Headed by a Snake

"What is it now, Brother-Captain?"

The cross-armed Lieutenant tilted his head. He wore a serious expression, as usual-- but the way his eyebrow was raised meant he might've actually been curious.

With that guy, you always had to read his micro-expressions to even guess what he was thinking.

Krysaos pointed his upward palm forward, moving his head back.

"That..." He sucked in air through his teeth, "That ain't ALL, is it? ...Nah... Can't be."

One wolf! The Thunder God's Javelin blew up ONE. Single. wolf!

"Is that... not enough?" The Thunder God pouted.

"No, it's not enough!" Krysaos yelled. "We got like... fifty-thousand bad guys still!"

"A gross overestimation," muttered Tycon.

"I. was. *approximating,* Lieutenant."

"And grossly so," Tycon shrugged.

He was still acting like a spoiled, teenage deckhand.

...That guy *really* didn't like getting called out when he was in the wrong.

What a f*cking pain...

The Thunder God held out his open palms, "Just... jus' give it a minute."

⁆ ...So this javelin... it wasn't done. ⁅

⁆ That was a good sign. It erupts out of the boatload of wolf-parts like a... like a meat volcano. ⁅

"Like a *what?*" Tycon grimaced.

"Not now, LT."

⁆ So it shoots up into the sky, flips a b*tch and shoots back down. Then it starts going from horned thing to winged thing to weird-poison-tailed thing. ⁅

⁆ Then, the gods-damned enemy general shows up! He looked strong as f*ck and obviously EVIL-- with two big-ass goat horns and a big, beefy chest with some hair on it! ⁅

"I am General Qiv! And I speak for the TREES!!" He shouted, "Leave this forbidden place, or I'll break your f*cking--"

"Ah," Tycon pointed. "It's the satyr. We know him... and besides that being fur on his chest, there are several things wrong with your description."

"Yeah, whatever."

Krysaos channeled his mana, establishing control of the Thunder God's javelin... and he thrust his palm down towards the ground.

⁆ So this javelin, it spears the EVIL ENEMY GENERAL through his stupid f*cking skull. Blood and bits and bones go everywhere. ⁅

⁆ It was nothing short of glorious. ⁅

"I told you I'd f*cking kill you," Krysaos grinned... "Y'short piece o' sh--"

"Is... is that enough?" The Thunder God asked.

Krysaos rolled his eyes, "Absolutely f*cking nOT!"

Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he turned to Tycon.

"Perhaps your might direct your god-weapon there, Captain," He pointed.

Following Tycon's direction, Krysaos saw Wroe locked in battle with an ugly-looking giant.

Rust-colored skin. Dark hair covering its eyes, streaming down to the middle of its bare chest.

Big.

Big as f*ck.

"That is..." The Thunder God gulped-- "a very... large... ogre."

Krysaos smirked as he flicked his wrist, "And he's next."

⁆ So this javelin... ⁅

...

⟬ Across the continent... ⟭

Gnaeus Corvinus Agrippa crumpled the tiny piece of paper in his palm.

The news it held... the risks it implied...

He had to make a precarious decision...

Either it could win him the war... or set his faction back centuries.

"What news, General?" Prince Scipio asked.

Gnaeus furrowed his brows and let out a deep growl...

As much as he wanted to break the young ogre's neck, Scipio was integral to his future plans.

Droghan Ashlord... The Titanblood War Prince was the enemy of all the ogre tribes in the Free Nation.

Gnaeus was certain he could trounce the whelpling in single combat... but the Titanblood could not be fought with military strength alone.

He was not *just* a man. He was a symbol that the smaller, weaker races cowed to.

Opposite Droghan, Scipio was the icon for the Ogre Race... a hero for the younger generation. That child was the beacon that the weak would rally to for protection.

And for those with hearts full of greed... the King Eater Tribe would offer their strength.

Gnaeus circulated his mana... feeling the heat of borrowed power course through his blood. By his will, his fist was covered in a slow and malicious orange flame.

The ogre warriors and mages around the meeting stone were unbothered by the casual display of Third-Circle demonic magic.

However, that was not true for the gnoll standing near the tent's entrance.

It was ironic... for a people who took demonic power as anathema to be so... flammable.

The creature yelped in pain, throwing itself onto the dirt to douse its coat.

...Admittedly, Gnaeus had forgotten about the tiny messenger's existence-- and because of the oversight, his tent reeked of urine and burnt fur.

Ignoring it, he spoke in a firm voice... the voice of a General.

--no... the voice of a King.

"Droghan is gathering troops from his allied warbands... and a coven of Rylania's witches has been invited into Port City Vralkek."

"Accursed... snakes..." Elder Zodurob hacked out a glob of blackened phlegm, "The Charm Faction have many war spells... including Teleportation magics...."

"How droll," Scipio yawned. "Even if they combined their forces for a concentrated attack, any of our forts can hold until my legion can flank theirs."

Gnaeus gnashed his teeth.

What was that bastard Droghan planning?

Considering the number of mages in the Ogre Legions and the constitution of each individual legionnaire, large-scale war magic would be largely ineffective.

With a frontal assault a guaranteed failure, a ⌈Gate⌋ in or around an ogre fortress would have some success...

However, the young Scipio was correct. If Droghan's forces attempted to hold an ogre fort, they would eventually be surrounded and wiped out.

Droghan was a great many things... a tyrannical War Prince, a slave to hedonism, a magician of *some* worth...

And unknown to most... he was a great pretender-- skilled in appearing weak or foolish.

It was an ability effective against too many smaller tribe War Princes. All who challenged the Titanblood Faction revealed their abilities prematurely. And for their sins, they suffered the bitterest of defeats.

What... was... that flame-haired *bastard*... possibly thinking?

...Or was this the work of that conniving snake, Tycondrius?

Wherever the Titanblood Prince reared his crooked sneer... it was a certainty that the Snake Warlord of Charm hid just beyond sight, ready to sink his venomous fangs into the unwary.

Gnaeus shook his head.

It mattered not.

His warriors would suffer. Their decimation was guaranteed... but Gnaeus was certain of his eventual victory.

"Send a message to our legions," He commanded. "Once Vralkek shows weakness, we will burn the city to the ground. And then, we shall turn our swords and clubs against Charm."

",