Tycondrius had previously fought in a duel on contested territory. The participants fought with quarterstaves. Blunted weapons are generally more appropriate for training purposes and lowering the probability of injury.
Within the Stormbrands' dueling ring, Pyromancer Photios was utilizing Second-Circle spells, each capable of decimating a squad of unranked warriors. Tancred Mors was swinging around a weighty axe more appropriate in a slaughterhouse than on a battlefield.
Athena Vanzano winced and averted her gaze when the Tancred struck Photios down.
"H-he should be okay," Athena whispered, perhaps more for herself than for Tycon. "We... we have a healer. That's Mister Occam, now."
Tycon watched a human in a dark coat approach the fallen mage. Long, raven-black hair, eye-patch and scar over an eye, unshaven beard, wrinkled and tattered clothing, Occam appeared just as rough as his peers.
⟬ Occam, Iron-Rank Human Cleric. ���
As he walked, he carried a curved warscythe lazily over his shoulders. He looked more like a Weaponmaster than a Cleric. Occam snorted before spitting at Photios' feet and squatting in front of him.
"AWWWWW! What's wronnnng Photios???" The Cleric mocked, "Did you get HURRRRT?!? HAR HAR HAR!!"
The entire circle of Stormbrands shared Occam's laughter. Tycon couldn't decide if they were laughing due to the fellow's somewhat redundant observation or at the fellow's exaggerated laughter.
"Flame take you, Occam," Photios cursed, clutching his forearm. Sweat dripped down his face, his expression twisted in pain.
"Tancred!" He shouted, "What the hells? You broke my Flamescarred arm!"
Reaver Tancred shrugged, raising his arms high, "It's not my fault your ⌈Mana Ward⌋ is so weak!"
Photios gnashed his teeth, clenching his eyes shut, "Whatever! Fine! ...Ergh ...Occam! Help me out, here!"
"Ehhhh?" Occam sneered, grinning with jagged teeth, "How the hells is that my problem?"
The Cleric prodded Photios' arm with the end of his warscythe, causing the man to yelp out in pain.
"ARRRGH!! Seven hells, that hurts, you rotten thief!" Photios growled, "I need a heal, Occam. It hurts like hells..."
Still squatting, Occam rested his chin on his fist, "Hmmmm... If you want a heal... how about... you get on your knees and beg?"
Tycon frowned. That was... exactly what Photios was doing.
pαпdα-ňᴏνê|·сóМ What was Occam's goal, though? What was worth extending the duration of pain suffered by an ally?
"Flame take you, man!" Photios roared, " You can't be serious?!"
"It's just a broken arm, you Flamescarred thief," Tancred mocked. He was nonchalantly drinking from his waterskin. "Suck it up."
The mage's face was beginning to pale, his pupils dilating. Whether Photios was unused to such pain or the injury was more severe than the Stormbrands were estimating, it was clear that he was not faking his condition.
Occam planted the base of his warscythe and stood, lifting his other arm, "I am Occam! By the power that flows through these hands, I control your life and death as I see fit! How about you show a little gods-damned respect, witch?"
Witch? Tycon raised an eyebrow. Was this a class thing? In the Holy Country, casters were sanctified by their government, brainwashing the powerful into never betraying their nation. Those who failed the sanctification were deemed as heretics and executed.
To the common folk, the prejudice took on a different form. Worship of a different religion? Heretics. Speak out against the Church's draconian laws? Heretics. Warlocks and Sorcerers that drew from non-traditional power sources like dead gods and elemental planes were rare-- mistrusted and persecuted.
Heresy was punishable by death.
Still, it made no sense for Photios to be subject to such treatment.
He was a sanctified spellcaster. He was a human of the Holy Country. He was part of the Brazen Guard collective.
Besides that, they were in the field, where prejudice was less important. When the actions of teammates directly correlated to survival, it did not matter the shape of their ears or the color of their fur.
Tycon was starting to highly doubt his initial theory and developed a new one... that Cleric Occam and Reaver Tancred were worthless human beings.
Tycon looked over to Athena. She was glaring intently at Occam... clearly unhappy.
But she said nothing.
The vocal, always-confident Athena was holding her peace.
Tycon grew more and more irritated. Everything he had seen thus far of the Stormbrands either disappointed or confused him. Their professionalism was a joke, they were rude, arrogant, and generally unpleasant to associate with. They derived a cruel sense of camaraderie from laughing at and mocking an Iron-Ranked mage that, for all intents and purposes, was their ally.
He decided to prod the young lady, "Miss Athena... perhaps you should do something?"
Athena dropped her gaze to the cold mountain dirt, "I... I don't really like talking to Mister Occam...
"He..." She shook her head, "Yeah..."
Tycon narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Athena's reluctant expression. There seemed to be a reason she avoided conversing with Occam, and not one she wished to share.
Strange and stranger still...
...
Soon after, Occam finally used a ⌈Rejuvenation⌋ spell on the fallen mage.
During Photios' suffering, Tycon said nothing... Athena and Zenon, too, kept their silence.
Tycon could have corrected the Stormbrands, but he would gain no direct benefit. At best, Photios would be healed faster and he would feel better about himself for helping humanity.
In doing so, he risked a negative opinion being formed of him. He was unfamiliar to the Stormbrands and they were more hostile than they were accepting and friendly.
That negative opinion directly correlated to his survival. In a high-stress combat situation involving teamwork, the man or woman with the lowest social standing is open to be sacrificed. At worst, he would be actively sabotaged.
By staying silent, he risked nothing. The only cost was his pride being wounded, an acceptable loss considering the circumstances. He also worried that Zenon's opinion of him would worsen. However, the Centurion also watched in silent judgment, his enthusiasm from earlier, nonexistent.
It seemed that he, too, understood.
The two of them were supposed to entrust their lives to the Stormbrand adventuring company.
Between the dangers of the Icingdeath Dungeon and a score of pig-headed teammates, Tycon couldn't decide which was worse.
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