"Should... we stop him?" Athena wrung her hands nervously, looking to Tycondrius with wide eyes... "He looks really mad."
Tycon pursed his lips... "This is sothing that he must do... I suppose."
"Oh..." The swords levitating behind her back drooped, seeming to match her mood.
In a gratuitous display of acrobatics, Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark, ran up a wall, flipped, and landed atop another wooden chest. He stood, roaring at the top of his lungs and raising his hamr high overhead.
"DEATH TO THE ENEMIES OF INVICTUS!!"
Lone was an unstoppable force of destruction, his hatred for storage-containers clear for all to see.
With every strike of his hamr, the cackling Ranger sent wood splinters and articles of clothing across the room. He grabbed jars of preserved food and sent them crashing upon the Dungeon stones. He used the Shatterspike longsword to cleave apart barrels of spoiled, vinegary wine.
In his fury, he picked up an impossibly heavy crate containing pieces of tal armor and tossed it against the wall, its contents clattering about.
"⌈FLAWOLF RUSH!!!⌋"
Lone's wolf leapt away from Korr and into the sets of armor. Its Dark-Iron coat glowed gold, then white-hot... lting the steel around it with the extre heat.
Tycon took a precautionary step back from the blaze. He was glad that his armor provided light resistance against the flas. If he was wearing his usual hooded cloak, it would have certainly caught fire.
Lone's performance was nothing short of incredible. He had a clear upward spike in mana... and his skill usage was not one he was familiar with... not in na, nor in level.
« System, analysis: Skill level. »
⟬ System response: Second-Circle. ⟭
« ...System, analysis: Lone's basic information. »
⟬ System response: Lone Shadowdark, Iron-Rank Idiot. ⟭
« System, change setting: Reset Lone's species and class to default. »
⟬ Setting change complete. Lone Shadowdark, Iron-Rank Human Ranger. ⟭
Tycon nodded in approval... sighing as he thought about how difficult it had been cultivating the young man's growth. In the young Ranger pushing his mana and physical limits, he achieved a breakthrough in power.
Athena and Zenon looked on in awe, cognizant of the impressive surge of mana that Lone was emitting.
Sorina looked displeased. While the Calculator was not as mana-sensitive as the other two, her Calculator abilities could accurately determine Lone's increase in rank.
She'd manage.
Tanamar was the only one who did not seem impressed. He shrugged, walking forward, "I'll go help him."
...
"Athanasius!" Tycon lazily followed Tanamar into a lonely corner of the storage room, "Hold-- if you would."
The silver-haired footman had raised his lance up in one arm, ready to spear one of the final remaining yet-undamaged containers. With Tycon's polite request, Tanamar released his holy lance, allowing it to shatter into glass-like fragnts of light and dissipate into mana dust.
"What's up, Tycon? You think there's sothin' inside this thing?"
Tycon walked over, crossing his arms, "Perhaps, but that is not the reason I stopped you..."
The two of them stood above the miniature lockbox. It appeared indistinct and mundane, an old pale-wooden box reinforced by brass and exhibiting a tiny keyhole.
Its size appeared useful only for storing jewelry or other equally small trinkets or baubles. That, by itself, was reason enough to treat it with care, as it had the possibility to hold one or more treasures. Tiny, enchanted items often had spectacular effects, such as his own spatial ring.
Smirking, Tycon gestured Tanamar's attention towards the small box, "Take a look."
It was... trembling.
« System, analyze: This little one. »
⟬ System response: Mimic, Bronze-Rank Aberration. ⟭
He found it interesting. Most mimics were Iron-Rank creatures.
Tycon glanced over his shoulder, looking back at Lone.
The young Ranger was collapsed against a wall, drenched in liquid, and likely suffering mana fatigue. He was like a child who'd thrown a tantrum and was ready for a nap. With him temporarily disabled, Tycon could deal with the mimic without the worry of Lone's sowhat irrational, container-obliterating rampage.
Tanamar knelt down, scooping the box up in his hands. It stopped shaking, becoming perfectly still and lifeless.
"Huh. Did I do sothing wrong?" He asked... "Oh. Weird... It feels... rough... scratchy, almost."
Tycon flicked at the box's tallic keyhole. Though it should have clinked like tal, it clunked as if made from stone... "You're not fooling anyone, child."
Imdiately, the jewelry box began to shudder once more. Its lid opened minutely as it pleaded for its life, "P-p-please... d-d-d-don't hurt ..."
The mimic's androgynous voice was youthful and high-pitched, supporting Tycon's assumption on its immaturity.
"[I WANT IT.]"
Both Tycon and Tanamar leapt away defensively, surprised by Korr's sudden appearance beside them.
"Awwwww!!" Athena squealed, "It's just a BABY!!"
Fearless, she imdiately rushed over to Korr's side and stared at the tiny mimic in awe.
Though Tycon could not see Korr's face hidden by her helt, he could tell she was having difficulty. After a few monts of indecision, she offered the child mimic to the young Athena, who took it with care.
"Ooh, you're heavier than you look..." Athena cooed. "Do you have any treasure? How do I open you?"
Tycon chuckled softly at the young lady's innocent display, "Little one, do you have a na?"
The mimic's shaking had ceased, seeming to have cald considerably in Athena's arms... "I... I don't have one, Sir..."
"Safeway," Sorina puffed her chest out in pride.
"Lootbox!" Athena countered.
"Ooh, that's pretty *crate*!" Sorina exclaid... "Hum... We can stuff him with chocolates and call him Life?"
"F...firewood..." Lone groaned in the distance.
Sorina's Armor Cube lit up, displaying two box shapes on its front. Perhaps it was trying to say, 'Box-Box,' an admittedly endearing na.
"...Lunchbox," Tycon offered. It had been four bells since lunch and he was growing hungry.
"P-please don't eat ," The mimic pleaded. "My nutritional value is... very... poor."
It was a well-spoken mimic. That was pleasant to hear.
"We won't eat you, young one," Tycon assured him... "As long as you do as we say."
...Within minutes, Sorina Capulet drafted a magical contract, recruiting the child-mimic as the newest mber of Guild Letalis... for the next hundred years. As long as he remained helpful and willing, he would be paid a modicum of coin or treasure (adjusting for inflation.)
After several more minutes of deliberation, it was decided that the mimic be nad Box-tholomaeus... Boxy for short. As all mimics had the capability for limited shape-changing, Boxy transford himself into a small, wooden, humanoid doll to be carried around.
He could be used as a limited spatial item, Boxtholomaeus' contents remaining constant, no matter the form he took. With the rarity of proper spatial items in the Realm, gaining the allegiance of the young mimic would be a great boon to Athena and Guild Letalis.
...
"Sir Tycon..."
Tycondrius raised an eyebrow as Sergeant Cecil Salt approached him. In doing so, Salt had distanced himself from the others in the Letalis group... likely to converse with him in private.
"Speak your mind, Sergeant."
Salt removed his helt, laughing nervously... "I'm uh... just a little concerned, Sir."
The Sergeant glanced to the side, at Athena in particular.
Boxtholomaeus was tied to the side of her adventuring pack, clattering as she walked. In his doll-form, he was only a fulm in height. The doll was ordinary if poor in appearance... augnted by his tattered and partially burnt clothing, knee-length trousers and a child-sized tunic.
"Thing's cursed, Sir..." Salt muttered.
Tycon pursed his lips, recalling the superstitious natures of Salt's previous profession as a ship captain and a sailor, both.
"The creature is a mimic, Sergeant. It's as cursed as a shapeshifting dog."
Salt furrowed his eyebrows... "Like a Sea Wolf, Sir?"
...The gentleman had made an excellent counterpoint. The Sea Wolves were cursed with a form of lycanthrope that gave them strange traits.
Tycon paused... "Failed analogies, aside, Mister Boxtholomaeus is not inherently cursed... Do you have any evidence to the contrary?"
Salt nervously brushed his hand against his armored chest, "I just think... it's unnatural, that's all."
"Hm..." Tycon pursed his lips in amusent, "I must remind you that the gunnery you and your team utilizes are just-as, if not more unnatural."
Salt grimaced, his main hand idly gripping the handle of the Turathi rifle strapped to his chest... "With... with respect, Sir, these guns are technological advancents-- they're science."
Those were the largest words Tycon had heard out of Cecil Salt's mouth.
It was also... not entirely true. What was deed as 'Hextech' was an amalgamation of well-researched formation magic and volatile and inexact abyssal magic. The weapon engineers of Bael Turath don't highly guard their secrets, as other nations do. Turathi weaponry is impossible to replicate without intimate knowledge of the magics and sciences available only in that nation.
Tycon shrugged, "Advanced science is practically the sa as magic. Just because we don't know the particulars to how it works, doesn't an it's any less useful... or that it's cursed."
Salt nodded... "Well... if you say so, Boss..."
"Think about it. Keep an open mind... but remain vigilant, as you have been," Tycon grinned. "That's what will keep you alive, young Sergeant."
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