Headed by a Snake



⟬ Port Town Jad, Restful Hen Inn, some time later... ⟭ 

Tycondrius was tempted to kill them all. 

Doing so would alleviate his mood.

...But wanton murder tended to have bothersome consequences. 

The current-him... had great *difficulty* recognizing those consequences.

--which was a convincing reason to avoid making a rash decision. 

The woman's name was Neerin Neelia. 

⟬ Neerin Neelia, Sky-Rank Blue Dragon. Heavenly Strategist. ⟭ 

She was wearing a respectable set of enchanted battle regalia, comprising hundreds of mithril scales. Her posture was impeccable and her short, light brown hair was tied into a neat ponytail, as per general military regulations. 

Tycon found no fault in her professional mien... nor in her bearing or in the nature of her commands. 

She carried a curved blade on her side-- a sword type he was deeply familiar with. The fact should have been a means to identify with her. 

And her Class, Heavenly Strategist was on a similar or higher level than his own Class, Warlord. With that, they should have had some common ground between them. 

However... Tycon did not like her. 

He didn't care for her.

--No, the feeling he had for her was infinitely closer to *hate* than apathy. 

He wanted to hurt her. 

He wanted to tear her apart-- her name, her achievements, anything that she showed interest, love, or admiration in. 

He wanted to end her miserable life, stabbing her own sword through her abdomen and violently twisting it about. 

ραndαsnοvεl.cοm He wanted to desecrate her sorry corpse, impale it onto a wooden post, and parade it in front of men and gods alike.

Only then, might he be satisfied... 

Neerin Neelia had garnered the respect of the soldiers of the Wyrmslayer Alliance in Jad. 

Tycon could tell by the way they looked to her for guidance...

--by their voices when they reported and the alacrity in completing their assignments. 

The Command Room was a cheap, legacy inn. Adjacent to the burning fire pit was an open sleeping area, lined with furs as bedding, still stinking of unwashed adventurers. 

He sensed no *honor* there... no pride, no... righteousness of a cause. 

Tycon clenched his eyes shut, trying to regulate his breathing... slow his heart rate... unclench his fists and teeth. 

His logical mind was fighting-- struggling to resist the incessant compulsion to commit violence. 

--to kill that woman's lackeys.

--to utilize repeated blunt force trauma on anything that dared to tolerate that which he did not.

--to turn a place of rest into a nightmarish slaughterhouse. 

As for Neerin, herself... Tycon would have loved nothing more than to declare her as one. of. *them.*

...to approach that woman with a smile.

...to wrap his hands around her throat.

--to ruin her unblemished, symmetrical face with repeated strikes from the pommel of his sword.

To shatter her teeth. To twist her appendages beyond their breaking points. 

He wanted to cause that woman pain-- excruciating, physical pain. 

--enough that she'd lose consciousness. 

Then, he'd revive her. And then the process would begin anew...

...until she stopped breathing. 

Everyone had left the Command Tent, save for her and Krysaos.

Thus, Tycon tried to regain his senses-- to see through the bloodlust clouding his judgment. 

Why *shouldn't* he kill that woman? 

He'd have to kill Krysaos, as well. 

...He remembered liking Krysaos.

Recently, the Sea God had bought him a meal.

He liked that.

...Tycon held onto that feeling. A good meal was more important than his murderous impulses. 

"You have my gratitude, most sincere, for coming so agreeably," said the disgusting woman. "To be honest, I expected otherwise... But thankfully, without tensions in the room so high-strung, perhaps we can have an actual conversation." 

Tycon continued to stare listlessly at the wall of the inn, covered with trophies appropriate for the location. A relatively large clam shell, purported to be from an Iron-Rank monster. An old fishing trident on a wooden plaque with a name inscribed into the wood. 

They were far more interesting than anything that woman had to say. 

None of her observations were worth a response, verbal or otherwise. 

"He uh... he's like this sometimes," came the voice of Sea God Krysaos. "But other than that, he's a really good guy. I'll vouch for him."

His tone. 

It sounded apologetic.

That bristled Tycon's ire. 

"He and I... we were... no, nevermind," Neerin shook her head. "I know many a ballad sung of Sol Invictus and its leader. Tycondrius is a man of honor and great deeds... and I trust his judgment, all things considered."

"Yeah, he's worth your trust, for sure," Krysaos said. "But uh... our boy, Tycon... he's a different guy when he's angry."

"That is... Sea God, did you realize that, just now, he broke both bones in your forearm? And the bones in your shoulder-- if you were an ordinary human, you'd have been crippled past the point of magical healing."

"He did? By my socks... Whew, no wonder it hurt so bad... Well, thanks for putting me back together, girlie."

Krysaos was speaking affably to the enemy-- as if they were old lovers. 

Tycon did not like that.

No...

"If my meager abilities can be of any assistance, then it is my honor to lend aid. Prince Tycondrius chooses his friends well, so I trust your character to be trustworthy."

"Is that so? Haha! Yeah. That sounds about right!"

Krysaos.

Yes.

Tycon decided to kill Krysaos, as well.

He had killed a god before. He could feasibly do so again. A fledgling half-god like Krysaos had many vulnerabilities he could exploit. 

"Prince?"

...There was only one Prince in the room. 

It was him.

That accursed beast dared to address him? 

No. Tycon would not deign himself to answer. 

"Prince Tycondrius," the creature said, "I was informed that you met with the Court's messenger."

Tycon removed a small package of egg wafers from his spatial ring. 

They were somewhat stale-- he had neglected them in favor of meat and fruit-based snacks.

However, they suited his mood. 

"Why didn't you listen to Jerim Jya's message?"[1]

He used just the right amount of sugar when he was preparing them. 

After they were baked, the results were sweet, but not *too* sweet. 

"Commander Tycondrius, I... I'm begging you for a conversation."

Tycon took a long, deep sigh. 

It was an irritating situation.

It was an irritating situation that could potentially be solved by murder-- but according to his state of mind, on that, he couldn't be certain. 

"Krysaos," he said, "tell that person that I had no wish to be trapped in the Plane of Dirt for an indeterminate amount of time."

"Huh? Are you serious, guy?" asked the worthless Sea God. 

"Tycon, it was for your own good!" yelped a miserable sack of scales. 

Pah. 

His own good?

Unlikely. 

Several moons prior, Tycon had received a message from Jerim Jya, advising him to travel to the Bristlebear Highlands to assist the Hero Party. 

He successfully convened with the Hero Party-- but purposely avoided that place. 

Some time later, he was informed by Gatekeeper General Raelion that the Plane of Dirt was sealed and inescapable.

Neerin Neelia wanted him Off-Realm. 

Tycon did not appreciate that. 

"Fine. Whatever," seethed the blue-scaled whore, "I can see you can't be convinced otherwise..."

"I suppose she needed another gods-damned prophecy to determine that?" Tycon said to Krysaos in an aside. 

"You're... really doin' this," returned Krysaos. 

"No, I just had the one," Neerin said flatly, "which brings me to the main point. Tycondrius, allow the Heroes to take the field. We need them if we want to have any hopes of defeating the Tyrant God!"

"Hmph. Heroes," Tycon scoffed. "If our alliance *had* a Hero or three, of course we'd field them."

"Ugggh," Neerin groaned. "You know what I mean, Tycon. I'm referring to Pale and his adventuring party."

Once more, Tycon turned to Krysaos. 

"Tell that person that Pale and his companions are unprepared for a battle of this scope and scale. Also, they are children."

"Dude, Tycon, tell her yourself."

Tycon narrowed his eyes, "I cannot be certain as to whom you are referring to."

Krysaos turned to that person, "Neerin, can you do something about this?"

"I was hoping that you'd be able to do something, Sea God," said that person with a sigh. 

"Y'know what? I don't f*cking get it," Krysaos said, "Whatever's going on-- whatever... *this* is, it ain't me. So whatever you're doing, you can do it by yourselves."

And with that, the Sea God stood up and... walked out of the room on his two, mortal legs. 

Most gods would leave in a more ostentatious manner. 

His mundanity correlated to his uselessness. 

But nevertheless...

Krysaos' departure meant Tycon had to murder one less entity to alleviate his mood. 

Tycon drew Mercy from its sheath. The enchanted Tyrion sword was able to injure Jerim Jya without issue. It would work just as well on Neerin Neelia. 

The arrogant creature stuck her chin out, seemingly unperturbed. 

"Interesting. If you're so intent on fighting me, doesn't that mean you're acknowledging my existence?" 

Tycon steeled his expression, "Worry not, whore. I shall rectify the situation forthwith."

[1] Message: See Chapter 974!

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