Headed by a Snake

Tycondrius had parted ways with Tarquin Wroe after Sol Invictus completed a series of missions in the Kingdom.

However... it had been years since he had anything to do with his previous patrons, Princess Aurala Wyndham, youngest daughter of King Adal, and Chantal De la Croix, the Fleet Admiral of the Kingdom's Navy.

From time to time, Tycon had wondered where the blue-haired fool had gone.

It wasn't something he placed much importance in.

If the fates were kind, the Daeva would survive until he and Tycon would again join forces.

Judging by the man's predilection for forbidden magics and dark artifacts... Wroe's death (or worse) was far more likely.

Tarquin Wroe followed the whims of his voices... resulting in him descending to one of the seven hells.

But instead of damning himself to an eternity of pain, agony, and... taxation under whatever passed for the local governing body--

...he yet lived.

--where he sat at a riverbank, staring at the waters.

...crying to himself.

...all while *commanding* the scent of an unwashed, thick-furred sow-- the unfortunate kind only able to roll in its own fecal material to keep cool.

Tycon was tempted to kick the self-absorbed prick into the river, but he worried that it would make him even more useless than he already was.

He waved to his Orcish friend, "Let us depart, Brother-Hades. It appears I shall be leaving behind three companions, this sun."

Hades placed his palms against his chest, his expression hurt, "B r o ."

"I was referring to Young Master Tamaki, Holy Bolter Rena, and this blubbering, blue-haired... fellow," Tycon rolled his eyes-- "not you."

"Aw, sh*t," Hades chuckled in relief. "Hah. My bad."

The ragged form of Tarquin Wroe leapt to his feet, his head tilted back.

He gnashed his teeth... and he wailed.

"WHAERRRE IS SHE!??!?"

...Tycon shared a glance of concern with Hades.

"Okay, I'll bite," The orc shrugged. "Where is who?"

"I'd already asked," Tycon complained.

"Hold up," Hades pointed. "Check it out. I think he's remembering."

Wroe's eyes glowed icy blue, the mana thick enough to plume like woodsmoke.

"Glowing eyes..." Tycon pursed his lips... "You do that all the time, Brother-Hades. Even I can do that, given enough time to prepare a mana-gathering spell circle."

"Well... sometimes I do it when I remember something," Hades insisted.

"You *KNOW* her..." Wroe raised his voice... which took on a magical, echoey quality, "Erza Aerzin..."

"I keep hearing that name," Tycon sharpened his gaze, "Do we know who that is?"

"Uh..." Hades tilted his chin up... and he channeled mana into his eyes to make them glow green, "Erza Aerzin... the Lake Goddess."

"You've proved your point," Tycon shot the Death Orc a glare, "Cease that immediately-- please."

The Lake Goddess...

It seemed Wroe's goals aligned with Tycon's current... somewhat convoluted mission: for him and Krysaos to find the sealed Lake Goddess in order to lure out the Sea God.

With the Lake Goddess as Wroe's patron... then perhaps the process... would... be easier?

Perhaps?

Tycon rubbed his temples.

The Daeva's presence came with an unwelcome implication.

Wroe was a man who had earned the Lake Goddess' blessings... and he'd spent well over a year searching for her to no avail.

Did the Lake Goddess not wish to be found?

...That could prove troublesome.

Then again... the flippant and capricious Arcanite Prince was never the best at pursuing anything long-term, whether it was a mission or a romantic relationship.

...It was somewhat absurd that Wroe's current pursuit was a literal goddess.

...However, it was not ironic-- even perhaps an inevitability for him.

The blue-eyed, blue-haired angel lowered his head.

The glow did not disappear from his eyes, which inspired a tinge of hope within Tycon.

The Daeva's mana output... was rising.

"Take me to her... NOW!!!" Wroe demanded.

He lunged forward, his right arm raised high.

A thick magical mist gathered in his fist in the form of a... tube?

Thankfully, that solidified into a pearlescent sword.

Tycon had almost forgotten what Wroe's ⌈Hexblade⌋ looked like. Its gaudy shape was something like... a cave-grown crystal. Its make didn't look particularly sturdy... but being a divine, mana-weapon, it was probably decently sturdy.

Tycon slapped the blade away with the back of his hand, simultaneously sidestepping past its wielder.

...He lamented the fact that he'd injured himself teaching Khalkyd who was superior between them.

--else he would have grabbed Wroe's wrist and wrenched his arm out of its socket.

"Wow," Hades tilted his head. "Is this why you don't want this sword-guy? He f*ckin' sucks. No guard or nothin'."

Tycon picked up a discarded warrior's helmet out of the sand and tossed it at Wroe's face.

It hit the dazed fool in the shoulder.

"Mister Wroe's combat abilities..." Tycon sighed, "--they have seen better suns."

The orc stroked his chin thoughtfully, "What, like-- is he holding back his power level or some sh*t?"

"...I certainly hope not."

Mana-suppression abilities were stupid.

Unless one was particularly talented, it took far too much effort to forcibly lower one's mana output... and its effect was nigh useless.

It was highly implausible that Wroe was faking his pathetic performance.

With all of the Arcanite Prince's skill with the sword... his abilities had stagnated years prior.

Instead of choosing to pursue the path of a Swordsman or Weaponmaster or Blade Dancer... Wroe chose a different path.

He made a pact with a supernatural being and earned the Class of Hexblade... a Martial Spellcaster.

Or rather-- that's what he was supposed to be.

Tycon knelt down, picking up a broken sword with his left hand and holding it in a reverse-grip, "Mister Wroe, you're embarrassing me."

"RARRRGHHH!!!"

Wroe screamed like an untrained barbarian as he started swinging away with his mana-weapon.

"Ooh. Ahaha," Hades chuckled. "He's got some spunk, though? Can't deny him that."

Tycon positioned his weapon on the inside of Wroe's swinging wrist, bleeding him with its jagged edge. Then, he diagonally smashed a hammer-fist against the angel's pristine face.

"Perhaps," He muttered... "Full marks for effort. Zero for effectiveness. Again, Mister Wroe."

",