Headed by a Snake

Three weeks prior, Tycon had ordered Barza Keith to shave.

Without his lustrous and majestic facial hair, the cold winds penetrated his face all the more keenly. A merciless gale blew cuttingly against the rocky cliff face, not enough to threaten his life, but easily enough to make him question the wisdom of joining Invictus. He willed himself to move, to keep moving, to keep the blood flowing in his hands and fingers...

When he was first introduced to the cliff, it seemed easy with its plentiful rocky footholds.

He did not account for the cold. Or the fact that his only protection from it was a simple linen tunic.

He did not account for the fact that he was wasn't allowed a safety rope… or climbing gear… or even gloves, only relying on using his bare hands to climb.

He did not consider that on the first sun of training, his hands would bleed upon the sharp rocks. Nor did he realize that sometimes, the rocks would break. And that if he fell, he would break his body upon the jagged stones below. Death would not offer a soft cushion, but instead, a cruel mangling of his bones and the cracking of his skull, allowing the beasts and scavengers to prey upon his delicious insides.

And when he reached the top… For some reason, there would always be someone waiting. By then, his hands would hurt. His endurance and willpower would be drained to near nonexistent. But they'd offer no congratulations, no words of encouragement. Instead, they'd throw a sword at his feet and tell him to pick it up.

Tarquin Wroe would attack with tricky movements and feints. Sometimes what he said was confusing, but he was always smiling, always good-natured. His swordplay was skillful and he knew how to use strength at the right moments. But sometimes, the man would disappear-- moving too fast or somehow disrupting his vision or… perhaps a dark sort of magic. Adapting to Wroe's supernatural attacks was difficult for Barza, but he was confident that he'd learn with practice. Barza didn't mind fighting Mister Wroe.

Mister Dragan moved much faster than his size would suggest. His voice offered friendship, but his words were full of poison, cruel and nonsensical insults, strings of curse words in foreign tongues. Dragan's words, Barza learned to ignore-- they were whetstones that he used to sharpen his focus to a deadly edge. The giant man's sword movements were oppressive, strong, sweeping. Barza had to focus to meet or fully dodge the heavy strikes-- counterattacking was a dream. Both of Barza's arms would ache from Dragan's heavy sword, and when he was caught off balance, he'd fall and tumble, scraping his skin. Barza hated to admit it, but he learned more from Dragan's sword than Wroe's.

Barza had finally reached the top of the cliff face. Searching for victory, he threw a callused hand up to grasp at its edge... but instead of sharp stone, he felt a hand grasping his wrist. Confused, he grabbed hold, and was subsequently lifted up by a green-haired youth.

"Sir Tycon…"

"You're on time."

Tycon pulled Barza onto secure, flat ground before handing him a waterskin.

"Oh, thank you."

"Nn," Tycon only grunted in response.

Barza drank small sips of water, recovering slowly. He noted that Tycon also had sweat running down his brow. Nearby, the red-headed half-giant Dragan waved a pair of sheathed swords. The two had eschewed armor, instead adopting lighter clothing, easier to sweat in. It appeared to Barza that the two ran over. Boss Tycon's endurance was lower than Dragan and Tarquin's, and Barza took a tiny bit of relief that the Mosswood Wilds training was for everyone, not just him and Bucket.

"You know what happens next, right?" Tycon's asked in a stern voice.

He was always a harsh teacher. But he was logical, sensible. Barza couldn't help but give the entirety of his attention to the noble's words. Barza glanced at the weapons-- Tycon and Dragan both carried their personals, a thinblade and a greataxe that was heavier than it made sense to be. And Dragan carried two familiar sheathed swords.

Barza smirked at with confidence, "Yeah. I've been thinking for some two hours about how to get back at this bastard."

Barza was excited. He had realized that even though Dragan's offense was difficult to handle, his accurate swings were primarily fast, low risk attacks that made it easier for him to defend. In light of the man's size and bulk, he was a defensive fighter. Barza decided to risk a more offensive strategy, risking injury in order to force Dragan into a harder defense. He'd be able to control the duel instead of being forced to match Dragan's pace.

Barza raised an arm up, palm open towards the big man. Dragan grinned like a feral beast, unsheathed a sword, and spun it at breakneck speed towards Barza.

PAH.

Barza caught the sword by its leather grip, spinning and flourishing the blade in front of Tycon. It was pretty bad-ass, "Boss, with your permission, I'll show you the results of my training."

Tycon did not respond, only granting him a suspicious glance, before his eyes flicked again towards Dragan.

Towards Dragan?

Out of the corner of his eye, Barza saw something else hurtling towards him. Half-turning his body, he realized a second sword was spinning towards him at a curve. Focusing his concentration, Barza reached towards the second sword.

PAH.

Barza caught the sword firmly with his offhand. Holding both swords was a comforting feeling. His attack strings were far safer when he could continually attack. He would get tired faster swinging two blades, but his endurance had improved tremendously with his training regimen.

But it felt odd to him. Barza looked to Dragan with confusion. Was Dragan going to use his greataxe? Barza couldn't use the same risky strategy he'd thought of earlier against a heavier blade. Even a glancing blow from Dragan's heavy greataxe would have severe effects on his stamina and fighting ability.

In the distance, Dragan crossed his arms, his shite-eating grin never leaving his face. Barza felt his heart shake.

Something was wrong. He could feel it. But his mind couldn't calculate the possibilities fast enough.

A great force battered his body, throwing him forward and onto the hard ground. Sharp pain, like being stabbed with a blunt knife, radiated from a spot on his lower back, paralyzing him as cold shock spread through his entire body. In moments, the shock localized to his left side-- but even the blood flowing through his veins felt painful.

In a panic, Barza ignored the pain and scrambled away, desperately resisting the urge to scream or vomit or defecate himself in the extremities of his agony. Tycon had struck him with the pommel of his sheathed sword. Without so much as a smile, the young noble slowly drew the blade and began walking towards.

As fear and realization began to grip at Barza, he heard Dragan's unforgiving laugh from only a few yalms away, "Ahhhahaha! Whoops! You'd better get up, my dude."

"By the gods! Grk…" Barza rubbed his back where he was struck, "This-- wasn't part-- of the deal! Dragan?! Why is Boss--"

Dragan gave an exaggerated shrug, "Maybe he wanted to see the results of your training?"

Tycon was walking forward, the tip of his sword drawing a line on the ground. For a moment, Barza forgot the pain. He forgot his thirst, his hunger, his regrets, and even his unrequited love for Sorina. Everything in Barza's mind and body screamed for him to get away... to run as fast as he could from this place and never return.

He knew only fear.

All of Barza's instincts pleaded for survival. All of his senses were honed to the sharpest edge of human limits. And so, even as Tycon spoke the barest of whispers, every syllable was a resounding crash in his eardrums.

"Iron Dragon Rend"

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