Headed by a Snake

Tarquin Wroe lied on the floor, unmoving.

Dark blood ran from gunshot wounds on his head and body.

His calves and feet were folded awkwardly beneath his thighs.

A foolish expression of confusion... or perhaps betrayal had frozen onto his face.

Tycondrius was quickly losing his patience.

"If you don't at least *breathe,* Mister Wroe, then I cannot administer a healing potion in good faith."

...Even the playful taunt elicited no reaction from the Hexblade.

It was concerning.

As time passed, the lack of blood flow to the man's brain had the potential to reduce his intelligence to unprecedented levels of incompetence.

"Tarquin Wroe... I *order* you to breathe."

He snapped his fingers.

⟬ ⌈Commander's Strike⌋ failed. ⟭

With his System's response, Tycon felt his heart sink.

He crouched down beside his old friend.

"...I will not apologize for what I have done to you in recent suns. Regardless of our employer-employee relationship, we are friends... both before I came to this place and after."

For friends of their caliber, verbal apologies were unnecessary.

Tycon was a man who showed his care by his actions.

...by his present actions-- and those he would take in the future.

Tycon paused to take a breath... and concentrated to prevent his voice from breaking.

"I... have pushed you to be better... and I have acted with confidence and strength so as to not betray your faith in me.

"I... need... allies by my side... to do more than survive... but to be great-- to defy the overwhelming odds against us.

"Tarquin Wroe... My brother... I saw... I see the greatness in you, in Dragan and in Pale, and-- and even in that troublesome strumpet, Kimura Taree.

"Get up, old friend... even if for one more mission... so together, we can return home-- wherever that may be."

Still, Wroe refused to breathe.

"...You selfish... f*cking... bastard," Tycon closed his eyes. "You dare to die before me? And in my presence?"

No response.

"...Is that how little respect you have for me?" Tycon muttered, "To defy my orders? Death is far from a reasonable excuse for the likes of you."

Tycon shut his eyes... feeling the mana in the air... waiting for a resurgence of energy... fully expecting an embarrassed cough or pitiful mewl of pain.

Yet even after several moments of silence... no response came.

"I... was hoping... that we would *at least* die together," He sighed... "You've left me in a difficult situation. Now I have to die fighting alongside an unshaven pirate and a shirtless halfwit."

Tycon took hold of the pearlescent sword, still in Wroe's hand.

The dead man still held it tightly. Logically, rigor mortis had yet to set into his corpse.

Perhaps it was Wroe's training that prevented him from releasing his weapon, even after death.

Tycon severed the hand with a clean swipe of Mercy and pried open Wroe's dead fingers to recover the god-weapon.

When he held the sword in his grip, however, the misshapen blade melted away into watery mist and moonlight.

"No," Tycon growled. "He deserves more than that."

His anger growing, he plunged his bare fist into Wroe's chest, squeezing his insides.

"Yo! YO!!!! What-- what the F*CK ARE YOU DOING, LT!!!" A panicked Krysaos shouted from afar.

Tycon heard the rapid footsteps of the Captain and the Thunder God rushing to his side... but he continued to ignore them. His focus was on crushing the bits of bone and viscera inside of his dead friend's chest cavity.

One of his companions grabbed both of his arms. Another struck him hard across the face.

...But only when Tycon found what he was looking for, did he allow himself to be dragged away.

"The F*CK is wrong with you?!" Krysaos asked.

"To defile a corpse... of our honored companion," The Thunder God lamented. "Explain thyself... Please, Maedar... I beg of you."

Even the eyeless shadow Ishmael crossed his arms, appearing to 'stare' in disapproval.

Tycon raised his hand.

Within his grasp, he held an ugly rod of metal, slathered in blood.

"What... what is that?" Krysaos frowned.

"This... is what remains of Wroe's sword, a hilt perhaps," Tycon shook his fellows off before continuing on. "I suspect his *merciful* goddess transmuted Wroe's blood and bone... into arcanite-- as her motif goes."

The Thunder God's face twisted with revulsion, "That is... infinitely disturbing."

Tycon wiped blood from his face with his coatsleeve as he nodded.

"Agreed. Now, that you three are ready, let us depart."

Krysaos groaned, lolling his head back, "By my f*cking socks, we're still doin' this?"

"Our odds of survival..." The Thunder God muttered, "They are the same, whether we journey deeper in the forest or try to escape it."

The Captain crossed his arms, grimacing... "What's Alana say, LT? Where do we go from here?"

Tycon raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, "Mister Krysaos, it seems the connection has been cut along with the closing of the ⌈Gate⌋."

"Please do not respond to that, Sea God," The Thunder God softly pleaded.

"So we're f*cked, huh?" Krysaos shrugged, "Shite. Mina's gonna be pissed when she finds out I died.."

Tycon flicked his wrist, storing the arcanite rod in his spatial ring, "Now... which of the four of us has the best directional sense?"

Ishmael slowly faded away, from bottom to top.

"...Which of the three of us, then?" Tycon asked, "No pressure."

Before any others could respond, the temperature of one of Tycon's rings began to spike.

...but it was not the ring linked to Alana.

His spatial ring began to emit a dim, orange light. Tycon lifted his hand, displaying it to his companions.

"That uh... normal?" Krysaos asked.

"It is not," Tycon admitted quietly.

"How curious..." Mused the Thunder God.

Furrowing his brows, Tycon turned his wrist.

A dark iron hammer, its head shaped into a wolf, fell onto the forest dirt.

"Is your storage ring... full?" Krysaos asked.

"Captain," Tycon gently scolded. "You have personally witnessed the embarrassingly small size of Mister Wroe's arcanite rod. Please take that thought, think carefully on it, and shove it up your fu--"

⟬ AWOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! ⟭

A wolf's howl reverberated in Tycon's mind. Simultaneously, bright, red-orange light shone from the dark iron hammer... shrouding its transformation.

After several seconds, a grey-furred wolf stood in their midst... but unlike a regular 3-fulm tall wolf, Tres Leches stood nearly twice as tall.

"(Help!)" The wolf barked, "(Help! My partner is in danger! I'll lead you to him!)"

",