Headed by a Snake

⟬ On the Material Plane... ⟭

"Do you know these creatures, Brother-Dragan?" Tycondrius asked.

Dragan tapped on the Memory Crystal, pausing its replay function.

"The short, stocky folks with the flaming beards and hair," he explained, "they're called Azers. They're essentially dwarves, but--"

"The other ones," Tycon clarified, "their build is reminiscent to an... elf. Yet the green skin and... hm."

"The weird black thorns stabbed through their bodies?" Dragan suggested.

"Their most obvious features, yes," Tycon nodded. "Are they native Outsiders?"

"I don't think so," Dragan sighed. "The first time we fought them, I thought they were undead, but that's not exactly right."

The first time?

Tycon wondered if Dragan was withholding information from him... but it seemed unlikely, as the Titanblood had no reason to do so.

"One of my Gnoll Shamans picked a couple of 'em apart," Dragan continued. "Found out that their bodies are held together by a mixture of fire and wood-mana..."

"So... mutant abominations," Tycon sighed.

"Like pineapple on pizza," Dragan suggested.

"What, dear friend, is a pine-apple?"

"A highly acidic fruit from the southern tropics," Dragan explained. "They're expensive."

"Any topping works on pizza," Tycon chided. "It just needs the proper context."

"And the context for these things," Dragan said, bringing Tycon's attention back to the Memory Crystal... "Do you remember Naedrielle?"

Tycon pursed his lips, "If memory serves that was the Kingdom's lauded General of the Wind, no? She worked for Aurala before she was killed in..."

Merylsward.

It was the city in the Kingdom where Invictus suffered the loss of members Kimura Tamaki and Sanctum Parmularius Maximus. Dragan and Lone barely escaped with their lives intact.

"Yeah. You can see where I'm goin' with this," Dragan grimaced, "The ol' wind-hag speculated that these... Thorn Elves are native to the Faewyld-- and they belong to an Ancient clan called House Flamebriar."

"And thus," Tycon continued, "related to Blade Dancer Quay."

He tapped the magic crystal to resume its memory, then tapped it again to halt it several seconds later.

"Yet here... we see our old *friend* in direct opposition to the Thorn Elves-- both sides engaged in clear hostility."

The blonde, charismatic elf was wearing typical adventurer garb, covered in the hard chitinous shells of creatures native to the outer planes.

"Understatement of the epoch," Dragan groaned. "Quay wiped the f*ckin' floor with those scrawny bastards! And, look, he doesn't even have a f*ckin' sword!!"

That wasn't quite correct. Quay was indeed unarmed, but Dragan glossed over the elf's physical condition. He was injured. As he fought, his stance was unsteady and his breathing, laborious.

There was no graceful dance of blades to be seen. Quay took part in a haphazard brawl, his movements filled with rage and desperation.

Tycon allowed the memory to continue...

When Quay's enemies tried to capitalize on his weakness, the elf avoided their blows with minimal and dangerously precise movement. Having fallen for his deceit, Quay then utilized his spiked armor plates or his claw gauntlet to counterattack to great effect.

"The Memory Crystal," Tycon mused... "has the image been captured directly, or is Scrying-type approximation involved?"

"Eh?" Dragan twisted his lips to the side, "Direct capture, why?"

"This is not Quay's Blade Dance."

"...So, what would you call it, then?" Dragan frowned, "the Sugar Plum F*cking Faerie Dance?"

Tycon was unfamiliar with that particular combat style. However, the context in which it was cited made it easy enough to discern.

"Regardless of the Blade Dance variation practiced," Tycon sighed. "these movements are drastically different to what I remember from Quay."

Quay had changed... he was stronger, faster, and more resilient against injury. He also boasted greater reflexes and had adopted a more technical style of fighting.

None of those things bade well...

"And how reliable is that information, huh?" Dragan groaned, "with your memories all scrambled, Ty?"

"Tycon. I prefer to be called at least that much of my first name... Tycon."

"...Right. M-my bad."

Tycon smiled politely while patting Dragan on the arm, "Of course, my concerns may turn out to be immaterial."

"No..." Dragan shut his eyes, slowly shaking his head, "I get what you're tryin' to say... I just don't like it."

If Quay was holding back against the Thorn Elves...

No. No matter how formidable he had become, that did not change his and Dragan's obligations.

Tycon sighed once more, turning in his seat to face the table.

"You said he was still alive..."

He removed his Nemayan pistol from his spatial ring. He checked the chamber-- loaded. He ejected the magazine, ensuring it was full. He flicked the safety off and on.

"Yeah," Dragan said in a low voice. "I did."

"Hm," Tycon nodded as he unfolded the hand crossbow on his belt. He applied a fresh coat of injury poison on the bolt secure in its flight groove.

Dragan had, with him, his old signature weapon. The vaguely sword-shaped hunk of death-metal he called Dread, rested on his shoulder.

The Titanblood re-secured the bandolier of alchemical throwables on his chest. Also, he strapped a rather dangerous-looking throwing axe to his belt. It dripped a dark, filthy-looking fluid.

"Some of my people took him to the medical tents," he said. "They didn't know who he was."

Tycon flicked his hand to the side, summoning his curved sword. His ⌈Venomous Shadow⌋, Ishmael, caught it, pulling it out of its adamantine scabbard to inspect it. Once satisfied, he returned to standing at the ready.

Finally, Tycon stood up and drew his short sword, Mercy. He held it offhand, reverse-gripped, and flat against his forearm.

"Understandable," he said. "Anyroad, it's appropriate that we be the ones to deal with him."

"I hear that, Boss," Dragan said, sucking air through his teeth. "So... plan of attack?"

"I'll activate my Lamb to the Slaughter Skill, then I plan on emptying this pistol magazine into the bastard's chest."

Tycon wished he had steel shot instead of lead bullets, but even that should prove poisonous to someone with a highly developed fae bloodline.

"Sounds good," Dragan nodded as he hefted Dread onto his shoulders. "I'll open with Howling Octave and I'll Mana Surge into a Blastback to give us some distance."

Ishmael held out his hand, forming the image of five shadowy snakes on his palm. Once the fighting started, he would activate ⌈Taste the Hydra Blade⌋, which would hopefully restrain Quay for a scant few seconds...

Tycon stood up from his seat and rolled his shoulders. Adrenaline was beginning to make its way through his body, heating his blood, and hastening his heart rate.

His expression had hardened into a deep grimace.

Keeping distance from a Blade Dancer would be paramount to their success.

...Elves were not known for having hardy constitutions, so the initial series of attacks could very well decide Quay's fate.

--or theirs.

"Let's move," Dragan urged.

The Titanblood rushed out of the Command Tent, ignoring the swarths of personnel saluting him as he passed.

Tycon quickly followed in his footsteps, keeping silent-- keeping focused.

He sensed that Ishmael remained as his shadow, wielding his curved blade in his main hand, the adamantine scabbard in his left.

"You have to let me pass! Please!"

As they approached, they heard an oddly panicked voice from inside one of the medical tents.

Tycon grit his teeth.

"It's him," he said.

Ishmael raised his offhand. He tapped his middle finger to his forehead, flicking it outward.

[Smart.]

"Wait, Boss, he's right," Dragan said, suddenly uncertain. "It sounds like Quay's gotten smarter."

"Even with thrice the brain capacity," Tycon growled, "we're still killing him."

"F*ck me and my ancestors," Dragan nodded solemnly, "Burn it down?"

He thrust his left hand out to the side, his entire arm immediately conflagrated by Third-Circle flames.

"Number of personnel?" Tycon whispered.

"Seven max," he said, "My best and brightest."

Tycon gulped. The loss of so many skilled healers would be painful.

"Acceptable. Do--"

"BOSS!!!!" Quay yelled, "D-DRAGAN!!!"

The idiot burst out of the medical tent, covered head to toe in bandages.

They were filthy, dirtied by blood in several places on his body.

Tycon glanced to his Titanblood companion, "Dragan?"

Dragan met Tycon's gaze, "Boss?"

"It's me!" Quay cried, "Pale!"

""Bucket??"" Tycon and Dragan said simultaneously.

"J-just a second," the boy muttered.

He struggled with it, but after a short moment, the mushroom-brained elf managed to remove the bandages covering his head, uncovering his dirty-blonde hair.

...and his face.

His face revealed himself, clearly and unmistakably, as Quay... leader and founder of Guild Invictus.

Ishmael swung his curved blade.

The former leader of Sol Invictus slipped his head under the swing, barely avoiding decapitation.

Dragan attempted to power a Third-Circle ⌈Flame Pillar⌋ into Quay's chest.

Quay deftly wrapped his discarded bandages around Dragan's hands, canceling the Spell before it could complete.

Tycon pointed his Nemayan pistol at the elf, clicking the safety off.

He discharged 18 shots-- the one already loaded in the chamber and the 17 subsequent fed via the magazine.

Quay swung his arms... blocking... each... and every... one.

Once Tycon's pistol was fully unloaded, he saw that the opportunistic lout had snatched Dragan's throwing axe before the first trigger pull.

...and each round was harmlessly deflected to hit the surrounding dirt.

Severely annoyed, Tycon then ejected his pistol magazine and threw it at the boy.

Pale caught it between the thumb and forefinger of his offhand, "Boss?"

"CEASE fire~" Tycon rolled his eyes-- and his entire head, "Cease fire. Everyone stop... It's the boy... It's Bucket."

Dragan scratched at his mop of red hair, "Huh. Bucket~"

Ishmael sheathed his sword, tucking it underneath his arm.

[Bucket], he signed.

"Wait, why did you guys attack me?!" Bucket cried.

Ishmael formed a Y shape with his hand, bringing it up to his chin.

[Mistake.]

"D-did you think I was someone else?" the boy whined, "Why didn't you ask for an identifier? Boss, I memorized all the identifiers!!"

"(Hate to say it, but he's right,)" Dragan muttered in the airy language of the Free Nation, "(The other one was too stupid to memorize the phrases.)"

Tycon closed his eyes, breathing deeply to slow his heart rate, "It was an oversight, Mister Pale."

"Sir!" Pale yelped, "You have to tell the docs to let me go! Ree's in trouble! After-- after Vanya died, she-- and Troia, she tried to stop her! But--"

Dragan had stepped forward, lifting the flap of the medical tent.

"Hey, docs," he said. "Anyone in there prep either Sleep or Tranquilize?"

",

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