Headed by a Snake

"Ahhhh..." Tycondrius nodded, "Of course, that--"

Abruptly, he grabbed Galanis by the hair on his scalp. He slammed the man's head against the desk, dazing him.

The human mind loves logic. It seeks it. It makes sense of noises, put together into words, into meanings, into complete rational concepts. Interrupting that logical flow... is unexpected. In mundane situations, the interruption leads to annoyance and irritation. In the current situation, the approximate half-second of the cogs turning in Galanis' brain would ultimately lead to Tycon's overbearing advantage.

Tycon hacked his short sword against the desk's surface. It claimed three of the man's fingers. Warlocks needed those, in order to cast their spells. The fellow was likely right-handed-- it was the hand he used to gesture with.

Grabbing the quill pen that had spilled onto the desk... Tycon lifted Galanis' head and stabbed both of his eyes in quick succession. Warlocks needed their eyes to see the targets of their spells. It was likely he only had two. Some Warlocks had more. Snake Cultists did not seem to have such a trait.

Green flames began to emanate from the man's left hand. Tycon, again, slammed the man's head against the desk and shoved him to the floor.

The Galanis fellow curled up in pain, clutching his bleeding hand. He sobbed quietly, shivering on the cold dungeon stones.

...Perhaps he hadn't as much self-respect as Tycon had earlier assumed.

He walked over to the fallen bandit leader, prodding at the man with his boot, "I was curious about your interest in House Vanzano."

Tycon's System politely informed him that the human's aggression rating had gone from Hostile to Will-Not-Attack. He did not feel apologetic, in the least.

As the blind man with three less fingers cried like a helpless child, Tycon searched through his desk.

Within, he found... a BAG!

« SYSTEM! Identify! »

⟬ System response: Mundane wallet.⟭

All of Tycon's excitement drained from his body, leaving him fatigued. He lied down on the surface of the desk and stretched the length of his body. It was an ugly desk-- there was even an unsightly scorch mark on it.

Seven hells. He felt like he'd never find another spatial bag.

"I wish you lot were a tad bit wealthier..." Tycon groaned, "I should have expected as much, since you all literally live amongst sewage."

While Tycon had not yet looted the bodies, he hastily inspected each of the defeated for valuables. He estimated the coin alone worth two or three weeks of groceries and basic expenses... In a sun or two, he'd have a much more difficult battle, haggling over prices in the Market Square.

The Galanis fellow continued to rudely sob to himself, not offering any comment.

"Again, Mister Galanis... what is your interest in House Vanzano?" Tycon frowned... "I'm planning on torturing you unless you answer my questions."

The thought of it made Tycon chuckle to himself. Torture wasn't a very effective way of gathering information. It would pass the time, though... and that Galanis fellow didn't deserve an onze of pity.

"Donnn'ttttt.... BOTHERRRRR..." An ominous voice echoed in the relative darkness of the room, deep and... as if gargling snot.

Tycon sat up, casually looking around for the voice's origin.

Embers of familiar-looking green flames began to smolder at various points in the room. The dark magic was enough that the lantern lights on the walls dimmed.

...It wasn't very impressive. Such an effect could be achieved by children utilizing Elementary spells... which admittedly was a common sight in the Kingdom but absent in the Holy Country.

At the same time, an unpleasant smell wafted into the room. If it was the effect of a magical spell, that was certainly unique. Hm. Or perhaps the heat of it, magnified the stench from elsewhere?

« System, inquiry: Besides myself, who else is in this room? »

⟬ System response: 2 results; Galanis, Bronze-Rank Human Warlock; Elder, Iron-Rank Human Blightmancer Warlock. ⟭

Iron-Rank Warlock. High-Tier class. Could be dangerous-- probably wasn't. Tycon entwined his fingers behind his head and lied back down, reasonably comfortable.

« Thank you, System. »

⟬ You're welcome. ⟭

The voice in the darkness began to cough-- disgusting, phlegm-filled hacks, decrepit and pestilent... "Youuu.... have offended.... the SSSSNAAAAKE CULLLTTT."

"Yes, I... I gathered that." Still resting on his other hand, Tycon gestured a hand towards the room's entrance, "You know that there was a likeness of a snake on that door I broke over there. Only your Snake Cult uses that kind of imagery."

"UHUHUHU.... Soooo... ARROGANT.... Let us sssseee.... how confident..... you are.... innnn..... DAARKNESSSSS!!!!"

The mundane lights in the room extinguished, all at once. However, with the green embers remaining, Tycon had no issues with visibility.

He sat up and smiled with chagrin, "I somewhat regret informing you... that I can see in the dark."

The Warlock grew silent... He was a hunched-over, unwashed, old human. Even if Tycon couldn't see in the dark, he could accurately target the man from the smell of piss and human age.

⟬ Iron-Rank Human Warlock. Warning. Fourth-Circle Poison detected. ⟭

Hoh. Really?

« System, bring up the information on that fellow's poison. »

Tycon took a moment to review the information. It was slightly depressing. The old man had been incrementally poisoned for several years and his life force was pathetic, because of it.

He turned his body towards the motionless old man.

The old man responded by lowering his body, his old joints cracking as he did so.

"I can still see you... and I can literally hear your knees pop."

"WELL!!! NO MATTTERRR!!!!" The Warlock waved his hands frantically, "You shall ssssstill PERISH!! By the MIGHT of the SSSSNAKE CULLLLLT!!!!"

Tycon highly doubted that.

The Warlock pointed a hand of gnarled fingers threateningly, "⌈Sssssserpents of Nypaaaacia⌋!!!! Come forth!! Ssssssend this fool to the DEPTHS OF THE SSSSEVEN HELLLLS!!!"

Tycon grimaced. He was familiar with the attack. A different Warlock used it on him while he was gallivanting in the Kingdom with the Imperial Navy. Mana-formed ghostly snakes appeared from the dungeon floor and began to bite at him. Their ethereal fangs pierced his armor and channeled a weak poison... that in other circumstances, would wreak havoc upon his internal mana.

The Warlock's expression turned into an ugly grimace.

Tycon smiled politely...

The Warlock again threw his hands up, "SsssSSSERPENTS OF NY--"

"Hold," Tycon held a palm up.

The old man's spell fizzled out into sad, green sparks, "What?!?!"

"It worked the first time," Tycon assured. "I'm... immune to poisons."

"Youuu.... have the BLESSINGS... of the SNAAAAKE GOD???" The Warlock spat, incredulous.

Tycon pursed his lips. He'd met the avatar of the snake god once. From that exchange... he probably did.

"Yes," Tycon replied... "I'm fairly certain I do, anyroad."

"Oh," The old Warlock stood uncomfortably, shifting his weight from a creaking knee to his other popping and cracking one. He seemed to be at a loss for words.

Tycon was beginning to feel guilty that he was rebuffing the poor old fool so completely, "Would you like me to get you a chair?"

The old man scowled, "Ssssilence!!! Nonbeliever!!! I won't be played for a FOOOOL by a MERE HUMAN!!!"

"I'm... not a human."

Tycon somewhat regretted his automatic response. The old man's mouth hung open, unable to continue his monologuing. It seemed that once again, he'd forced the Warlock into speechlessness.

"Are... are you an elf?" The Warlock asked gingerly.

"What? No." Tycon glared, "How dare you."

"J-just checking..." The warlock coughed and spat, "My vision isn't what it used to be. Elves. Filthy creatures."

"I'm assuming you mean that... figuratively."

The old man doddered over to a chair, finally able to relax slightly, "What? No! I mean...? Uh... Huh..."

If the Warlock was working purely off of prejudice, it seemed Tycon's words had given him cause for introspection. The battlefield was... admittedly a wonderful place to rid oneself of negative stereotyping.

"I have little love for the elves," Tycon explained. "However, as a whole, they are a very... clean people. They reuse their tools and clothes more than they discard them... and their cultural foods promote a vegetarian diet."

"Bah. Sssssalads. Nothingggg... ever good came from saladsssss...."

"Ah, I wholeheartedly agree," Tycon nodded. "I've had a craving, recently, for a proper steak and some ale."

"Indeeeed... I was raisssed... on Tyrion wine. But ale... ale is good." The Warlock twisted his lips in frustration, "Are there... any.... eateries..... still open at this time?"

"I was hoping there'd be at least one," Tycon mused. "It's not *terribly* late in the evening, is it?"

"Would you like to--"

"No," Tycon rejected the man immediately. He had no wish to associate with this fellow-- not unless he took a bath and dressed in clean clothing.

"You DAAARE?!? I am PYRAXISSSS ELFSLAAAYERRRR!! Slayer of maaaaany elvvessss!! WarloCKKK of the SNAAAAKE CULLLT!!!" The old man yelled, comfortable in his seat.

"Good evening. My name is Tycondrius. Uh... Blessed... of the snakes..."

Warlock Pyraxis gasped, clutching at his heart. Oh, was he dying?

The old man began to struggle out of his chair, "The.... the IVORY PRINNNNCE.... I.... I... FORGIVE ME!!!"

Tycon raised an eyebrow... "What?"