Headed by a Snake

The fates... were infuriating bastards.

Capricious.

Fickle.

Arrogant and entitled whores, the lot of them-- ravenous for the next creature that caught their eye.

They conspired together, servile and flattering to whatever hero or god they fancied at the moment.

...Their short attention spans never lasted long.

Tycondrius of Charm refused to be a thrall to their arbitrary whims.

Fate? Chance? Luck? Whatever the word for it... as troublesome as it was, it could slow but not stop the inevitable.

The only end for the enemies of Sol Invictus was death.

Death, after all, was a reasonable gentleman.

He and Tycon were friends.

Rain fell down in blanketing sheets on the deck of the Neptune's Revenge. The black clouds above were adamant about preventing any sunlight through. Furious, high waves and heart-quaking peals of thunder threatened to break or capsize the ship at any given moment.

It was noisy, wet, and absolutely f*cking miserable.

It was, however... better than Tycon could have expected, considering his goals and those of the company he kept.

The sea god needed to be murdered... righteously and forthwith.

Tycon's human companion, Captain Krysaos, had personal reasons to do so. According to him, the sea god led his former crew in a mutiny against him.

Granted, it did seem rather heavy-handed for a literal god to overthrow a mortal ship Captain... but it was a well-established fact that the sea god was an arse.

He was neither liked amongst men... nor amongst his divine peers.

The Elven Arcanist, Coraline Heartsong, needed the sea god's final, dying breath.

It would serve a resonant catalyst for curing the Lone Shadowdark of his affliction. The poor fool's body had been dominated by an ancient elf spirit... a curse brought upon by the twin Blades of the Forgotten King.

One sought vengeance... motivated by hatred.

The other sought a restoration... to 'fix' things, to... return them to how they once were.

That was out of... love-- or something of the sort.

What Tycon needed-- what truly mattered... was the strength of their convictions.

They would not be swayed.

Sol Invictus does not ally with cowards.

Tycon kept his balance as the ship rose high, grasping tightly to a rope secured to a mast. He dropped to a knee as the wave descended... annoyed, but taking no injury.

He brushed his wet green hair out of his eyes to stare beyond the forward bow.

Still... land was nowhere in sight.

The morale of the crew was at an abysmal low, forced to hunker together belowdecks to wait out the storm.

They completed their training in the Tree God's Forest, building camaraderie in facing the various threats and challenges. Some grew better for it-- stronger, more certain of themselves.

Tycon glanced up at the empty crow's nest.

Some did not return.

Since then... something had happened between Captain Krysaos and the Vulkoori Princess, Imperia.

Somewhere... shrouded by the dark fog and hidden by the tall waves, she and her elves were aboard the Sugar Titted Siren.

Backstabbing traitors... one or more...

In the worst case... possibly the lot of them.

Tycon unconsciously tightened his grip on the rope, sensing a crewman's approach.

A behemoth towered over him... his body covered in muscle and brass-flecked rock. His too-many teeth were sharpened to points, his maw locked in an eternal scowl.

Every pore and pockmark in his skin radiated... hatred... anger... the intent to murder and kill-- to spill the blood of the enemy upon the deck and twist their flesh until there was naught left to bleed.

Yet, such dark wishes were not directed at Tycon, himself.

Thus... it could be forgiven.

"Speak your mind, Petty Officer Bob!" He shouted to be heard above the cutting winds, "Hesitation does not behoove one of my leaders."

The hulking Coral Boy exhaled out of his nostrils, a cloud of steam wisping in the rain.

...It was then that Tycon realized how cold it was. His Officer's cap and thick military coat were soaked through.

His blood ran hot... keeping warm by virtue of his own smoldering rage.

"Grrargh... Honestly, Bosun..." Bob growled, "I'z pissed as all get out! I just wanna... swim to da uvver ship... an' crack 'eadz and twist necks of every soddin' knife-ear... till I get some F*CKIN' answers!"

"In this storm?" Tycon furrowed his brows. "And how confident are you of doing so? AND returning in fighting condition?"

...Bob lowered his head, "Feels like shite, Bosun! Standin' here! ...Not bein' able to do nufin'!"

Tycon had given the order.

No one in the crew was to leave the ship to enact their idea of personal revenge. Though the Coral Boys were in no danger of drowning, if they were to be separated from the crew, it would reduce their overall chances of success on Moon Crescent Isle.

"There will be a reckoning," Tycon frowned... "but when the storm eases. We are not savages, Twelve of Twelve. The elf or elves responsible will stand trial-- just as if any of our own were found wanting."

It was... most unfortunate that Tycon was on deck when disaster struck. With his Gold-Rank physique and his bloodline ability to sharpen his vision, he knew the exact elf responsible.

...That knowledge, however, was not to be shared.

--not until that person was within... interrogation-distance.

Before justice could be delivered, it was paramount to discover how deep their treachery ran.

"Whoever it was, Bosun..." Bob seethed, "Dey'z AI'NT one of our own!! We. Do Not. Mutiny."

"The elves signed the contract, just as you have," Tycon countered. "They, too, fall under the Alizeaun Code of Military Justice. We... are a people bound by rules."

"Da RULES!!??" The Coral Boy snarled, "Da rules get in da way o' JUSTICE!!"

Tycon narrowed his eyes... and spoke in dark, measured words, "Judgment. will. fall... Little Brother. If you remain unsatisfied by my position as an Officer, I will have your challenge now."

Trial by combat.

It would have not been the first time he'd been challenged in a precarious situation-- and before an incredibly dangerous mission.

It would be a damn shame, though, if Tycon were forced to kill one of his best men.

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