Headed by a Snake

Chapter 405 Golden Ale

?Lured by the delectable scent of charred pork, Tycondrius discovered a lonely outdoor food stall. It was one out of a row of several others, but he chose that one.

...It was the only one that had yet to close.

There was one cook, an older male with salt-and-pepper hair and a tired face. There was one other patron, a cloaked and grey-bearded dwarf who likely thought he was hiding his identity.

If Tycon were a physically weaker gentleman, he might have spurned the occasion, fearing that he'd be robbed at knifepoint.

He had no such concerns... and as such, patiently took a seat and ordered a meal.

A few moments later, the human placed an ale in front of him.

"Friend..." Tycon pursed his lips, "I did not order this."

Tycon highly doubted that he was recognized. He wore his cloak to hide his Decanus armor and kept his hood down... However, throughout his adventures, if his identity was known, it was by name or his association with Sol Invictus-- not by face.

He asked his System to verify that the drink wasn't laced with magic. It wasn't. His own senses told him that the drink was not poisoned... not that a mundane poison would be able to affect him.

If this wasn't an assassination attempt... then Tycon reasoned there must have been some other mistake.

The cook tended to the charcoal grill, flipping Tycon's meal. The tantalizing sizzle of pork intensified his hunger.

"It's complimentary, young man." The human shrugged, "Just take it."

Tycon picked up the pint warily...

While the thought seemed nice, he surmised there was a deeper reason. A food stall manned by a single, aging staff member did not logically have the coin to spare all their patrons complimentary drinks.

Bowing his head out of respect, Tycon partook of the full-flavored ale.

Crisp. Clean. Cooled by the evening air.

It was perfect.

The cook smiled sheepishly, wiping his rough-shaven chin with the back of his wrist... "We had a daughter... Her eyes were golden-- much like yours... friend."

Tycon nodded, processing the information. He was caught in a peculiar social situation. The human referred to his daughter in past-tense. This implied a loss. Asking about that loss would likely lead to depressing conversation.

Reassurance, however, would be a socially acceptable response. For Tycon to show his gratitude, that was a better option than silence or neutrality.

Tycon forced himself to smile, "If it comes as any consolation... I can say with reasonable certainty that I did not have sexual relations with your wife."

His words were somewhat deceitful. He had very little memories of what he'd done more than two years prior. Tycon was quite certain that he had not slept with anyone's wife. The-Tycon-Before could very well have.

He was very handsome, after all. He was almost certain that he was very popular with females.

The cook was taken aback momentarily... before rolling his eyes and chuckling, "No, haha... fool of a boy... Our daughter was near your age when we lost her... military casualty, she was."

Tycon frowned... There was another logical conclusion that the cook was treating him so well... and it was one that he did not like.

"Then I must insist, friend..." Tycon bit his upper lip... "My eyes are merely a coincidence. It is very unlikely that you are my father."

Admittedly, it was plausible. Tycon had no memories of his body's male parent. However, if a human had sired him, that person must be well over 100 years of age.

The cook in front of him... did not appear even half that.

"Hah! Hahaha! You're a funny kid," The cook held his belly, sniggering heartily until his cheeks turned red... "Ahh... Thanks for that."

...Pride surged in Tycon's heart. He had always thought he was not very good at being 'funny.'

That he was not doing so intentionally was worrisome... but he would accept any sign of improvement as personal growth.

If the cook was not exploring the possibility that they were related, then Tycon could take his words at their initial value. He was given a complimentary drink because his eye color positively reminded him of his late daughter.

Bright gold was a unique color and, to Tycon's knowledge, belonged exclusively to non-humans. Because of it, he was often mistaken for a daeva or half-elf. They were judgments that he did not bother correcting. They were looked upon more kindly than his actual bloodline.

As the cook did not have golden eyes, Tycon assumed that his wife did. A human and non-human coupling was difficult in the Holy Country... unless one was strong enough not to care about what others thought. The Gold-Rank leader of the Brazen Guard, Bannok of Kasydon, was such a gentleman.

Tycon had plenty of questions. Still, he chose to say something both polite and meaningful. The ale was delicious and words cost him nothing.

He raised his pint of ale, "Let us continue to live our best lives... as our loved ones would have wished."

The cook paused... grimacing and gulping hard... "Aye, I'll drink to that..."

The patron of the small stall sighed heavily... as dwarves were oft to do. Upon Tycon thinking on it, the gentledwarf's presence was further proof that the cook had no issues with non-humans.

"Young'uns..." He grumbled, "Ya can't just... toss the slag out the window, like 'at."

Tycon twisted his lips at the... colorful speech the dwarf used. The context was easy enough to understand, though.

Forgiveness was honorable. To forget was foolish. In order to grow as a person, it was more important to learn from mistakes than to avoid mistakes entirely.

At the same time, it was insultingly easy to dictate best-practices. The execution was never so simple...

Tycon nodded, "I agree."

The flustered, grey-bearded dwarf took a sip of his own ale, "And another th-- you what?"

Tycon cleared his throat. Was he not being loud enough?

"I said... I agree, Master Dwarf."

Dwarves... no... all people liked terms of respect, especially when warranted. The older dwarf had thick, calloused hands, and a thick cross scar on his face. The Dwarven people were known for stubbornly pursuing a single art, stereotypically things like gem cutting, exploration, and monster hunting.

It was an educated hypothesis that the dwarf sitting two stools away was a master at something.

Even if he wasn't, formal terms of address were rarely seen negatively.

"...Oh. Well..." The dwarf stroked his beard in contemplation... "Good."