Headed by a Snake

"Join *you?*" The Archbishop asked, "in... in bed? That bed?"

Tycondrius raised an eyebrow, "Yes? That is... my offer?"

"Pah!" Natalya scoffed. "Not funny, Snake."

Tycon pursed his lips in thought. Natalya had taken his words as a joke.

"--and how about you fix your shirt?" She scolded.

"Hm? I refuse."

The cool air was comfortable on his bare chest.

...and anyroad, he didn't feel the need for propriety around Natalya.

"You are in the presence of an Arch. bishop. of the Church. of the Eternal. Flame."

Whatever the woman was trying to argue, she had little grounds to stand on.

"Natalya," Tycon sighed. "My various titles are in no way inferior to yours."

"You, Sir, are in the presence of a woman," She insisted. "You're being *inappropriate.*"

...Natalya did *not* like being disadvantaged in an argument.

"If we're speaking of a sense of propriety, I feel the need to remind you, Natalya, that you are an unmarried woman who has entered the private room of an unmarried man."

Tycon kept his tone even... and perhaps even polite as he went on, "Should you remain, the nature of the servants' gossip will... progress."

Natalya approached him, stomping forward in a huff.

She did not have his permission to apprach, but that meant nothing.

"I'm. not. leaving," She said.

With each word, she pressed her finger against Tycon's chest.

Her tone and body language heavily implied that she would not be convinced otherwise.

What did she want? What could she *possibly* want?

Whatever it was, it *really* can't have been important.

But Tycon didn't want to argue anymore.

The Realm was doomed to ash, fire, and the like.

He took a deep breath and shook his head, "Very well..."

Fixing his posture, he rendered a courteous bow,  his dignity only slightly reduced by his attire (or lack thereof.)

"Lady Crucis, allow me to officially and cordially invite thee to my bed."

If she wasn't going to leave, she might as well--

--spin her body around, launching a rising heel kick aimed at the side of his head.

Tycon swayed backward to dodge.

Natalya then attempted to draw her sword, but Tycon held his hand above hers to prevent a full-draw.

"You got stronger," She said as she glared up at him.

Tycon moved closer, cupping his hand over his mouth to whisper into her ear, "You still need me."

Natalya grabbed his hand, attempting to... throw him or something. Whatever she tried, she failed fantastically.

As Tycon thought it to be bad taste, dropping the Archbishop onto the expensive tile, he spun around so Natalya fell onto the bed.

The woman wrapped her legs around his waist-- which caught him off guard.

If her goal was to manipulate his body or gain an advantageous position to inflict pain, her actions were useless.

If she were trying to seduce him... did that mean... she no longer had a boyfriend?

Tycon looked back to the woman in bed.

She was holding a dagger to his throat.

"Ah. Hidden dagger. Of course."

He had been played for a fool.

"You think *I* need you, Tycondrius? For *what*?"

Tycon raised his eyebrow, tilted his head, and glanced down at their connected bodies.

"Wrong answer," Natalya grinned as she pressed her dagger forward.

It did not draw blood. With Tycon nearing Adamantine-Rank in strength, Natalya needed more than just arm strength to cut him.

...If she twisted her body, though, that would be enough.

Tycon gave her a casual shrug, "I suppose... I can answer any questions you might have."

Natalya groaned and rolled her eyes.

"Tell me why you called us all here," She said. "There better be a good Flamescarred reason for this!! What is it? Huh?? Have the dragons finally returned?!"

"Yes."

"--because unless they..."

Natalya's voice trailed off as her face contorted several times through an array of expressions.

It... was... glorious.

Out of all the observable emotions, Tycon favored two in particular.

The first was 'terrified confusion,' which admittedly, had much to do with his predatory bloodline.

The other was 'bitter defeat.' He had little explanation as to why-- but he found it satisfying.

And the emotions crossing Natalya's face...

He would have paid moderate-to-decent coin for the moment to be immortalized in a painting.

He would keep it in his spatial ring and show it to all her friends.

Holy Princess Troia would certainly enjoy it.

Tycon took Natalya's dagger and sword belt, placing them respectfully on the bedside table. Then, he gently removed Natalya's legs from his waist.

...He, of course, briefly considered taking advantage of the situation.

He was no longer in a relationship, the details of which frustrated him greatly. In the past, Natalya had revealed that she desired him physically. Further, the room was sealed with magic... and no one required either of their presences for several bells.

However, the satisfaction of sleep was one of the many things superior to physical intimacy.

Also, it was an activity that could be safely practiced without consideration for social mechanisms.

Natalya sat up, staring quietly at nothing in particular.

As much as he liked the sound of her voice, silence suited his mood far better.

Tycon sat beside her... but as he found sitting to be tiresome, he allowed himself to sink into the mattress.

He rested with his hands behind his head... and he closed his eyes...

The quietude was nice. The bed was nice.

The closeness he shared with  a gorgeous woman-- that was lovely.

Alone in his mind with his thoughts, the anxieties came.

An avatar of the winged-lizard god had awoken in the Tree God's Forest.

Within the coming weeks, its existence would bring massive and undeniable changes to the Realm. He had personally witnessed the shaping of a lizard army, scrapped-together monstrosities made from the life essence of the dead Tree God and his twisted tree-spawn.

Then, depending on the god-power of the lizard-god's avatar, they would do something... appropriate.

Some sort of horrible, land-destroying fire breath would be iconic.

Unreasonably large and scale-covered wings would blot out the sun-- maybe send up towering sea waves to obliterate the finances of any fool who invested in beachfront property.

If the cursed thing ate anything organic, it would probably form mountains out of its shite.

A great many people would die... or want to be dead-- more than usual, overall.

"An age of ash and fire is coming," He muttered.

Tycon didn't ask to be born into the current age.

Some years ago, he woke up without his memories, fairly certain he had taken over the body of an unfamiliar man.

No one questioned it. It wasn't worth questioning.

...No one asks to be born. Even if he had a problem with his reincarnation, no one would care.

He did wonder if the former-Tycon would do better in the circumstances...

Of course, the exercise in thought was also a pointless one.

He knew, without a shadow of doubt, that he was the superior-Tycon.

He felt Natalya stand up.

He felt her walk over to the globe.

He heard her pop open the bottle of whiskey and he smelled the golden concoction being poured into its glass.

Tycon opened his eyes.

That was... too much for a single drink.

He sat up hurriedly, but it was already too late. Natalya had downed the glass in a single pull.

It was... admittedly impressive. Tycon had never seen Natalya drink so much in so short a time. The alcohol content in the whiskey was far more potent than watered-down dessert wine.

The scarlet-haired Archbishop lazily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

...A similar scarlet color reached her cheeks.

"Sho is that it?" She asked.

Tycon narrowed his eyes... "Is *what* it?"

"The end of the Realm is coming... and... you're just gonna sleep on it?"

Tycon was confused. Yes, the Realm was ending-- but what could Natalya possibly want him to do about it?

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I'm done with trying to *fix* things, Natalya."

"The Swords of the Forgotten King--"

"I did as you asked. I brought the swords to Whitehearth," Tycon seethed. "Everything went to shite, afterward... despite my best efforts. On that, I have no regrets."

He sucked in air through his teeth... then released a heavy sigh.

"I do not know what the immediate future holds... but, for now... I plan to rest."

Natalya swallowed her saliva, taking time to choose her words.

"I'm... not blaming you, Tycon."

Tycon furrowed his brows, stunned by the admission.

If Natalya could cast blame on anyone for his mission's failure, it would be him as the leader of Sol Invictus.

To grossly exaggerate events, it was Lone Shadowdark, a Ranger that Tycon handpicked, responsible for hastening the lizard god's return.

Granted, even if Natalya *did* blame him, the notion would neither weigh down his conscience nor disrupt his sleep.

He had worse nightmares... and new ones to experience, given the recent death of Tarquin Wroe.

Nonetheless...

"Thank you, Natalya," He whispered... "for understanding."