Headed by a Snake

[Before the events of the Prologue.]

The sensation of falling caused the young man to jerk awake.

The fall was swift and sudden. The resulting crash was loud and painful.

He pushed himself off the wooden floor, trying to take in his surroundings... and trying not to gag at the reek of moldy straw and poorly treated inn-room wood.

"Why… in the seven hells does my head feel like it's been struck with a hammer?" The man growled.

He curled his body and clutched at his head, his knees and feet against the floor. With furious focus, he concentrated-- willing the walls to slow their incessant spinning.

As if his entire body were trying to rally against him, his gut began to rumble and bile began to rise to his throat.

The man had awoken, void of any useful memories. Erratic scraps of knowledge flashed into his mind, fleeting and nonsensical.

1. His memories informed him that he was better than... most everyone else.

2. He was a very... angry individual.

And 3. he'd remembered a deep, deep loathing of vomiting.

Arrogance. Anger. Hates vomiting. How shallow.

Using all of his willpower, he forced the acrid bile back down. An uncomfortable film of sweat covered his face and formed a thin, disgusting layer underneath his clothes. He squirmed around on the filthy inn room floor, trying to adjust his body into a comfortable position, praying desperately for the pain to go away.

Minutes passed in silence.

Gradually, the man's mind began to clear.

He briefly considered trying to find out *why* he was in the situation he was in... but what use would that be? Only the future mattered. More important was... who was he? And what was he doing?

Thinking upon it, an actually-useful piece of information came to mind.

4. He had a System, a cheat-like database of information, also capable of automating functions.

In his mind, he thought a specific phrase:

« System, open status. »

A transparent window appeared in the eye of the man's mind, a massive column of highly-detailed blocks of text and numbers, the script garbled and useless. He felt his headache returning, trying to make sense of it.

« Nevermind... System, close status. System inquiry: What's my name? »

The transparent window closed and a friendly, somewhat-neutral voice spoke in his mind.

[System response: The host's name is Tycondrius.]

It sounded familiar. That was somewhat of a relief.

Tycon sat up against his moldy, straw-filled bed and he began to review his situation and examine his surroundings.

He had fallen off of a bed in an inn room. His forehead was beginning to swell, but the injury was of no concern.

His eyes had quickly adjusted to the darkness-- suspiciously quickly. The room was bright if the sun were out, though gentle starlight spilled through the window from a dark blue evening sky.

Tycon forced himself to stand, feeling every ache of his muscles and each creak of his bones. Was he sick? Was it an aftereffect of strenuous physical activity?

He walked to the window to observe the outside. He was on a second-story of a building, his window overlooking a quaint town lit blue by starlight and a full, glowing moon. Cobblestone roads were lit by candle-filled lamp-posts.

A few dozen people still walked the streets. He spotted a few mercenary-looking men walking casually, lightly armored, armed with sword and bow.

Armor and cold weapons seemed normal to carry in this place...

He frowned and tapped his fingers on the wooden windowsill impatiently. Though he excelled with the setting he was in, he felt like he couldn't yet relax.

Noise emanating from the ground floor was mixed with laughter, yelling, and the garbled speech of dozens of speakers.

Tycon had no desire to surround himself with people-- he felt vulnerable, as a confused, weakened amnesiac. However, the delightful smell of sweet, burning wood and cooking meat forced him to reconsider. He licked his lips and could swear that he could taste his next bloody meal.

He preferred his meat cooked to medium-rare. And from a non-sentient.

Tycon squinted his eyes in deep thought. Was it normal to specify non-sentience in one's preferred meal?

He sat down on the uncomfortable bed and looked at his hands, rough and callused. He had five fingers and skin, the color of flesh... Wait, the color of flesh? Peculiar.

He plucked out a hair from his head. It was green. He hoped that was normal.

He felt his face. His nose wasn't too big. He didn't have any tusks. He didn't have any facial hair, either. Tycon didn't find anything particula-- Ow.

His cuspids were sharp and had drawn blood when his finger had pressed onto it.

Near panic, Tycon checked his pulse. He had a pulse. He wasn't a vampire. That could have been problematic.

After examining himself, Tycon stood and explored the room.

He found a small bag of silver and gold coins. Because he was in a private room instead of a common one, he reasoned that he could well-afford it with the coin he owned.

He found a light suit of banded armor in his size. There was a pack filled with adventuring gear, rope and bandages, and the like...

He drew a sword from its sheath, finding it scratched and nicked, though well-oiled and maintained. The shoddy sword-sheath and the boring hilt made it look cheap.

Tycon grimaced as another bit of information came to mind.

5. He was cheap.

He looked over to a second pile of gear, which he'd separated from the more standard-fare adventuring gear.

A hand-crossbow, easily hidden. A scroll tube containing a letter, closed with an ornate wax seal. A cloak with a peaked hood, good for hiding one's face, (if unnecessarily stylish.) Three vials containing what he was fairly certain was injury poison. A sturdy whip with sharp, wicked-looking metal pieces at its end. A dagger, designed to be hidden in a boot.

Tycon unsheathed the boot dagger, finding a waxy substance was smeared upon it-- likely the same substance as were in the vials.

He could be a very cautious individual. It was also plausible that he was not a very good person.

He carefully resheathed the dagger, neatly packing his gear away into what he assumed was *his* traveling pack. As if by instinct, he knew how to pack-- which items needed to be at which level of the pack and how to conserve space.

With practiced hands, he buckled on his armor, wore his sword at on his waist, and donned the peaked cloak and hood over it all.

...He regretted not doing that earlier, as the warmth from the armor and cloak made the evening chill far more bearable.

He walked to the table, the only decoration in the cheap inn room, and poured water into a washbowl. Once he'd washed his hands, he'd congratulate his findings with a meal.

A peculiar glimmer of gold caught Tycon's attention. With a feeling of unease, he allowed the waters to still as he stared at his reflection.

"Seven bleeding hells, I'm not human."

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