Headed by a Snake

"Hear ye, hear ye!

"Open your eyes... to the TRUTH!!"

Jovanus gnashed his teeth, trying to ignore the incessant droning of the vagrant doomsayer.

The acid dripping from his tongue offended his senses... as much as his slovenly appearance and the stench of piss dried into the rags he wore.

"The end of our Realm... is NIGH!!!!

"OUR end... is NIGH!!

"--for the gods... they have FORSAKEN US!!"

The doomsayer spoke of the pagan gods of the Eastern States.

They were... *human* gods.

And thus, they were as fallible as their weak-minded worshippers.

"Our prayers go UNHEARD!! For we-- we are sinners, unworthy of their eyes..."

Jovanus shook his head.

Every corner of Whitehearth's streets was adorned with their so-called gods... likenesses carved in stone, as the names of their streets... in irreverent curses that rolled freely off pagan tongues.

Whitehearth.

The City-State of a hundred shrines.

The so-called 'holy city' of the eastern peoples.

It sickened him.

If he could, he'd tear it all down. The Statesmen around him, he'd put them to the sword-- pluck their eyes out with forceps, burn the bodies in a glorious pyre.

However... Jovanus was outside his jurisdiction-- a fact that afflicted him with physical aches and pains.

He was far from his place of birth... far from the pest-ridden soils of his estate... far from the plat of land where his parents were buried.

--and he was on a non-combat mission, of all things.

If not for the pleading of his brother and cousins, he would still be on the soil of his homeland.

Every moment he spent away... the more he longed to return.

Currently, he was in the Eastern States... in City-State Whitehearth.

And for what...

He was *not* campaigning for the glory of the Tyrion Empire.

He was *not* performing his duty, praising the Eternal Flame and the mercies of Lady Troia, the High Oracle.

Jovanus' purpose in the pagan city... was to promote the greed of men.

His name had been sold for coin.

His name had worth... moreso than the rest of his living family members.

It irked him to be associated with champions hailing from the lesser nations.

...It was worse in the past.

Because of his family's inability to make sound investments, Jovanus had worked with more thieves, criminals, and murderers than he cared to admit. For a time, he'd even thrown his lot in with the Snake Cult before they were ousted as worshippers of literal snakes.

Jovanus could no longer tolerate such incompetence.

The dogs of his family should have already received their coin. It was enough to arm and armor their legions-- loyal Tyrion men and women far more deserving of the Eternal Flame's graces.

--of course, Jovanus had a healthy suspicion that even those funds would be... misappropriated.

It was a problem he would address another sun.

Before that, Jovanus' goal was to keep his sword sheathed and his crossbow stowed.

Being at the center of an international incident would detract a great deal of value from his name.

However, the Decanus he was accompanying-- a man by the name of Dario, had no such concerns.

As the man drew his sword, he cut through the doomsayer's neck in a smooth, practiced motion.

"Eugh," Dario groaned... "I was afraid the yapping dung heap would go on, even after I slit his throat."

He then whipped the blade downward, painting a red line onto the cobblestone street.

"Deacnus," Jovanus growled, "I'll have you keep at least three feet away from me."

"That so?" Dario grinned. "What's wrong, Inquisitor? Does blood offend your senses?"

"It is not blood I fear," Jovanus frowned. "I fear your ability to afford my dry cleaning bill, should your recklessness stain my cloak."

"Tch," Dario scoffed. "Whatever, old man."

Jovanus watched the ruffian's back as he walked away.

Former Centurion Dario. Hailing from the territory of Rixus. Demoted back to Decanus because his peers and subordinates attested to the fact that he was a walking pile of garbage, armored as a man.

The fact that he and his tent-group were present was an indisputable testament to their corruption.

He'd avoided crucifixion, thus far, due to his Metal-Rank physique and the achievements of his dead subordinates.

...but only the Flame knew how much longer his fortune would last.

"Jovanus! Jovanus, my friend. You came!"

Yet again, the Eternal Flame saw fit to test Jovanus' patience.

The confident voice belonged to an Eastern States mercenary wearing darksteel armor and a vibrant red cape.

His clean-cut and polished appearance made Jovanus ashamed on his Decani's behalf. How could someone with so filthy a personality look more professional than one of his countrymen?

"I would prefer to be referred to by my title," Jovanus replied gruffly. "Also... I am not your friend, Mercenary Leader Smith."

The man's jovial bearing faltered, but only slightly, "Oh, come now. We're all friends here, Inquisitor. Call me Clayton."

Jovanus narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the men, women, and monsters in the surrounding crowd-- all gathered on Smith's behalf.

Dozens of unwashed, unkempt ruffians, collected from various regions of the Realm.

Two four-legged, metal-bodied golems... ancient abominations, likely plundered from some dead Witch's tower.

A coven of Nemayans-- likely fewer of their number with still-beating hearts than not.

...and a single squad of what comprised a far cry from Tyrion's finest.

"All this for a simple show of force, Mister Smith?" Jovanus slowly narrowed his eyes, "Hmph. You must take me a fool."

"'Tis not the numbers that are of importance, Inquisitor," The mercenary leader smiled, blissfully unaware of how rank his breath was. "I've gathered several notable personages from each of the five great nations. I can introduce you to them, if you'd like."

"I'll have to refuse," Replied Jovanus, "with the reason being that I do not care."

"Fair enough," Clayton chuckled. "But really, Inquisitor... my confidence is in you, not in your men. Thank you for coming-- praise the Flame."

The Statesman reached for Jovanus' arm, patting it in what was might have been a friendly gesture.

"Praise the Flame, indeed," Jovanus growled.

It was true that Clayton Smith had much to thank the Flame for-- that a crossbow bolt had yet to adorn his brow, for example... or that his black heart was not yet pierced by righteous Tyrion steel.

"Just as I've told the others," Clayton droned on-- "the transaction requests have already been sent to the Banking Guild. Your accounts will receive the promised payment by the end of the business sun."

Jovanus furrowed his brow in suspicion.

The man spoke of finalities.

Besides that, a carriage was waiting nearby, its banners colored the same ostentatious red as his cape.

"You're leaving."

It was not a question. It was an accusation derived from obvious truths.