Headed by a Snake

Tycondrius offered the downed Captain his hand.

"Thanks, LT," Krysaos smiled in chagrin as he got back to his feet, "Y'know... These past few suns, I think I've figured it out."

"And what's that, Captain?"

Krysaos shook his head, "--that I ain't as good at this combat stuff as I thought I was."

"Ah, excellent," Tycon clapped his hands together. "With your weak points identified, you can better hone your training towards improvement."

"Yeah, 'bout that..." Krysaos turned his back, his eyes scanning the battlefield-- hopefully for his next lupine target... "How long... exactly? --is this training s'pposed to be?"

To that, Tycon did not answer.

Krysaos glanced back towards him, "It's... it's in the contract-- that's what you were gonna say, huh?"

"Tss," Tycon scoffed, widening his subtle smile to a mocking grin. "Correct, Brother-Captain. You know me rather well."

Krysaos sighed, slouching his shoulders... "I just... I'm not sure my body can take much more of this."

"Ohhh?" Tycon feigned disappointment. "Don't tell me this is the best you can do?"

⟬ ⌈Inspirational Surge⌋ conditions met. Activate? Y/N? ⟭

« Please do so. Krysaos will be fighting for some time longer. »

⟬ Activating... ⟭

After traveling with Krysaos for so many weeks and moons, Tycon had formed a moderately accurate understanding of the man's combat ability.

Such knowledge allowed him both to ignore his Captain if he were performing below average... and to push him to his limits.

The training was meant to be difficult... but Tycon deemed it necessary.

Krysaos was a Metal-Rank adventurer, his physique twice or thrice times hardier than that of a normal person. He may have been successful at privateering across the high seas... but in Tycon's line of work, he was only average.

Worse... amongst Classes gifted with magic or blessed by the gods... against fantastic beasts with ancient bloodlines and creatures with centuries of experience-- Krysaos was less than that. He was merely human.

The Captain did, however, have two great advantages in his favor.

The first... was his courage-- or perhaps his inability to realize his foolishness. His heart was intent on defying the heavens that oversaw the Realm... and killing one of their gods.

The second was that he was lucky enough to enlist the help of a handsome, if somewhat sadistic, Prince of Charm.

After they completed their quest in the Tree God's Forest, they would travel to the Water Temple...

It was impossible for a regular human to keep his sanity in that place, in respect to whatever nightmare horrors roamed the Dungeon's halls.

Tycon's solution was... to be the first to break him.

The Captain's specialized training would last six suns at a minimum... the same amount of time as the final week of training undergone by the recruits of the Kingdom's Royal Marines.

Besides the time allotted to rest, he would spend every sun fighting to keep his pathetic life.

Tycon would drag him to the edge of the seven hells, dangle him off the precipice, and hurl him into those unforgiving depths.

His body would be battered by the trials. His mental fatigue would mount.

His fear of weakness would wear away. His concern for failure would become long forgotten.

His courage, too... the notion of it would become unnecessary.

Tycon would scream into Krysaos' ear to keep fighting... to give as much as he had... then more.

He'd take everything... until naught remained but the mission.

The man already had a burning, irrational obsession with its completion. Everything else was unnecessary.

...

In the late morning of the fourth sun, Tycon and the crew of the Neptune's Revenge happened upon the first warm-blooded denizen of the forest that didn't actively try to kill them.

He would have preferred it, if that were the case-- for Krysaos' sake.

They came across a type of chimera... commonly known in the Holy Country as a satyr. Atop the adult gentleman's head were horse-like ears and small goat horns. He had a roughly shaven goatee... goat legs, cloven hooves, and a disdain for clothing.

Then again... none of the creatures native to the Tree God's Forest wore clothes. As none of the other members of Tycon's party seemed bothered by the fact, he decided to ignore it.

The satyr did not look particularly threatening, standing only at Tycon's chest level... but he stood in a clearing with thirteen stone archways that thrummed with magical energies.

A trap? A puzzle? There was a strong compulsory sense of Law in the area, ancient magics that were beyond Tycon's abilities to discern and disassemble.

"(Greetings, friend of the forest,)" Coraline spoke in Elven, bowing politely. "We seek an audience with the Tree God... um, peacefully, despite the fact that we're all heavily armed and stink of blood."

The young Arcanist had a good mind for manners. Tycon approved.

"Hello, Mister Satyr," Elle greeted cheerfully. "Thank you for not actively trying to kill us. And sorry if we killed any of your friends?"

Elle was always polite, despite the fact that most Tyrions were suspicious of non-humans. Tycon took pride in being her lover.

The Elven Ancient watched in silence. It was well above King's station to deal with lesser fae.

As for Tycon... he didn't particularly care to speak, as he was perfectly content with Coraline and Elle acting as the face of the party.

"Can we kill it?" Catshit muttered. "We'z wanna kill da 'orned boy."

"Ask... ask the LT," Krysaos whispered in response.

His eyes were bloodshot and his body lightly trembled.

...He'd worked hard over the past few suns.

"To be seen," Tycon frowned. "Let's see what he has to say, first."

The satyr hopped upon a short rock and bowed ostentatiously.

Then... he lifted his voice... in song.

"Noble adventurers from lands far away, a different path awaits thee through e'ry archway... To find whom you seek, you must rely on your luck--"

Tycon narrowed his eyes, "Must you, satyr?"

"Or do as you please," The horned poet shrugged. "I don't give a--"

"Yer makin' me ears 'urt." Petty Officer Bob growled, deep and low, as he brandished his greataxe... "Keep flappin' yer gob an' we'll see 'ow you sing wivout legs..."

"Can we eat it?" Catshit grinned. "We'z wanna kill it-- den we'z gonna eat it."

"Then we'll LOOT it!" Stickyfingers added with a roiling chuckle, "Uhuhuhu~"

"My meat is tough and gamey and I've no coin to rob," The satyr smiled weakly as he trotted a few steps backward. "Uh... can you guys gimme a break? I'm jus' doin' my job."