Headed by a Snake

The Daeva reeled back, standing still for a moment. Suddenly, his head snapped forward, his eyes unfocused.

A trail of blood and froth ran down the side of his lip...

--which soaked into his disgusting neckbeard.

Tycondrius groaned in disgust, "Ugh. Wipe your filthy mouth, you."

Heedless of his sound advice, Tarquin Wroe rotated his heavy sword above his head and charged forward, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Tycon took note of the strange and shimmering ⌈Hexblade⌋ he held.

It was a mana-creation and potentially dangerous.

And then its wielder... he exuded an aura of unmistakable killing intent, attacking with the same lethality without hesitation.

Tycon saw the movements.

He clearly sensed the shifting of the air... the vibrations in the ground.

...He also had the misfortune of *smelling* his opponent's recklessness.

The speed of Wroe's sword was too slow... the strength of the swing , too weak.

The gentleman who, by all rights, should have been a powerful martial spellcaster...

--he did not power his attack with a single sliver of of mana.

Tycon slipped under the blade by a fraction of an ilm, simultaneously smashing his sword pommel against Wroe's closed fist.

Then... to prove a point, he sliced downward, drawing two superficial cuts on the angel's thick forearms.

"Hrrrngh..." Wroe took three steps back, wincing in pain... his face and unshaven neck covered in sweat and blood.

"My advice," Tycon sighed-- "now that you've a moment to listen: perhaps you might recall that you are theoretically blessed by a higher power with superhuman abilities..."

Tycon exhaled through his nostrils... "--and... something we generally refer to as *magic.*"

Grunting like a mindless beast, Wroe grit his teeth...

But surprisingly, he straightened his back and saluted with his sword.

It was a graceful movement... and for a moment Tycon wondered if the man hadn't lost his memories and was just being a complete arse.

Wroe lowered his body, his left hand behind his back, his slightly curved mana-saber forward.

"Zarovich Sword Style..." He whispered.

...If Wroe did have his memories, Tycon doubted he was fool enough to challenge him so brazenly.

It was, however, a welcome challenge.

"That sounnnnds... familiaaarr..." Hades commented.

The Death Orc was sitting on a nearby tree stump, wholly unconcerned with the one-sided beating

"It... might be a good sign," Tycondrius tilted his head... "That, my friend, is Mister Wroe's most practiced sword art. In theory, he'll be able to cast Spells in tandem with executing his blade arts."

"Tiiiight," Hades nodded, "Maybe he'll show us somethin' worthwhile?"

...That, too, was what Tycon hoped.

Tycon tossed his broken weapon away, then spun on his heel to face his angelic opponent.

He considered summoning Mercy... but in the somewhat improbable case that Wroe could still be useful to him, accidentally maiming the fellow with a Fourth-Circle sword was not in his best interests.

The Sword of Venom... was also a poor option. A single cut could afflict even a Daeva with a host of debilitating conditions, as well as complicate his health in the future.

The Shatterspike? No... The longsword movements of the White Raven school of swordplay were simplistic but lethal.

Then... even though Tres Leches remained soulbound to Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark, Tycon would not be able to hold back the strikes of the weighted dark iron mace.

It would be remiss of him to take away Wroe's arguably best quality: his symmetrical face, free of blemishes-- neither too masculine nor feminine.

It could be argued that permanently disfiguring the man would make Tycon seem petty or... even envious.

He was not.

Tycon flicked his wrist, summoning the Sword of Venom's adamantine scabbard.

His fist began to throb in recently-forgotten pain.

It was a great annoyance but... it was also an acceptable handicap for his forgetful opponent.

Switching the weighted, blunt object to his left, Tycon placed his tender fist behind his back, mirroring his Wroe's stance.

He didn't wield a proper sword, but its shape and weight were appropriate for use with the defensive techniques of the Screaming Silence sect.

...Also, its material ensured that Wroe would break before it suffered a scratch.

Tycon tilted his chin up, "Come at me, then, Mister Wroe. Let us see how far your abilities have fallen."

The angel-blooded swordsman grunted in response... and began to edge towards him, counter-clockwise.

It was a great improvement... and a sign far more reassuring than Wroe whispering his prided sword style like a virginal squire.

Wroe kept his balance. He did not fully commit to his attacks. He struck with safety in mind-- able to retract his blade to defend himself from Tycon's counter-attacks.

Presumably, Wroe's goal was to force a reaction... or capitalize on a mistake.

Tycon dodged and deflected... choosing to attack with a similar amount of reservation.

He allowed his opponent to control the momentum of the fight... risking life and limb in the minuscule hope that battle would inspire Wroe to remember himself.

...He cursed himself for being unable to think of an alternative.

Then... Tycon found a mistake.

Wroe had overextended, stepping too far for a sword thrust with the potential to run Tycon through the gut.

With a quick downward stroke, Tycon forced the tip of Wroe's blade down into the dirt.

Stepping forward, he rotated his hips, aiming a weighted punch at the center of the Daeva's pale face.

Tycon's fist... found its target.

There was no... defensive ⌈Mana Ward⌋... no Hexblade ⌈Misty Step⌋... nor was there a subtly-cast spell hidden beneath the layers of Wroe's swordplay.

The fellow was... simply struck.

He wobbled backward, stumbling on discarded adventurer effects, and was barely able to avoid falling on his rear.

Blood sprung freely from both of his nostrils.

Wroe narrowed his eyes, his teeth clenched in anger at his impotence... and he renewed his assault.

At the very least... the gentleman seemed to have remembered his training-- some of it.

His attacks were not merely an outlet of emotion-- they had purpose, forcing Tycon to step back and cutting off avenues of escape.

Wroe's defenses had tightened, leaving few easily-exploitable holes.

The display was at the peak of human physical human performance... and enough to give any of Sol Invictus' gladiators pause.

However... Sol Invictus no longer fought in the gladiatorial arenas.

To the current Gold-Rank Tycon, Wroe's mild improvement was not enough to give him worth.