With urgency and alacrity, Tycondrius grabbed onto the Archbishop's collar, swinging her aside with the montum.
Natalya crashed to the ground... ungently.
A sharp blur sliced through the space where her head would have been.
Unfortunately, Natalya did not see just how he saved her from severe harm. Afterward, Tycon thought it very likely that she was going to be *very* upset with him.
Tycon shot his left hand forward, gripping the magically-concealed humanoid's neck. Shifting his balance to the side, back, and then forward, he slamd the creature onto the eting table.
Delicate green and gold shards of magic shimred in the air, reminiscent to torn and powdered faerie wings. As the magic dissipated, the hidden attacker pinned to the table was revealed to be a woman.
The sweet scent of Orkish sugar filled his nostrils as Tycon scrutinized the enemy's form.
She wore a winged helt that hid the top half of her head, from which long streams of pale green hair draped over the table ends. She wore a long-sleeved, off-white wool sweater, weaved with complex, ribbon-like patterns. Underneath, she wore dark shorts of an elastic, unrecognizable material.
Slowly, she raised both arms in mock surrender, "G-good evening, dragonslayer."
"Be silent," Tycon ordered as he slapped her across the face.
Out of his peripheral vision, he eyed the woman's 'weapon,' a staff tipped with bird wings. Two snakes were carved into the haft... and handso ones, at that.
However, considering the speed it was swung earlier, Natalya could have been seriously injured-- potentially killed.
Tycon kicked the staff away. Then, he tore the Amulet of Concealnt from the woman's neck, crumpling the tal before tossing it aside.
Finally, he began to pry the helt off of her face.
She struggled to stop him, reinforcing her scrawny arms with mana.
She scread. It was a scream of fear and desperation-- though not the type he enjoyed.
Its shrill sound was like iron claws scraping at the insides of his ears.
It served to stoke his fury.
Tycon infused his voice with mana, shouting to be heard.
"Shut! Your! WHORE!!! MOUTH!!!!!!"
He drove his fist into her kidney, then raised his arm to deliver a sharp elbow into the pit of her stomach. As the woman gasped for breath, Tycon removed her helt, smashing it against the hardwood table until he sensed its magic dissipate.
He tossed the woman away and she rolled on the ground until she struck the wall.
She curled her body-- a natural response to pain.
"Ohhh," Said an amused Bella. "So you used a Domain as a Dinsional Anchor... but that's like-- using a bank vault to trap a thief when a piece of rope would do."
Tycon rolled his eyes in annoyance, "I had a very small window of ti in which to act, Miss Sapphira."
"Oh, I wasn't knocking it," The Witch shrugged. "I'm actually kinda impressed."
The green-haired girl sat up, coughing pitifully before wiping her bloodied mouth with her sleeve.
"Please... let explain."
An explanation from the intruder was not a welco thought.
Tycon crossed the distance with his ⌈Shadowfang⌋ movent technique before delivering a swift kick to the girl's side. Without hesitation, he then stomped his boot down on the side of her ankle.
That it did not snap like a dry branch confird Tycon's suspicion that she was not human.
"M... rcy," The girl cried as she applied pressure to her injured foot. "Please..."
Tycon felt a grim smile cross his face as he drew the blade on his waist.
"rcy is the na of my sword, young lady... but to receive her blessing, you'll first have TO BEG!!!"
Grabbing the girl's hair, he pulled her to her knees, smashing the poml of his sword into her face, again and again.
She put her arms up defensively, though by the ti she did, her face was already swollen and covered in bruises.
Tycon did not stop.
Soon after, bruises would develop on her arms and in various places on her torso.
Guilt began to creep into Tycon's psyche...
Though he was certainly in the right, the beating he was administering did not resemble a vigilant guard punishing a trespasser. He felt like an adult soldier battering an unard, civilian child... an underfed and sickly child.
Though it was not sothing to be expected, he sincerely hoped the whelpling would say sothing arrogant to rekindle his rage.
"S-stop! You can't kill !"
Ah. Against all odds, it had appeared.
"Oh, do try to explain, BRAT!" Tycon cackled, "That is-- if you can, before I SUCCEED!!!"
"A sword made by the likes of n--"
Tycon slamd the beaten child against the wall before driving his enchanted sword into the stone behind her.
The blade's edge cut into the girl's cheek and drew blood.
Her eyes widened in horror.
Whoever the girl was... if she was a lizard as Tycon surmised-- no... even if she was a god, rcy was able to kill her.
A smile brimming with satisfaction found its way to Tycon's face.
"I hope this display has... *corrected* any misgivings you might have had."
Stripped of her tal helt, the girl stared, wide-eyed at Tycon. Her pupils shook-- of which she had three.
One in her left. Two in her right.
Gold and glowing.
In traditional cultures, the mutation would mark her as so kind of oracle. The notion reminded Tycon of a particularly distasteful lizard woman he knew...
However, the thought of his hatred potentially being misplaced bid him to calm down.
Only recently, Cauldron Shrimp, a well-dressed man with good taste in whiskey, chose to be hateful-- chose to be rude. He paid for his transgressions with his life.
Tycon was a better man... and therefore was above such pettiness.
Also, the spy in his midst has already incurred a severe beating.
It was reasonable to allow her a last word or two before a summary execution.
"I'm... I'm sorry," She said.
Tycon raised an eyebrow, "Does anything co out of your disgusting mouth that is *not* a lie?"
"I'm... so sorry..."
"Yo, Boss," Bella Sapphira waved.
The Witch was sitting on the... broken round table, her legs crossed. Her expression, interested-but-not-quite-surprised, remained consistent.
"You gonna ask her why she's here or what?"
Tycon pursed his lips, "Before that-- who broke the table?"
"You did."
Tycon blinked slowly... "Did anything else happen while..."
"...while you went hulk-mode?" Bella asked, "Long-leggy-scream-a-lot, over there, tried to cast an Area Spell. It, like, half-worked, but uh... well-- how about'cha take a look around the room?"
...Tycon remained vigilant for sudden movent but otherwise extended his senses.
The room's inhabitants appeared to be frozen in ti.
Natalya was trying to rise from where she hit the floor. She was making an absurd face with her cheeks puffed up.
Chantal's held pistol was still smoking, albeit very slowly. She was in the midst of angrily shouting-- her ire likely directed at him.
Gobbuto was... the unnaturally-large goblin man was reaching underneath his woefully tiny seat.
Had he hidden a weapon there? That might have been clever of him... but, in contrast, Chantal had no issue open-carrying Orcish Sugar weaponry.
"Boss," Bella tilted her head, "What is that... thing you took out, anyroad?"
Obviously, any magic that Tycon could forcibly resist, Bella could do equally well.
Behind her overlarge glasses, her eyes seed to... sparkle? But that might have been a trick, caused by chandelier light.
Bella motioned towards the Arcanite Rod in the center of the room, floating above the shattered center of the broken round table.
"It's what's left of Wroe," Tycon sighed.
"Tarquin Wroe reincarnated into a stick?" Bella said with a pout. "Cool? I guess. But back to the point-- what about the lizard-girl you've got there?
Tycon tightened his grip on the spy's green hair, eliciting a yelp.
"You. Tell ... do dragons exist?"
She refused to et his gaze.
"The... Laws require that I answer: no."
"...Very good. And you're here, why?"
The defiant child raised her head.
"You can't fight the dragons on your own, Tyrael."
Tycon's heart swelled with familiar emotions.
Hate. Discontent.
Then... he took a deep breath as he picked apart the woman's words in his head.
A man's first thoughts reflect how he was raised.
His subsequent thoughts and actions convey who he is.
"I... agree..." Tycon nodded. "Hence... I chose to convene... with my *allies.*"
"It won't be enough..." The battered child spat.
"I will be with them," Tycon reassured her. "Thus, it *will* be enough."
"The Heroes..." The girl whined, "the Draconic Prophecy says... the Heroes can save our Realm."
"Eugh. The Prophecy..." Tycon spat in disgust, "Don't be daft, girl. Whatever your shite prophecy might say, it does *not* explicitly na which heroes are who, the number of said heroes, or even if CURRENT events correlate to whatever those whelpling runts are *implied* to be needed for!"
He turned abruptly, "Bella! Fact. Check!"
"Hunnit percent, Boss," Bella confird.
"You've... trained... one of those heroes," Argued the tearful, petulant child. "You, of all people, know the strength and the *potential* of Pelor of House Morninglord!"
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