If possible, Tycon wanted to circumvent needing to meet with the Arcanite Princess. He did not want to go through the hassle of seeing her. He'd have to mentally prepare himself against her scolding and subtle Elven insults.

She had a busy schedule. He had yet to finish his quest. Wroe was an insufferable prick.

The topics she could nag about were endless.

Of course, Tycon was unable to find a Scryer capable of tracking the Blades of the Forgotten King.

It came as no surprise. Scryer was a rare class and Ophelia was an unparalleled expert at her favored crafts.

Thus, after spending no more than a bell in the mage district, Tycon paid a visit to the Moonwell Enclave.

Utilizing his identity as the founder of the East Charm Trading Company, he traded business cards to several merchants to jump forward in the lengthy queue.

From there, his troubles only began to worsen.

At the front of the line, Tycon found his reception... lacking.

The two warriors at the gate were both human.

They looked to be members of the city's militia-- part-time or provisional workers. Their slovenly attire was... embarrassing. Their armors weren't near fit to their forms. The way they stood and held their polearms conveyed a flagrant lack of discipline.

And the way they spoke...

"Good morning, my guy!" The first guard exclaimed.

He was a young, beardless gentleman no more than 19.

The wide smile across his face, Tycon found... off-putting.

"...Good morning," He replied coolly.

The youngling leaned forward, "How 'bout'cha give us a smile, Sir? We're all friends here at the Moonwell Enclave, right?"

For the first time in Tycon's life, he wished to have been speaking to an elf, instead.

...As could discern no harm in doing so, he forced a superficial smile.

"Lemme see some TEETH," The guard insisted.

At that, Tycon noticed the second guard begin eyeing him with suspicion.

...He wondered if the situation was resultant of him ignoring one of the Eastern States' social customs. It was not something he had observed previously, being ostracized for the quality of one's smile.

Thus, he bared his teeth-- though he was certain his 'smile' was one, no longer.

The second guard took in a breath and exhaled, briefly nodding with his eyes.

With that, Tycon assumed he had passed whatever asinine test he'd been subjected to.

"I'm here to meet with Lady Moonwell," He said.

"You got an appointment?" The second guard asked in a stern voice.

With the guard's words, Tycon noticed another peculiarity. The breaths of both guards smelled of garlic.

Yet... the scent was from two different dishes, highly reducing the likelihood of the two sharing their morning meal.

Granted, the coincidence was largely insignificant. Garlic was a particularly pungent seasoning that enhanced a variety of dishes.

Tycon tried his best to ignore it... but it had the unfortunate consequence of making him crave roasted-garlic bread-- something common in Tyrion cuisine.

That... made him think of his lover, Elle.

--which further worsened his mood and, subsequently, drastically reduced his patience.

"I do not need an appointment," Tycon assured. "Ophelia *will* meet with me."

"Well, uh... everyone's gotta have an appointment."

Tycon placed both hands on his face.

If that was the case... for what reason had he gone along with the guardsmen's farce?

",