Headed by a Snake



⁆ The tiny red light in the sky grew brighter... ⁅

⁆ --and bigger. ⁅

For a moment, Krysaos wondered if his initial judgment was wrong. 

Maybe the gods hadn't forsaken the Realm after all? 

Maybe they were sending down a bona fide hero of legend to one-shot the final boss? 

Or... maybe it was the creation of some mind-meltingly complex 10th Circle Spell that would put him and everyone else out of their misery.

⁆ But... it turned out to be nothing. ⁅

⁆ It was... just an impossibly large, blood-red hunk of military-grade metal, flying through the sky like some sort of f*cked-up bird. ⁅

It was called the Star-Fury. 

He'd seen the Divine Armor plenty of times in the past couple of weeks, but never moving.

...and never in flight. 

Its pilot was an Archbishop of the Holy Country-- Natasha or something. 

Krysaos had seen her exactly once. 

Liked the color red. Looked young for her age. 

She had some pretty good 'assets', but she also looked like a total prude-- and like she was mad about it. 

The giant thing flew past. 

Even as high up as it was, it kicked up a thousand waves of water and pebbly sand-- sending a whole lot of watery beasties into a panic. 

Krysaos could hear them pray. 

--or something approximate to that. 

It was almost funny how the thoughtless actions of some random redhead made a couple of basses and bluefish think it was the end of the Realm. 

As the law of the ocean went, there was always a bigger fish to worry about. 

That was the reason he and so many other two-legged folk were stationed in and around City-State Whitehearth. 

There was some kind of big-arse fish, out there... with wings and fire breath. 

They called it a 'Dragon.'

There was even a song about it-- a song of prophecy and death and the destruction of all things. 

Something, something... ash and fire.

But thankfully, not everything was f*cked, just yet. 

Because, on the lonely docks of that small, fishrot-stinking port town... a Dragonslayer had arrived. 

...Krysaos cursed himself for getting so distracted earlier. He had no clue how Tycon got to the beach-- or how long the guy had been waiting. 

So Krysaos tried to act natural. 

He planted his feet on the concrete dock, stood up straight, and crossed his arms while the guy steadily approached. 

It was really hard to hide his excitement, though. Since Mina had been busy and he kept his mouth shut around his higher-ups, his only option for mental engagement was to talk to his crewmembers. 

...And that meant over a week had passed since he'd been in the company of someone who could count past 20. 

⁆ Anyroad, I'd been waiting for my old Lieutenant to arrive for the better half of a bell. ⁅

⁆ Tycon. ⁅

⁆ Dragonslayer. ⁅

⁆ Commander. ⁅

⁆ They might have worn the same uniform, but the guy's billet and title put him in an entirely different class of badass. ⁅

⁆ It was easy to spot him from a good distance away from the shade of his hair-- like swaying seaweed off the Crystal Coast.  ⁅

⁆ You couldn't tell the guy's age-- he might as well have been an immortal bastard, from the way he acted. From his face, alone, you couldn't tell if he was a man or a woman. ⁅

Ironically, that was something that women seemed to be drawn to? Krysaos had no idea why that was. 

⁆ You could never tell what he was thinking. ⁅

⁆ His expression was stuck at 'vaguely-annoyed,' matching pretty well with his tone of voice: 'absolutely-annoyed.' ⁅

⁆ He always knew more than he let on-- so much that it was best to assume he knew gods-damned everything. ⁅

It hurt to admit, but sometimes, Krysaos felt like he had the brain of a starfish in that guy's presence. 

That didn't mean much when Krysaos was basically a con-man, just trying to get by... but the current him had become a lot more sensitive to matters of pride and good repute. 

⁆ Then... there was something about the way he stared... ⁅

⁆ Maybe it was the glowing gold color of his eyes. ⁅

⁆ Maybe there was some kind of magic in them, too... something that could make your blood run cold and your skin crawl. ⁅

Tycon was the sort of guy you wanted as your ally... simply because he was an unfathomable nightmare as an enemy. 

That also made him a little unpleasant to deal with in any sort of official capacity. 

They might have been friends, but it felt like... their identities as Royal Marines took precedence. 

Krysaos had two shiny insignias on his collar, denoting his rank. He had a few freshly-earned ribbons pinned to his breast. And he'd even gone out of his way to get a haircut less than six bells back. 

So... he took a breath, plastered the biggest, filthiest grin on his face he could manage...

--and he greeted the Commander of the Wyrmslayer Alliance. 

"Glad you made it, Tycon!" he said-- just short of a yell. "We got some *serious* shite to talk about, my guy."

⁆ We shook hands. And I got this huge mix of emotions in my chest. ⁅

⁆ Terrifying golden eyes aside.... ⁅

⁆ The guy's gigantic ass-hat nature aside... ⁅

⁆ Tycon was a good f*cking guy. ⁅

⁆ I'd go to my watery grave for him... ⁅

⁆ ...and with the way shite had been going down, that was a very real possibility. ⁅

"Good evening, Krysaos," Tycon replied, rendering a quick salute. "First: when is the last time you shaved?"

Krysaos was surprised by his long-time ally's unfriendly tone. 

...but not *too* surprised. 

That guy always had a stick up his arse when it came to professional appearance. 

Krysaos returned the salute-- a bit less enthused than he was a few minutes prior. 

"I shaved after lunch," he said. "Gimme a break, LT. You know how fast my beard grows."

"It's past midnight," Tycon frowned. "You know better."

⁆ You know what? Nevermind. F*ck this guy. ⁅

"Second," Tycon continued, "*Why* are you alone?"

Krysaos winced at the obvious observation. 

"Well-- that's..."