Headed by a Snake

"(The craven you seek is dead,)" Tycondrius explained. "(He took his own life, yesterday evening.)"

The original pilot of Talks-With-Fire was a shining beacon of morale within Guild Metal Wolf. When faced with the pressure of an unbeatable enemy... he embraced his fears and gave into cowardice.

From what Tycon was told, that fellow didn't even do it well. He asphyxiated himself with a rope or belt.

It was... a slow and excruciating way to die.

Tycon didn't even bother to remember his name.

The elf swallowed the blood in his throat... and nodded. That was enough. He lied still, with his eyes closed... the rage in his heart transformed into grief and helplessness.

"(Name?)" He asked...

"(Tycondrius,)" Tycon answered honestly, "(Chieftain of Tribe Invictus.)"

"(...Do it, then, Tycondrius of Invictus,)" Growling-Bear whispered... "(I have lived... long enough.)"

Tycon nodded as he unsheathed his sword, "(You have fought honorably and made your ancestors proud, Growling-Bear.)"

Unfortunately, as he lifted the blade, a gentle gust of wind flowed from the west.

⊰ Stay thy hand, friend-Maedar. ⊱

That voice... belonged to a man. Tycon wished it was Beatrice. He could tell the upstart fire elemental to eat sand without being disadvantaged.

Tycon turned, staring incredulously in the distance... at a blanket of rock formations from whence the wind came.

"And why in the seven hells would I do that?"

⊰ Dost thou question me, mortal? A king of his people? ⊱

"Yes, I question you!" Tycon shouted, "If you've forgotten, Ancient, I am *not* one of your people!"

The winds blew silent for a moment... but then the inevitable response came.

⊰ I would ask thee... to give this king face. ⊱

"Ughhh..." Tycon groaned as he sheathed his blade. He walked over the uneven terrain that was the Bear Armor to retrieve the bone mask.

Returning to the elf, he knelt down by his side, "(Your ancestors watch over you, Growling-Bear... even now.)"

The half-dead elf lifted a trembling hand, grasping weakly onto Tycon's wrist, "(Grant me... death...)"

Tycon slapped the hand away, "(This, you are not qualified to ask of me.)"

First the elf bled all over his shirt then he dared to ask for a favor he did not deserve? The fellow was being ridiculous.

With a frustrated sigh, Tycon replaced the bone mask on the immobile elf's face and swiftly restored the spell circles to activate its healing effect.

"(Growling-Bear... though you have suffered greatly, you must live, so not to disgrace the honor of the fallen. First Warrior of the Ebon Mask Tribe, do you hear my words?)"

The elf... slowly nodded.

Defeated, broken, his vengeance denied... he wept.

...but there was no shame in that.

Tycon silently took a seat by the elf's side to watch over him.

He understood the man's pain... more than he cared to openly admit.

...

There was a prophecy, told long... long ago.

It was passed down by countless generations.

It was... forbidden to speak of it, for reasons conjured by cowards and fools.

As for why?

The source of those words... was a dragon.

Such songs were said to have been sung... by more than one of the mythical beasts... which only made the Ancients more keen on ignoring them.

Yet... the refusal to speak of prophecies did not make them any less true.

Yanaba felt it in her blood... in the magic of the world around her. She heard the quiet, yet certain whispers... of a song of which legends were sung.

The world would be purged. Naught would remain but ash and fire.

And the cause?

The very Chieftain who gifted her tribe their masks.

"What the-- you're not supposed to be here!!"

"Wh-where'd this guy come from?"

"Hey! We're talkin' to you!"

Blades were hastily drawn... metal ringing against their sheaths.

A single man stood amidst four of Yanaba's warriors.

He stood tall... taller than any of hers. His skin was bronzed dark by the sun. He was a tried and tested warrior, proudly wearing the scars of battle on his face and muscled arms.

In his hands, he held two simple but handsome blades... white like bleached bone, wielded with ease and grace.

There was no fear in the Ancient's white-glowing eyes... no arrogance... no contempt. He stood calm... serene, unflappable and untouchable even amongst men and women, together, who had sent thousands of souls to the afterlife.

"Chieftain!" One of her men called out, "It's dangerous here! Please get to safety!"

Yanaba kept her peace. She did not move.

Her brother, Notaku-- he had been defeated in one-on-one combat... by a human. But that Warrior... did not deliver the killing blow.

The most likely reason... was the fearless foreigner that stood amidst her and her Masked Ones.

If she chose to withdraw, Notaku would die.

So, she made a choice in her heart.

If the foreigner was *not* who she thought he was... he would die without a complete corpse.

If he was... if he was the inevitable source of destruction of her world... then she was prepared to risk her life to send him to the deepest pits of the seven hells.

She raised her hand, her palm forward, "(Kill.)"

As one, four Masked Ones fell upon their foe. Perhaps they heard the gravity in their Chieftain's voice, as they immediately opted for the Four-Point Leaf Blade Formation, the strongest combination attack in the tribe.

Yanaba grimaced. Without Notaku as one of the participants, there was a chance for the attack to fail.

She narrowed her eyes... feeling the mana in the plains, humming softly to ease its ebb and flow... directing it to her warriors' blades.

That foreign elf... he barely moved, aside from a slight raise of an eyebrow.

He kept his eyes focused on her... completely disregarding the fact that he was seconds from death.

Yanaba was not a perfect woman. There was a limit to her patience. Ancient or not, she was insulted by the man's indifference.

Frustration welling in her heart, she waved her hands, shaping the formation's mana to account for her warriors' shortcomings.

She raised her voice in song, surging with power and barely-contained fury, "(Earth and sands, heed our call. Rage and BURST in discontent, for the Realm was forged in CHAOS and shaped by the hands of GODS!!!!)"

Four blades fell, sharp enough to cut the strongest steels, with enough force to hew caverns of stone.

The Ancient remained undaunted, merely raising his chin in response.

"(Only this much?)"