Headed by a Snake



Gathered in front of Krysaos were the noble members of the hero party, the young guys and gals that'd be the final line of defense against the end of the Realm as everyone knew it. 

A girl with a long, silver ponytail crawled onto the beach, her face filthy with sand. 

Her thin, orange robes were completely drenched. 

So, naturally, they clung to... 

Uh.

--nothing to write home about. 

That should have been Kimura Taree, a Martialist from the White Scale sect. 

At any rate, she was too young for him. 

Beside her was a purple-haired girl in a neat, white set of plate armor. Soft waves continued to crash onto her lower back, but she looked too exhausted to care. 

But along with the flowing seawater, the girlie was dripping with divine aura-- god-juice, Krysaos liked to call it. There was so much of it that it almost hurt to look at her directly.

That must have been Troia, the Princess of the Holy Country. 

She was an incredibly important person to the Eternal Flame-- one of, like... two gods that Krysaos actually respected. (Or maybe three?)

--but at any rate... she was too young for him. 

And lastly, there was a boy-- a half-elf, judging by the shape of his ears. 

He looked pretty badass, walking out of the water on his own two legs, water streaming freely down his brown-or-blonde hair. 

By process of elimination, that was Pale, the gods-damned Hero of the Realm. 

Tycon had talked about him before. 

He was a good, honest kid-- and a strong Martial fighter and a capable Spellcaster, to boot. 

He had the height of a man, but his face still had the green of a boy. In a year or two, though, he'd probably be able to hold his own, playing the game. 

Suddenly, the guy stopped. 

He met Krysaos' eyes... and he lifted his chin. 

Krysaos mirrored the action involuntarily. 

That kid... 

That was... acknowledgment. 

--from badass to badass. 

Then, Pale collapsed onto his knees and began to vomit seawater.

All of them... all three of them were in various states of choking and sputtering out seawater. 

Whatever method Becky used to get the heroes from point A to point B, it was not a gentle one. 

Krysaos turned back to Tycon. His expression had changed back to one of his usuals: general disgust. 

He wasn't sure if that was a good development or not, though. 

"Krysaos, there's one more," Tycon said. 

...Was there?

Krysaos closed his eyes, feeling out all the things in the water-- what was there, what was supposed to be there, and... 

"Oh, there *is* one more-- just like you said."

He waved his hand once more and a fourth water sphere shot out of the ocean. For a moment, it took its place among the stars in the sky. Then, after the moment was gone, it fell back down, plopping onto the beach. 

And revealed within was the tall, armored form of... 

"Who the f*ck is that?" Krysaos asked aloud. 

The guy was wearing dark armor covered with skull motifs and literal spikes. He was also weighed down by waterlogged furs on his waist and shoulders... and a military lockbox he clutched to his chest. 

A guy from the Sleeping Country? Krysaos didn't remember *him* being in the reports. 

He was alive; he was coughing and expelling sea water like the others. 

Considering the box he carried... maybe he was a porter? 

And since he was traveling with the heroes, he must have been a high-level porter. 

That was good. 

The whole thing-- the heroes showing up, that was good! The more help they could get when the dragons came, the better. 

And besides that-- 

"What'cha think, LT?" Krysaos grinned. "Did you see how quick I got that fourth guy out? I've gotten pretty good at this mana sense thing. Remember before? I used to suck real--"

"Krysaos," Tycon interrupted, "There should be one more besides that one."

"Huh? Alright. On it." Krysaos said. 

He closed his eyes and extended his senses.

And... 

"No," he shook his head. "It's... just the four, guy. How many's there supposed to be?" 

"Four?" Tycon frowned, "but there should *definitely* be..."

He shook his head... "Four. It seems I... misspoke? There's just the four..."

Weird. 

The guy looked disoriented.

...But, then again, he did eat two entire crates of raw oysters, practically by himself. 

Krysaos didn't have an ⌈Appraise⌋ Skill or anything like that, so it was entirely possible that there were magic oysters or maybe even cursed oysters mixed into the bunch he gave him. 

Magic oysters?

...Cursed oysters?

"You okay, guy?" Krysaos asked, "Should we head to the docs and get some medicine?" 

Or a ⌈Cleanse⌋ Spell?

...⌈Decursify⌋?

Tycon did a weird predatory thing.

He moved.

He moved in such a way that Krysaos couldn't follow it-- not until Tycon had his fingers on his left shoulder. 

--and it wasn't a reassuring pat-pat-pat.

Krysaos felt the pressure of Tycon's fingertips wrapping around his shoulderbone, gripping harder than what a friendly pat-pat-pat called for. 

"H-hey, Tycon... wh-what's up, guy? Hah... haha?" 

Krysaos put on a smile. A nice... calm--

"Ow! OwW! What the shite, bro?!"

Tycon started squeezing Krysaos'  shoulder. He didn't know how much strength exactly was needed to break a man's shoulder, but he was pretty f*cking sure Tycon had it. 

"Explain the situation, Sea God Krysaos," Tycon growled through his teeth. "Why are the Heroes here? In. This. Place?"

"Ow, f*ck-- I dunno, LT!" Krysaos yelped, "They-- they swam, maybe??"

Tycon increased the pressure. Was it 'swum'?! Was garbage grammar going to be the reason he was going to get his arm torn off?! 

"They emerged from *your* ocean, Krysaos," Tycon sneered, "Hero's Hearth is several suns away and that's by *ship.* How, then, did they get from *there* to *here*?"

"I-- come on, LT! That f*cking hurts, guy! How did YOU get here?!"

"In a way that could not be replicated," Tycon replied sternly, "Tell me, Sea God, is this *your* doing?"

"Tycon!"

"Answer."

"I-- I don't f*cking know!"

"That's not good enough."

Krysaos raised his opposite arm. He wasn't really in a state to think, so he summoned up all the mana he could muster. He was operating under the unfortunately often practiced principle of 'do something quick or f*cking die.' 

A glowing blue sphere of god-magic swirled in his palm. It had enough god-juice in it to wipe out an entire frigate-class ship along with its crew-- that's what he felt. 

But then Tycon grabbed his wrist with his other hand. 

And Krysaos' wrist-- it f*cking snapped. 

He heard it before he felt it. 

Of course, Krysaos' blue death ball imploded on itself with a sad, sorry 'whump' sound. 

He started wondering why all this was happening to him.

He thought... that he and Tycon were friends? 

But then he remembered... they absolutely were.

He remembered how Tycon raised the morale of his allies aboard the Neptune's Revenge.

He remembered how Tycon ordered the deaths of the elves of House Vulkoori. 

The only fate that awaited the enemies of Sol Invictus was a cruel and violent death. 

Krysaos knew that they were friends because he was still alive. 

And he knew he was alive...

--because his wrist REALLY, REALLY, F*CKING HURT!! 

"DUDE!!" Krysaos shouted, "That's not F*CKING FAIR!! F*CK! F******CKKK!!!"

Oh, it hurt. Ohhhh, it really f*cking hurt. 

Tycon raised his chin, "I *will* have an answer, Krysaos."

⊰ And, on my honor, you will have thy answers. ⊱ 

Big! Boomy! Voice!

In Krysaos' f*cking head! 

It was so loud, it almost drowned out the pain. 

A big group of adventurers and soldiers was hurrying toward them... and in their lead was a girl wearing a set of blue, shimmery scale mail. 

The booming head-voice-- it belonged to her. 

She was Neerin Neelia, the Wyrmslayer Alliance's leader of operations in Jad. 

And that girl... she really, really, really should have been his savior. 

But, because Krysaos knew her identity... he wasn't sure just what was going to happen. 

"See to the Heroes," she ordered, waving her hand before approaching Tycon.

  "Good morning, Commander Tycondrius."

Tycon released his grip, allowing Krysaos to fall on his arse like a chump. 

But that was fine. He was a god. His body (and his pride) would heal in a short time. 

But the storm that was the Wyrmslayer Commander had not yet passed. 

Tycon drew his f*cking sword as he turned to face Neerin Neelia. 

Everyone stopped and stared-- one of the girlies gasped in horror. 

The tip of the Commander's sword was pressed against Neerin's neck. 

"That's far enough," he said. 

It was nothing short of amazing how that woman could stand there, head slightly raised, a thin line of blood running down from Tycon's swordpoint... and somehow, keep totally and completely calm. 

"Tycondrius," Neerin said. "I'd like to speak with you-- in private."

"And why," growled the dragonslayer... "the f*ck... would I give a single shite... about anything your *kind* has to say?"