Headed by a Snake

Chapter 1054 Solo Act

Chapter 1054 Solo Act

? One life-or-death situation and a round of questions later... ?

Tycondrius sat in front of his fiancee, back-straight, scanning Starfury's visual interface for anomalies.

As the notion of him sitting on her lap came with some peculiar issues, Natalya had her legs splayed out to accommodate him.

It was one-part awkward, another-part intimate... but the seating arrangement served Tycon's purposes well.

It prevented Natalya from easily reaching Starfury's controls.

--and, obviously, he was the one to pilot the ancient war weapon known as Divine Armor Starfury.

It wasn't as difficult as Tyrion propaganda implied it to be.

"So... what you're telling me," Natalya said, before taking a breath... "is that the Wyrmslayer Alliance has to face the Dragon God without the help of our Realm's Heroes?"

"Yes," Tycon answered. "And no amount of physical violence committed to my person is going to change that."

Immediately after finishing his statement, he clenched his teeth and mentally braced himself to receive violence.

However, Natalya merely laid her head against Tycon's back.

--and she did so in a surprisingly non-violent manner.

"You Flame-taken fool," she mumbled into his coat... "We can't win this war without them."

Tycon furrowed his brows.

That conclusion was somewhat contrary to her earlier sentiments.

...and he was slightly hurt for it.

Nonetheless, he did not agree.

High logic and probability suggested the war against the Tyrant God was unwinnable, heroic intervention or not.

Still... a sliver of doubt and a decadent portion of idealistic optimism bid him to inquire further.

"Natalya, on what basis would you make such a claim?"

"Oh, a few tHouSand years of written history," she replied.

She seemed somewhat irritated-- or perhaps insulted that he had the *gall* to ask.

She was quite proud of her few thousand years of human history.

--despite the history of the elves being several dozen times that.

...According to his bloodline memories, even ancient medusae inhabited the Realm when the humans were in their infancy.

"And what do your *history books* say?" Tycon asked.

Natalya did not answer.

Nothing of value was written in those books.

It was an odd weakness of written script (and predating practices.)

History was written by the victors of their time.

Thus, 'historical' accounts were saturated with biases and propaganda.

Concerning old wars won and calamities overcome, there might have been passing mention on a few deciding factors: terrain, natural obstacles, troop vulnerabilities...

However, that was the most that could be expected.

The information that Tycon found useful was of a different nature.

How were the armies fed and healed? How was their training and equipment?

How was their morale? Their conditions?

What other issues came about? How were they solved?

But alas... lorekeepers do not pander to Generals.

They serve the people.

...and to win their hearts, they sing... of *heroes.*

The lorekeepers were capable of lengthy regalements, wondrous tales of heroic trials and humanizing trivialities.

Yet they could not answer Tycon's questions.

Had those *mystical beings* come of age when they came into heroism?

Were they foretold in a similar manner as they were in modern suns?

What role did they play for their respective factions?

...Were they even necessary in the battles they took part in?

What worth were they, really?

A 'peerless warrior' from a thousand years prior could very well have ten thousand peers in the present.

And the same was true of supposedly silver-tongued negotiators, innovative strategists, and perfectly organized supply managers.

Then... which heroes had talent only in propaganda? --their role in historical accounts only as figureheads of their 'righteous' cause.

The old stories lacked specifics.

Their value was to entertain the drunken masses, bardsong found in taverns and festival squares across the Realm.

--to instill in the people a sense of pride and righteousness, for a king to allay rebellion for just one more sun.

....and to frighten young children into behaving... with talk of 'dragons.'

Tycon had no need for those old stories... those pithy morality plays...

--those songs of which legends are sung.

What he sought were documented signatures as proof-of-training, so he could gauge the capabilities of his various units.

What he wanted were reports on how fast supplies were dwindling and the presence of sickness, so he could reallocate strength as necessary.

What he needed... was face-to-face meetings with the royals and elected officials which he called his allies.

--to be certain he could demand their obedience, should the situation require.

Tycon had to do the best with what he had.

Maximize gains.

Minimize losses.

To push his advantages, Tycondrius met with the leaders of the Realm. He bid them to coordinate their forces. He granted them the knowledge and confidence to fight against a god and its armies.

And... on cutting his losses...

Tycon *forbid* the hatchlings in his care from defending their home and place of birth.

"Husband," Natalya said softly, "they're Heroes. They were chosen."

"As was I, Natalya," Tycon grimaced. "The children *chose* to place their faith in me-- in my foresight *and* in my orders."

...Tycon took a moment to breathe, trying to calm himself before continuing.

"They are but children," he said. "And as their guardian, I will *not* allow the cruelty of the fates to take them away before their time."

Natalya let out a long sigh... and she quietly wrapped her arms around Tycon's waist.

"...So you've decided to act alone," she whispered.

"Hmph," Tycon chuckled. "Was that the issue? Really?"

"How *dare* you laugh at me, Snake," Natalya scolded. "What's so funny?"

"I won't be alone as long as I have you."

...

? Captain's Log, Date XXXX. ?

? You don't underestimate the ocean.? ?

? Every Marine and sailor out on the blackwater knows as much. ?

? You don't f*ck with things you can't control. ?

? You respect it.? ?

? If you want to be in the profession, you grow some hair on your testicles and try to take advantage of it. ?

? But you don't let your guard down. ?

? You don't take risks if you can help it. ?

? Rough waters, spoiled supplies-- that shite, you can plan for. ?

? Lightning storms and whirlpools and giant, toothy f*ckeroos that get off on breaking apart corvette class ships? Yeah. F*ck those things. ?

? And what do you do when something nasty finds you f*cking off in the cabin of your little jury-rigged fishing boat? ?

? You accept that you're f*cked. ?

? Or, I guess... you pray. ?

? But the Sea God doesn't f*ck with prayers. ?

? The old Sea God sure as f*ck didn't. Selfish prick... ?

? That old bastard did his damnedest to put me down. ?

? A regular sailor can't go against the waves. A regular guy can't go against the gods. ?

? But I didn't want to be that guy. ?

? So I killed the Sea God. ?

? And I don't regret that one f*cking bit. ?

? Well... ?

? Maybe there was one thing. ?

? When the chips are down and nothing looks like it's going to go good... ?

? ...who the f*ck does a god pray to? ?

? ... ?

? F*cking shite... ?

? So, there I was... ?

? On the docks of Port Town Jad. ?

? Alone. ?

? I stared out at the night blackness of the cruel, unforgiving sea. ?

? And that's when I remembered... ?

? --that I was the schmuck responsible for it. ?

? All of it. ?

? F*ck. ?

? But looking at lines formed by the waves in the middle of the night wasn't usually how I liked spending my time.? ?

? Sure, there was a whole lot going on underneath, but on top it was basically a whole lot of nothing... ?

? And then there was light. ?

? A red light. ?

"What the *hells* is that?" Krysaos asked aloud.

--to himself.

--because he was alone on those docks.

...After looking at the red light for a few more seconds, he determined it was going to fly over the docks instead of into them.

It probably wasn't important.

...Probably.

Jad had been mostly evacuated... which unfortunately included the fun parts, too. In fact, all the pimps and whores had made their way to Whitehearth.

The fine men and women of the Wyrmslayer Alliance were preparing for war in and around the Arcanite City, so... that's where the money was.

Hosts, escorts, courtesans... that flavor of folk didn't care much about whether the Realm went on for another sun or not. What they did care about was where there was coin to be had. And there was a lot of it in Whitehearth, especially from the boots and belt-buckles that wanted to live it up-- to have that one unforgettable night.

It beat praying, that was for sure.

'Sea God's socks,' Krysaos cursed to himself.

After saying it, he, once again, remembered that *he* was the Sea God.

He was cursing his own socks.

Krysaos had gone wrong somewhere... but 'where', he wasn't sure.

Why was he not in Whitehearth, thriving alongside his favorite kinds of people?

Why in the seven hells was he in Jad, hobnobbing with Admirals, Princesses, and Ancient Legends?

And that begged an even better question:

Why in the seven hells was he on the front lines, at all?