Headed by a Snake

Tycondrius hefted his bag over his shoulder. The weight of it was a unique comfort, as he would utilize most of the items inside, hopefully within the next few bells. Tycon knocked the bottom end of his halberd against the double doors of the Vanzano estate.

A young footman answered the door, a handsome, blonde fellow, wearing the clean black attire of a uniformed servant. He wore no armor or tabard, but the stylized Vanzano lightning bolt was sewn into his clothing.

The young man bowed politely, "Good afternoon, sirs. I must apologize. The Lord and Lady are not present, today. Please return--"

Tycon shoved the man out of the way, knocking him to the floor, "Don't care."

He strode into the spacious manor. It was worse than he had expected.

Centurion Zenon followed close behind, first frowning at the fallen footman, then at the state of the manor. Concerning the former, the blonde fellow was a pathetic sight. He had a crippled right hand that was not apparent upon first introduction. He cradled it, curling his body up, his face scrunched up in sweat and agony. He had likely struck it against the floor or wall when he lost his balance.

For the manor... Zenon was used to looking at wealthy temple decor: high and ornate architecture, stained glass windows, and religious symbols. He would also have a mind for defensive considerations like archer parapets, uneven stairwells, and twisting halls that hindered right-handed attackers.

There were precious little fineries within the manor. The walls and shelves were noticeably devoid of paintings and wealthy trinkets. Faded rectangles and other-shapes upon empty mantles were bereft of dust, hinting at their past existence. Windows were cracked or broken, cobwebs settled at their highest corners. Linen sheets covered sets of furniture, with scraps of paper lying upon them that suggested their monetary value.

Worse for the Centurion... there wasn't a column in sight.

"What is going on in my house?" The hurrying of feet clomped from another hallway. An older gentleman, his thin grey beard and mustache neatly trimmed, entered the lobby with a look of shock on his face.

"Lord Greer, w-we have intruders!" The footman shrieked, his voice marred by pain.

The old man's face fell into an angry glare, "These are members of the Church, Victorius! Show some respect!"

Tycon raised his eyebrows, his voice lilting up in amusement, "You... you lied to me."

The footman had a good physique, save for his crippled right hand. That would put him at a disadvantage if they were to fight properly. A shame.

A wide smile crossed Tycon's face, his leather gloves stretching as he tightened the grip on his halberd. Lying was a sin. Sin was to be punished.

"Optio..." Zenon whispered quietly, glancing down to meet Tycon's eyes.

Tycon nodded in return, relaxing his grip. The Centurion's gentle reminder implied that the next course of action was to be conversation, not murdering a liar.

Footman Victorius was safe, for now. Tycon would only murder the members of House Vanzano after careful deliberation.

"Lord Greer, sit with us." Tycon grabbed the end of a linen cloth and with a swift pull, removed it from a comfortable leather seat... He then quickly and neatly folded the cloth and placed it to the side, "We've a few questions."

...

Unfortunately, Greer was well-versed in the speech of nobles. The thin elder with a thinner mustache was able to slyly deflect each of Tycon's questions concerning the state of his businesses and reputation.

"Our businesses are thriving!" Greer said. That meant nothing without a reference point.

"The loyalty of our consumers is and always has been unquestionable!" Also meant nothing.

Zenon's irritation grew more and more apparent as the conversation went on. He was likely not used to dealing with meaningless affectations, double-talk, and wordplay. Tycon took a slightly sadistic satisfaction in that the Centurion was likely regretting his request to allay their violent tendencies, in an attempt to appear cordial.

The 'coffee' that Victorius served did nothing to restore the Librarian's spirits. Tycon expected... honey cakes or something. That was popular in the Holy Country's cuisine. The footman gave them heated water-- no snacks. Rude.

With the round of questioning, Tycon... couldn't even discern what exactly House Vanzano's businesses were. But what did become painfully clear was that Lord Greer Vanzano was useless to him.

The man steered the conversation towards three particular subjects:

1. Stories of Gian's victories in the Ezyrian arenas. Greer likely had very little to do with that.

2. The promise his daughter, Athena, displayed at the Military Academy in Silva. The man expressed more than once that he and his wife (Marigold, apparently) were continuously surprised at the girl's talent. From that, Tycon inferred that Greer had even less to do with Athena's academic success than with Gian's combat prowess.

And 3. How much he and his wife spent on the various mediocre knick-knacks and souvenirs that still remained in the manor's receiving room. The silver amount was in the thousands to several thousands.

The fool man even insisted that because they were able to spend coin on such lucrative items, that their businesses were absolutely not in dire straits, as Centurion Zenon had somewhat rudely suggested.

It was circular logic. How can a man be poor if they spent as if they were not? Tycon could have cited the dozen debt collectors he and Zenon chased off a bell prior, but Greer would likely have a prepared response for that, as well.

Thankfully, at about that time, a figurative angel arrived. Her timing was impeccable. Zenon was near about to utilize his wind-magic to hurl Greer against a wall or ceiling.

"Sir Tycon?" Athena's crisp bell-like voice called out. She entered the room from a different doorway than Greer had emerged, wearing a simple tunic and cradling a sheathed sword in her arms. Bits of her light blue hair was matted against her lightly perspiring forehead-- perhaps she was training, just now?

Excellent work ethic.

Tycon nudged Zenon lightly, signalling for the taller man to stop clenching his jaw and fists. He stood up and wore the politest smile he could fake at a moment's notice.

"Good evening, Athena Vanzano. The Centurion and I are here for you."

"For me?" Athena's eyes grew large and she clutched her sword tighter to her chest, "By the Flame, am I being drafted? Oh, no, is there a war? But I've yet to graduate from the academy?"

Tycon chuckled in his heart. There's always a war, always a reason to have strong men and women willing to serve in their nation's defense, whether it be against enemies of the state or policing their own.

Greer turned to his daughter with an ugly scowl, "Fool girl! Listen when a man speaks to you! Don't just run your mouth like a thoughtless whore!!"