Headed by a Snake

Tyrion. The Holy Country.

The nation valued honor and righteousness. The empires of old touted the glory of humankind.

Granted, these values also propagated the eradication of 'lesser peoples' and an illogical sense of arrogance amongst the Tyrion people.

Still, sportsmanship and tolerance for their fellow humans was a reasonable expectation.

Tycondrius assumed the speaker would be someone from Caeruluem-- the Head Magistrate, perhaps. However, in the presiding official's box, he saw the crimson-armored form of Archbishop Natalya Crucis.

A wrenching dread roiled in his gut. That woman was very good at... inconveniencing him.

He did notice something peculiar about Natalya's presence. Standing at her side... shrouded in a dark cloak and hood, was a very familiar dwarf.

Tycon knew him as 'Hark.'

What was he doing there?

Archbishop Crucis slammed the base of her staff against the floor where she stood in the overseer's box, amplifying her voice to a thunderous boom, "Sons and daughters of Tyrion!! HEAR ME!!!"

"WE HEAR YOU!!!" The crowd shouted.

"Do you see this?" She asked, "These... *people* dare to contest us on our soil? To tread on our SACRED TYRION sands?? ...It's a joke! I am INSULTED!!"

...Tycon did not like where this speech seemed to be heading.

"Our Tyrion is the mightiest nation in the Realm! The march of our legions has melted the snow in Nemaya! Our silver swords have purged the evil Lycans in the Free Nation! The Eastern States struggle to emulate OUR weapons and armor, superior to their pathetic nation for thousands of years before their savage states banded together for warmth!!

"Our spears! Our arrows! They blot out the sun!

"Our shields, unified, are an unstoppable wall of death, destruction, and total annihilation!!

"We stand united in our TENS. OF. THOUSANDS!! Our WEAPONS are without END!! Our PURITY without QUESTION!!! Our very souls sing of our FAITH! Our COURAGE!!

"Zenon Skyreaper!!! Athanasius Mors!!! GUILD LETALIS!!!! YOU WILL NOT FAIL, ON THIS SUN!!!"

That... was not the type of speech Tycon had expected. He was assuming-- hoping for a nice, polite talk about the spirit of competition or fairness or honor.

He was so, very wrong.

The roar of the crowd was deafening. The Tyrions raised their arms, they stomped their feet, they shouted themselves hoarse.

Popoto Potata Pota stood on her own chair, making embarrassing noises. Even Athena was cheering her loudest, screaming how much she loved Tanamar, except not 'like that' --whatever that meant.

Tycon began to sweat profusely as the Archbishop's eyes met his. She was looking directly at him. She knew he was here. And she knew that Tycon knew that she knew.

Empty. Night.

Tycon took a deep breath to calm himself.

He hastily scanned his surroundings for an exit. If he needed to escape quickly, he would do so before he was captured. He could get to the rest of Letalis outside the city and warn them to flee... and hopefully, Natalya wouldn't crucify the entire guild.

With his exit strategy formed, Tycon then analyzed Zenon and Tanamar's opponents... a duo team hailing from the Free Nation.

A gaunt and sickly looking adventurer stood at the side and back to his companion. He wore only a pair of tattered trousers that went down to his knees, revealing black runic patterns inked on all surfaces of his taut, leathery skin-- fully devoid of hair. Leather bands covered both his eyes and mouth, effectively making the gentleman blind and mute.

The highest level of the Caeruleum Martial Tournament was no place for a fighter to truly have such handicaps... Tycon hoped that the Letalis team would not underestimate the bald fellow.

⟬ Iron-Rank Human Deathshaper. ⟭

The other fighter strode up to the center of the sandy arena. The man had dark hair, stained with a streak of white. Tycon surmised it was either from a touch of death magic or... a unique style choice. The fellow wore a long red coat, his muscled chest bared to the crowd. He might have even been considered handsome...

Tycon was not a good judge of such things.

The man smiled, bowing towards the officials' box before raising his voice, "Archbishop Crucis! I, Maboc of the Blackroot Clan, have a request!!"

⟬ Maboc, Iron-Rank Human Riftwalker. ⟭

Tycon narrowed his eyes. The man had an illogically high level of confidence to be able to call out Natalya, as he did.

In the Free Nation... an Iron-Rank did not approach a higher Rank adventurer without showing ample respect. There were many factors: family, adventuring company, Warband... but personal strength was the most relevant.

Natalya was likely the most powerful Gold-Rank currently in Ezyria. Speaking so brazenly posed him more risk than reward.

...What was he hiding?

Tycon was vaguely familiar with the Blackroots. They were a smaller Warband from the northern, harsher, and less populated regions of the Free Nation... Garock and the Screaming Silence Hidden Sect made their homes there.

If he remembered correctly, they were known for practicing... darker magics. Or at the very least, their style of magic and body-transmutation would not be looked at kindly in the Holy Country.

Natalya looked down into the arena, sneering in disgust, "And why would *I* deign to do so?"

Maboc raised his arms, addressing the crowd, "The Free Nation sought the assistance of the Holy Country to purge the Lycanthrope Plague from our lands! My nation is indebted to yours! We only wish to prove our strengths-- that your faith is not misplaced."

The crowd grew quiet.

Tycon thought for certain that he'd see a human explode, based purely on how hard the Archbishop was glaring.

"Do not... EVER question the faith of a Tyrion, Maboc of the Blackroot Clan." Natalya growled. "Speak... dog of the Free Nation."

Maboc grinned... The shamelessness of it looked as if he'd just feasted on a bucket full of shite and was about to ask Natalya for more.

"Archbishop! I request that I and my companion, Gruffydd, be granted permission to utilize the Free Nation's witchcraft!!"

The crowd erupted into boos and shouts and mockery. Maboc was unaffected by their taunting, brazenly meeting Archbishop Crucis' murderous gaze.

It was troublesome, the way Maboc had performed his request so publicly. Natalya had spoken so much about her Tyrion pride that refusing the mage would be akin to admitting weakness.

...Maboc was playing the villain. And Tyrions had an unfortunate cultural weakness in that only they could be the heroes of their stories.

The man was an idiot, trying to prove something to people who have no intention of listening.

...and if that idiot half-succeeded, Tycon would be tied to a cross and paraded across Caeruleum.

To that end, Tycon desperately hoped that Natalya would refuse.

"Your heretical magic is *nothing* before the might of Tyrion's finest," Natalya scoffed. "Very well, witch!! Cast your spells and know despair. Our Eternal Flame is superior to your tens and hundreds of pathetic gods."

Of course, she'd accept it. That was very inconvenient.

Maboc bowed at the waist, "Strength is proved in battle! Not by words!! Hear me, citizens of the Holy Country!! When we defeat your heroes, know that the men and women of the Free Nation are your EQUALS!!"

The man's speech was both honorable and righteous. Still, Tycon hoped they would lose miserably... and preferably, as quickly as possible.

...

Tanamar stood a dozen paces away from Maboc... Zenon standing the same distance away from the bony and malnourished Gruffydd.

Both of his opponents looked like trash. Still, they had been undefeated in the tournament, so far... even going as far as crippling the last team they fought against.

And they didn't use magic for that.

Apparently, the two Free Nation warriors used blunt weapons provided by the coliseum.

In this match, they were both unarmed.

Tanamar's System let him know their classes... Deathshaper and Riftwalker...

It told him almost nothing. They were probably magic users, just based on the names... but even that was just a guess.

He and Zenon were fighting with a disadvantage. They knew nothing about their opponents. Their opponents knew everything about them, just based on their previous matches.

Flame take it... He wished his System's Analysis function worked outside of Dungeons. He hated not knowing what his opponents could do.

He almost wished he could ask Tycon. That guy always seemed to know something he didn't... a little annoying, sometimes, but useful more often than not.

"You sure do talk a lot..." Tanamar scowled.

"It's just a show, Holy Lancer Athanasius Mors," Maboc shrugged. He swept back his dark hair, allowing the white streak to fall beside an eye.

"Our honor's on the line," Zenon growled. "It's not just a show to us."

"Honor~ Righteousness... Purge, cleanse, kill," Maboc mocked, laughing quietly to himself... "Haha... You Tyrions are so boring."

"Mmmph!!" Gruffydd added.

"Lancer Athanasius," Maboc smirked. "My companion wishes to inform you that he plans to stretch out your virgin arsehole."

Threats. They were a sign of a weaker man.

Zenon frowned, "These guys aren't taking us seriously, Tanamar..."

Tanamar nodded back... "They'll pay for their arrogance."

Maboc pulled a suspicious red crystal from one of his side-pouches, just as his duo, Gruffydd did the same.

"Hehehe..." Maboc chuckled, "I suppose we'll take you seriously from hereon."

What in the hells were those?

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⟬ Khyber Crystal: A volatile mana stone, harvested from demon-tainted creatures. ⟭