Headed by a Snake

Pale opened an eye, looking around, before sitting up in his bed and exhaling deeply. He sounded exhausted, "Whew."

Tycondrius rolled his eyes, "How long were you planning on pretending to sleep?"

"Ehehe..." Pale grinned and looked down at his hands, "Until Troia left? And uh... why does it smell like... burning?"

Lone glanced at the small table near the bed, "I think your girlfriend baked you cookies."

"She's... not my girlfriend?" Pale tilted his head.

"Can I have one, then?"

"Sure?"

Suddenly, a sharp sense of unease washed over Tycon.

He glanced over at the tray that Troia had brought in.

« System, analysis: Tray of... items? »

He couldn't rightfully call them biscuits... or even consumables.

⟬ System response: Tray of Dry Bricks. Mundane projectile weapon. If consumed, inflicts nausea, vomiting, diarrhea. Low probability to inflict death-effect. ⟭

Tycon held his hand out, just in time to stop Lone from killing himself, "Hold."

Lone furrowed his brows, his eyes immediately alert, "Boss, is there danger?"

"They're poisoned," Tycon explained. "Someone has made an attempt on the High Oracle's life. I'll inform the kitchens, afterward."

"(Fangs and claws do not have eyes,)" Tres Leches softly growled. "(The killer does not care who his victims are.)"

"...Scary," Lone grimaced, crossing his arms. "It must be hard being a High Oracle."

"Mister Pale," Tycon decided to change the topic. "You were in a troublesome state, earlier, young man."

Pale dipped his head, ashamed, "I'm sorry, Sir... I just... I dunno if I wanna talk about it."

"What's wrong, man?" Lone nudged his young friend.

Tres Leches put his paws up on the bed with a wisdomous gaze, "(You stared death in the face... and you lived.)"

Pale chuckled softly to himself, "I don't know. It bothers me, I guess? I really like being in Sol Invictus."

"You're on contract," Tycon crossed his arms. "You will remain guilded until your resignation or your violent and probably-completely-avoidable demise."

"Boss..." Pale's eyes grew wide and he stuck out a quivering lip, "You... you won't leave me behind?"

...Was that what this was about?

"Of course, I'd leave you behind," Tycon groaned. "Granted, I'd need a very good reason to do so."

Lone cleared his throat, "Boss... I think he means, y'know... in general."

Tycon pursed his lips. Why were his companions being so difficult?

"In that case... no. In fact, I am willing to expend a great amount of resources to ensure you are *not* left behind."

Pale nodded, wiping at his tears... "I guess that makes sense."

"Anyroad..." Tycon tapped his foot impatiently. "Even if a forceful separation were to occur, you are obligated to find a way to rejoin the main force."

"But... that's not the same?" Pale whined.

Tycon furrowed his brows, "Why not?"

The boy blinked in confusion, "...Uh. Isn't it?"

"It's the same," Tycon insisted.

"Don't worry about it, bro," Lone grinned. "I'm in the same boat!"

"We are nowhere near a boat," Tycon argued.

"A figurative boat, Boss."

Tycon took a deep breath and sighed... "Very well. As you were, then."

Lone nodded, "I mean... I got separated from Boss when I got sent to prison. And then I got pulled away for a heist!"

Pale's eyes opened wide in shock, "A prison?"

Tycon eyes narrowed sharply in disappointment, "A heist, Mister Lone?"

Lone's inclined his head, "It's... complicated. I'll tell you guys about it after evening training."

"Is that... so?" Tycon tilted his chin up. "You must think the physical training I've planned, akin to a relaxing stroll on the beach. Very. Well."

"Boss!" Lone cried out, "Wait! That's... that's not what I..."

"Do not fret, Mister Lone!" Tycon exclaimed, "The difficulty will be adjusted accordingly."

"S-seven hells," Lone cursed.

"Aww, butt," Pale winced.

"(Pain is what makes us feel alive,)" Tres Leches barked.

"You're coming too, wolf."

"(F*ck.)"

...

⟬ Flashback: Cersei's Rest, Northern Docks. The morning of that sun. ⟭

Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark took in a deep breath of salty fog.

He was sitting on a hefty rock, a rowboat tied to it. There, he waited. There, he watched.

The waves lapped against the wooden pier. The gulls squawked away, living their lives as they pleased. He wished he could be like those majestic creatures... but he had a job to do.

No one else was around-- it was just him and old man Simonides. The ugly old man in the uglier yellow hood sat in his rowboat, smoking a pipe. He was the one who suggested this spot... an unused dock, fallen into disrepair.

He didn't have to worry about Outsiders seeing anything they shouldn't.

Even amongst the ambient noise, Lone could hear Edge approach. The man was a Rogue-- a good one, too. But it didn't matter how quiet he was.

Lone was a Ranger.

He knew those steps... knew what to listen for. He could identify the pads of a field mouse in a mouse field. Tracking another human was as easy as melting butter in a pan.

"You made it," He waved, not bothering to look.

"Lone..." The blonde, spiky-haired Rogue approached from the side. "I got your message, man... So yeah. I'm here."

He had his arms crossed defensively... and he kept looking around. Edge had a good sense of preservation. It's what had kept him alive all this time.

They were a lot alike. That meant he probably knew what was coming.

"Yeah..." Lone nodded.

He took in another deep breath, taking in all the little things. He wanted to remember it all... burn the moment into his memory.

He could smell the sweat from his own filthy clothing. Fish had washed up by the tide, dying or dead, trapped in the rocks below.

Cersei's Rest was supposed to be a bastion of humanity, a big white-rock Basilica in the middle, the home of the holiest of the holy. To him, it was just another beach that stank of fish rot.

Lone was a Ranger. He could take a single whiff of bear shite, figure out where she lived, track it down, murder her, and eat all of her babies-- all within half a bell.