Headed by a Snake

"It has to be you," Natalya whined, "you have the Warlord Class... the strongest Tactician-type Class in existence."

Tycondrius chuckled lightly in response.

"Oh, Natalya... you would have the greatest human armies in the Realm headed by a snake?"  Surely, you see the absurdity in the notion."

Natalya lifted her head... then headbutted his solar plexus.

Tycon attempted to stifle a grunt, turning it into an awkward exhale.

Thankfully, Natalya did not call attention to it.

"It'sh not what I meant," She muttered.

"Then... what did you mean?"

"Stroke my head."

"...Sorry, I'm not following the logic."

Natalya lifted her head, meeting his eyes, "Just do it or I'll have you crucified."

"...Very well."

Facing the theoretical threat of painful execution, Tycon did as he was told.

Also, he poured himself a half-glass of deliciousness, downing its contents. The bottle and glass, he placed on the nearby short-table-- still out of Natalya's immediate reach, for safety.

Reclining back in the couch for comfort, Tycon continued to gently stroke Natalya's scarlet hair. His opposite hand moved naturally to rest on the small of her back.

Natalya curled up on her side, laying her head comfortably on his upper abdomen.

"You betrayed me," She said.

Tycon did not respond. He needed more information and his silence was the simplest way to achieve that.

"Apologize," Natalya demanded.

"I apologize."

Natalya... wiggled in his embrace. It seemed like a positive response.

He wondered... if perhaps he was getting better at eliciting positive responses from women.

However, Natalya began stroking the outside of his thigh-- which was too positive of a response for him to remain comfortable.

"...Good," She sighed. "I mean... I should... should've known you weren't human when I first saw you."

Tycon said nothing. As he had no idea what the woman was talking about, silence remained his best option.

"You... you didn't dim your vision... in the pits," She explained.

Ah, that was a good hint.

It seemed that Natalya was referring to many years prior, when the Sol Invictus guild was active in the Ezyrian Gladiatorial Arenas.

It was a past that Tycon had learned secondhand through visions.

"The past me... he wore a visored helmet," He offered.

"The shape of your pupils," Natalya groaned-- "they change when you get mad, snake."

"...Then I apologize on behalf of my former self for the oversight."

Natalya's arms moved... embracing him as best as she could, considering their positions.

"You always got mad when your friends were insulted..."

"I wouldn't quite call them 'friends.'"

"You were never afraid as you commanded... your people... no matter how crazy... no matter how-- how dangerous your matches were."

"Most of our guild wore face-coverings, which did well to hide our expressions. Of course, that was for everyone intelligent enough to feel fear, anyroad."

"The first time I saw you... I think... that was when I fell in love with you."

"Love, you say?" Tycon furrowed his eyebrows, "How old were you? Twelve?"

"Ten, actually."

"...My apologies."

It felt like Tycon was apologizing more than he had in a lifetime.

Granted... none of his apologies were particularly sincere.

"Year after year, I watched your matches," She said. "Then, all of a sudden, you disappeared. But... so many years later, you came back. And you came back to me..."

Natalya paused, an dark expression on her face.

"But..." She whispered... "you betrayed me again. After we met in the Basilica... after you made me fall for you all over again... you... fell in love with someone else."

Tycon raised an eyebrow, "I reserve the right to love my daughter with all my--"

"Oh, shut up, you yellow-eyed trash heap," Natalya snarled. "I wasn't talking about Sasha. I was talking about your girlfriend!"

"Ah..." Tycon nodded, a new understanding dawning in his lizard-brain... "You're drunk, Natalya."

"And who do you think made me like this?!" Natalya retorted.

...To that, Tycon struggled to find words. It was, however, terribly consistent of Natalya to refuse responsibility for something so asinine.

Natalya growled at him.

Literally.

She sounded like... a small, rabid dog.

"You... you talk too Flamescarred much, you... you stupid. Whatever. I don't care. Break up with your girlfriend. I'm... I'm better for you."

Tycon sighed and shook his head, "She broke up with me."

Haelvia broke up with him... via missive. He wondered if that was a social faux pas. It felt terribly impersonal.

The news seemed to literally shock Natalya as she jerked in his embrace.

"Eh? What? Really?"

"I'm not in a romantic relationship, as of current," He said in an even tone. "but this is not a discussion to be had, considering your circumstances. You're drunk. And last we spoke, you were rather adamant that you were in a romantic relationship, yourself."

"I made it up."

"Ah?" Tycon blinked, "You... what?"

Natalya repeated her words in a softer voice... "I said... that I made it up... to make you jealous."

Him? Jealous? That was preposterous. He was above such a frivolous emotion.

"Help me, Tycon..." She whispered. "I'm worth it."

"Again, Natalya... You don't need me."

"But I want you," She said. "You understand me. You... laugh at my dumb jokes. You don't get mad at me for being a b*tch all the time. You... know how it is... when people don't like you but you have to pretend that their words don't hurt you."

Tycon wanted to argue against all of those points, but he sensed that doing so would lead him to the Archbishop trying to murder him with sincerity.

"Natalya..."

The woman struggled free from his embrace and sat up.

"No, I don't care anymore. I don't care what anyone has to say."

"Um. That's... good," Tycon smiled politely. "More power to you."

"And you... you're going to pay for taking my first kiss!!"

...First kiss?

Tycon narrowed his eyes. The drunkard in front of him had initiated that kiss-- and one could only call it that if they were being overly generous.

In a surprisingly adept motion, Natalya peeled off her sweat-infused tunic, tossing it away.

In that brief moment, her lust-addled pheromones overwhelmed Tycon's senses, stunning him into silence.

He also suffered physical... more vulgar effects as his eyes locked onto the shapeliness of her figure and her delicate, matching undergarments.

A dark smile crossed Natalya's lips filled with equal parts lust and... wickedness.

"I know you like contracts, Tycon," She grinned. "I'll enlist your help... and for collateral, I'll f*ck you right here on this couch!"

That... that was not how collateral worked!

It was a potentially disastrous situation.

Natalya was drunk. Her emotions were running rampant.

...And she was intent on a plan of action, despite how little logical sense it made.

Tycon considered smacking the Archbishop with the couch pillow... but the crazed look in her eyes bid him to use a more powerful attack.

He considered bashing her unconscious with the nearby bottle of whiskey. However, if she were to use magic to shield herself, the bottle would break for certain.

...He had a few low-level Spell scrolls in his spatial ring. Failing that, he had, at least... a camping hammer?

"Ooh... this is quite pretty... for a witch's artifact," Natalya cooed... as she placed a familiar ring on her finger.

Stars and stones!

A sudden sense of regret flooded his heart for allowing his senses to be slowed by alcohol. With his storage ring stolen, he was left with even fewer options.

It was then that Tycon sensed a wisp of shadow magic.

That was it! That was a potential solution to his problem!

One of Tycon's most powerful skills was ⌈Venomous Shadow.⌋ Furthermore, it had grown so strong it achieved sentience!

His name was Ishmael! Ishmael! Noble member of Sol Invictus!

He was *contractually* obligated to help him!

Money was involved! And HONOR!

Logically, at least one of those two reasons would be enough to garner the shadow's assistance!

A quiet, but high-pitched crack resounded in the room.

"Mm? What was that?" Natalya hummed.

Ishmael had broken the scrying spell on the guest room's mirror, which subsequently cracked the magical focus, itself.

Anyone listening in to the conversation between him and Natalya... would thusly be constrained to using their imaginations.

No good would come of that.

The shadow lifted its hazy arm, which ended in a fist with an upraised thumb.

Ishmael then dissipated into mist... abandoning his creator without apology.

Tycon covered his face with his palms, "It was... nothing... to be concerned about..."

He had thought he had a savior... but Ishmael was... expressly *not* that.

In a wild attempt to extricate himself from the situation, Tycon attempted... to distract the half-naked woman grinding away on his waist.

"Natalya... when was the last time you slept?"

The woman placed her hands on his chest, leaning down to look into his eyes.

"I'm not like your usual whorish fare, you lizard-brained imbecile. You'll... you'll be my first."

The flush of her face was enough to a regular hot-blooded man lose reason.

It took several seconds for Tycon to regain his composure.

"Not. what. I meant," He said in a rebuking tone.

"Ah? Oh, sod off," Natalya growled. "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

When Tycon glanced down, the noble Archbishop of the Church of the Eternal Flame was nibbling on his shirt buttons.

How drunk was she?

...Or was she just hungry?

"Allow me to tell you a story..."

"Mm," Came Natalya's reply.

She laid back down after fully unbuttoning Tycon's shirt, where she nuzzled her hot cheek against his skin.

"I'll listen... but right after that, I'm gonna make you my boyfriend."

Tycon sighed to himself.

The various notions Natalya entertained in her drunkenness veered toward the absurd.

Still, it was a shame.

If the situation were different... he might have been willing to acquiesce.

",