Headed by a Snake

Krysaos allowed Tycondrius into the room first, as politeness and rank dictated. The junior officer was first to enter and the senior, first to exit.

The Lone Shadowdark had attained a set of trousers, belonging to the cabin's previous inhabitant. Cross-legged, he levitated in the air... flowing Elven sigils of mana glowing on his naked chest.

It was... something that the elves did.

While they could choose to sleep, the practice was disdained by the more traditional elves. Instead, they chose to meditate, recovering their energies by absorbing the mana in their surroundings.

The levitation was unnecessary... and like foregoing sleep, the Elven Lone had chosen to sit, not on the deck where his less-magically adept companions were bound, but above it.

Tycon spoke in a firm voice to wake the young Ranger, "Mister Lone."

He waited patiently for several moments... but there was no response.

If his voice was heard, the elf betrayed no indication of it.

"Is that really that guy's name?" Krysaos asked.

"It is what he generally answers to," Tycon narrowed his eyes.

Barza Keith chose the Lone Shadowdark moniker on his own. As Tycon feared Krysaos would find that fact as absurd as he did, he elected to answer the Captain's question indirectly.

"Mister Lone, I am speaking to you," Tycon took a step forward.

Suddenly, a jolt of danger rattled Tycon's senses, like an arrow hurtling towards his chest. He narrowed his eyes and subtly lowered his stance, ready to fight or flee.

Krysaos had leapt three fulms back, his hand on the hilt of the Heart of the Ocean.

It was... killing intent... for the briefest of moments, so pure and unfiltered that even Krysaos reacted to it.

​ Its origin was Lone... a gentleman that had neither the ability to direct his killing intent with precision nor dissipate it so completely in seconds.

Lone had opened a single eye... absent of a human's iris and pupil. A white sclera, suffused with a glow of magic glared at him intently.

"I am not the Lone you speak of, Tycondrius."

Tycon grimaced. The situation was different than he had realized.

Before him was not the Lone Shadowdark. The weapon spirit within the Swords of the Forgotten King had completely taken control of his mind and body.

The question, then... was how much of the original Lone remained in that shell?

The levitating elf stated his true name-- something that Lone knew, but did not often speak.

Did the weapon share Lone's memories?

...Or was Tycon known from elsewhere?

The elf calmly unfolded his legs, the glowing runes on his chest fading into his skin. He stood tall upon the deck, looking down upon him.

"Yes, I know of you, Maedar," He spoke in a firm voice...

Tycon looked up to meet his gaze, much to his irritation.

It was jarring to hear Lone speak with such... certainty. In different circumstances, Tycon would have been proud of such a development...

"Good morning."

"The goodly beings of this Realm celebrate the rising of each morning sun..." The elf inclined his head with a slight nod, "Thou art qualified to speak with me, if barely. Thus, I grant my permission to thee... to forego kneeling before my presence."

Tycon felt his eye twitch with displeasure. Never before had his royal bloodline only earned him base qualification... "You have... my gratitude."

It was not certainty in the elf's voice, as he'd thought.

It was arrogance.

Tycon had seen the same in the words and actions, shared by all the so-called Elven Ancients he'd met.

"What the f*ck do we call him, then?" Krysaos asked.

As expected, the elf in Lone's body acted as if the human Captain had gone unheard.

Tycon cleared his throat... "And how, may I ask, would you prefer to be addressed?"

He felt it would behoove him to speak in an Elven dialect... but being so obeisant was an annoyance he did not wish to subject himself to.

The elf's white, glowing eyes flashed radiantly with a surge of mana, "I am... Sovereign... the savior of my people. I have heard their desperate cries for help... and have come to this Realm to save them... and the other, lesser beings, hopeless to save themselves."

Krysaos nodded-- with the situation appearing more as a fool than as a respectable Captain of a ship, "So... some sort of king?"

"You understand," The elf nodded. "You may refer to me, then, as King."

Krysaos scoffed to himself and bubbled in Aquan, "(I'm not doing that...)"

Tycon was not keen on the idea, either. However, referring to the elf as 'Lone' was clearly no longer appropriate.

He flicked his wrist and summoned Lone's former effects... a cloak, the dark red gambeson he preferred, as well as his mace and sword.

"These were used previously by your host, master elf," Tycon offered them forward.

As he feared, the eyes of the wolf-headed hammer did not glow. Tres Leches did not acknowledge this King as his wielder. There was little to no sign of Lone remaining...

King took the clothes... "They stink of blood."

"Earned in honorable combat," Tycon assured him.

"They are suitable," The elf nodded.

...Tycon raised an eyebrow in surprise. That was not an answer he expected from an Elven sovereign.

The weapon spirit was unlike the Ancient elves of the current generation. Those elves excelled in archery and the Blade Dance only as an art... a pastime of pleasure from a forgotten era. They, in turn, looked down upon the violent skirmishes waged by the various nations in power.

The Swords of the Forgotten King were spirits of war... thriving in close combat, accustomed to the blood and sweat of the battlefield.

But would those spirits adapt to the current state of the Realm? To crossbows, the force of which were matchless to even the strongest bow archers? To Turathi weapons powered by Orkish Sugar? To the Sleeping Country who fielded swarths of undead in battle formations or to the Kingdom and their cadres of Circle Mages?

Or would they hold onto their primitive traditions?

"I have no use for the human-made weapons, Tycondrius," King stated coolly as he slipped on a sleeved shirt and the gambeson over it. His twin blades hovered by his side, suspended in the air by magic.

"Sea god's socks, this guy is nuts," Krysaos groaned. "Well, if you're not gonna use 'em, I'll take 'em off your hands."

"You already have a powerful enchanted weapon, Brother-Captain," Tycon shook his head, against storing the wolf-hammer and the Shatterspike longsword in his spatial ring.

"Ehe... Oh, yeah. I forgot," The gentleman smiled with chagrin. "Anyroad, let's get this chucklef*ck back to Archangel so we can fix whatever's wrong with his head."

"Archangel?" The elf sneered, "You speak of... a city built by human hands, named for creatures they could only dream of?"

Tycon and Krysaos shared a frustrated look.

"...Yes," Tycon answered.

"How useless," King growled. "No, you will bring me to an Elven city, where I shall gather noble Elven warriors to my cause."

"Hold on. Hold the f*ck on, tough guy," Krysaos yelled in disbelief, "This is my ship and I'm the Captain here!"

"Are you, then?" The elf raised an eyebrow. "Very well. Though the quality of thy ship is sorely lacking, you may yet serve me."

"This... this guy," Krysaos shook his head, finally realizing that arguing against the sovereign's arrogance was useless. "Nevermind. I really don't wanna deal with this right now."

He turned to Tycon, "The sooner we can fix this guy the better... or maybe we should just take the swords to where they need to go..."

"Either option will be fine," Tycon nodded. "If we change course to go directly to Whitehearth, the city is governed by elves and would suit our Elven companion's needs..."

However, in that case... Tycon would have to apologize to Coraline Heartsong later. Her romantic companion, Lone, was dead... and he doubted she would have any interest in what had become of him.

Despite the sour mood, Krysaos adopted a sly grin, "And since you're a passenger and not part of the crew of the Neptune's Revenge, I'll have to ask you ta surrender your weapons."

He was... talking to King?

The unsuspecting Captain reached for the hilts of the floating swords...

Stunned by the human's brazenness, Tycon watched in horror, unable to stop him.

"(INSOLENCE!!!)" King roared, Ancient Elven words of power lighting up the tiny cabin in blinding radiance.

In Krysaos' foolish bid for social dominance, he dared to offend an Elven Ancient. A lethal response was the likely outcome.

King was launching a knife-hand aimed at Krysaos' chest, sheathed with an enchantment that would impale the man through the heart.

Tycon clenched his teeth as adrenaline and mana coursed through his body.

Moving his body as quickly as he could, he shot his hand towards King's arm, hoping to stop or deflect the deadly attack.

« System, activate ⌈Jumping Knee Counter.⌋ »

⟬ ⌈Jumping Knee Counter.⌋ Reaction ability. Targeted ally's physical defenses are improved against a single attack. Target is compelled to make an instantaneous unarmed strike against an enemy with increased accuracy. ⟭