pαndα noνɐ1,сoМ ⟬ A short time earlier... ⟭
Phaedra of Nerine wandered the inner walls of Green Corn Keep, overwhelmed by the thoughts crowding her mind.
It was an indisputable fact that Tychon was the savior of her Guild Metal Wolf.
Back then, she had refused to give him any face.
When she first saw him, he wasn't even wearing any armor. He had a Tyrion sword-- but that didn't mean much of anything. Tyrion steel was the finest in the Realm.
His face was brimming with youth, his skin smooth and free of battle scars.
His green, hair flowed softly in the breeze, pampered and too-perfect.
His gaze all but screamed 'I'm better than you.'
It was obvious he was some sort of noble-- at least to her.
Phaedra had been part of Tyrion's standing army long before she joined the Wolves. Every young noble she'd met back then only belonged to two categories: perverted scoundrel at worst and useless fop at best.
Her Centurions placed them on horses in the rear, far from any actual combat. Even though commissioned Officers were ranked higher than enlisted, any fish with half-a-brain would ignore their orders unless there was some grey in their hair.
Then... Phaedra learned of that man's actual rank.
He was a... Duplicarius... a rank theoretically only attainable through meritorious service.
It sounded like a bad joke.
The arrogant brat must have bought his way into the army. It happened all the time-- earning promotions solely by what rank or office 'Daddy' held.
Granted... she'd never heard of anyone getting *that* rank in that manner. The Basilica's punishment for granting the rank of Duplicarius to an unworthy Tyrion... was outright crucifixion.
A noble... too young and with too high of a rank was naturally enough for Phaedra to be suspicious.
Further... the Centurion knew Tychon from when they served together in the Brazen Guard.
Phaedra had worked with Januarius long enough to be sure he wasn't a heretic... but that person...
The Basilica had declared the Guard as a front for the Snake Cult... and even though they retracted the statement a few moons after, the news had already spread throughout the nation.
The damage was catastrophic to the reputations of each and every guild that fought under the name of Pilus Prior Bannok.
Most disbanded.
Some reformed under a different name.
Guild Metal Wolf took out loans, gathered in number, and sought to campaign in the Eastern States...
Phaedra had contracted with the Wolves during that time. As a commissioned Officer, she was tasked with procuring supplies and equipment in the city of Rixus.
She quickly learned that having a guild name that had been dragged in the mud earned her no favors.
That was the power in a name... and she came to hate the name 'Brazen Guard' with a passion.
Centurion Januarius, however, kept to his beliefs... which made no Flame-taken sense.
He was nothing but *proud* to have served with 'Bannok of Kasydon,' the one-armed Weaponmaster... as if anything good could come from a man wed to a xeno.
He had nothing but absolute faith in 'Duplicarius' Tychon, a man whose only proven usefulness had been leading a few dozen soldiers out of a lightless cavern.
The old wolf was adamant that outside of a small portion of the Collective, the rumors of heresy were pure slander.
He said that Tychon was a supremely powerful Gold-Rank whom he'd seen strike down a hundred cultists in a quarter bell... in the burning city of San Ignatio di Luca.
Absolutely *none* of that made any Flame-taken sense.
If that was the end of it, Phaedra would have bit her tongue and let it be. Even the youth's outrageous claim that he was part of the legendary Sol Invictus, she would have ignored out of respect for her Centurion.
There was no convincing the stubborn wolf... He was an old dog with dreams of grandeur who refused to acknowledge the Realm for as it was.
Him being half-dead from fever only made his skull harder.
However... there was something more to the green-haired youth.
The Highblade Commander, Teneca, usually walked about with half a pilus jammed up her arse-- pointed end first. She and her subordinates treated him with actual respect... not like the wandering vagrants that Phaedra and Januarius were.
In the end, she decided to request a meeting with the Half-Elven bitch... to ask just who in the seven hells that man was.
Ugh. How it wounded her pride to do so...
Phaedra heard the woman's snobbish, high-pitched voice as soon as she entered the second-floor planning hall.
"So the wolf pup enters the lair of the mountain lion..."
She tilted her head back and grinned, "What... does... she... seek?"
Lieutenant Teneca sat at the one central table, her chin resting on steepled fingers.
The amusement in the half-elf's eyes and the ignoble sneer on her face said as much as Phaedra needed to know. Getting information out of the slant-eyed strumpet was going to be a painful process.
A half-dozen elves and half-elves stood up and bid Teneca farewell. Then, by implicit agreement, they took their chairs and carried them to the outer edges of the room.
One of the bladesmen approached Phaedra with an open palm, "May I take your weapon, Lady Phaedra?"
"You may absolutely not," She scowled.
"Phaedra, Phaedra, Phaedra~" Teneca clicked her tongue, "Why are you giving my Sergeant such a hard time? This is standard pro-to-col~"
'Standard protocol, my arse,' Phaedra cursed in her heart.
She and Januarius didn't have to surrender their weapons, meeting with Teneca prior... That woman had made an arbitrary rule, just to infuriate her.
It was f*cking working.
Phaedra placed her sheathed weapon in the Highblade Sergeant's hand... and as an act of petty belligerence, she tried to shove him.
Much to her chagrin, the bastard didn't flinch-- he didn't even sway. He took the sword with a nod and returned to Teneca's side.
It was maddening that her abilities paled in comparison to even that woman's middle-ranked enlisted... but she hadn't come to fight. She needed information.
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