Headed by a Snake

"HMMMM," Stephanos crossed his heavy metal arms, "Those don't look like birds. They don't look like birds, AT ALL!!"

Tycon took a deep breath. Then he took another. Still, the urge to pick up fallen debris and smash it against the Idiot's horned head abated only slightly.

"Correct," He grumbled.

He feared that, in trying to say more, he would act in a manner atypical of a gentleman.

"Say... Brother-Tycon," The gorgon mumbled.

"What is it, Brother-Stephanos?" Responded the snake.

"I don't feel like fighting anymore."

"Granted."

Tycon began walking back to his Centurion, "Come, Brother-Zenon. The three of us must away, lest the forces of heaven decide to grace us with their presence."

"Tycon!" Stephanos shouted, "What... the HELLS is that?!"

Tycon felt his eye twitch again. Yes, some angels were nothing but magical elements and a wide assortment of body parts from a larger assortment of mundane creatures, but Stephanos had surely seen...

Oh.

Looking up, Tycon saw the skybound angels falling to the ground, one by one.

"Zenon..."

The human had taken off his helmet and was also looking up, "Yeah, Optio?"

"You neglected to mention you got in contact with Mister Kanbrai."

Kanbrai was an adventuring Tyrion house cat... an orange tabby, in particular. He was also one of Tycon's strongest trump cards... another transmigrator similar to Tanamar and himself... who seemed to be far stronger than either of them.

Zenon nodded... "Y-yeah... I did. But I didn't report it because I wasn't sure if he was going to show up."

"Well," Tycon smirked. "It looks like he's more than paid me back for that favor."

"That... that cat," Stephanos muttered with a shaky voice.

"Yep," Zenon answered. "He does."

"It... it has wings, doesn't it?" The bull-centaur bellowed, "Seven hells, it's... some sort of freak!"

Tycon narrowed his eyes and glared towards the gorgon, "Stephanos, you do realize you're a bull-human-centaur-fish-scorpion?"

"Fish?" Zenon asked.

"Well, YEAH!" Stephanos crossed his arms. "But the difference is that I'm REAL... not a mythical Gaelicat!!"

Tycon shook his head, electing not to argue.

Kanbrai's presence had lifted much of the pressure on the Letalis main body as they escaped. Still, the city was ruined. The operation was an overall success. Tycon would ask Zenon to order a full withdrawal.

...

Tycon shot awake, sitting up in his bed and rubbing his eyes.

He was in the middle of something... in whatever dream he was having. It seemed important.

He tossed off his silk covers and stood up, stretching. He wasn't wearing any clothes, as he was in the safety of his own home-- not out adventuring in the field.

It was the most comfortable way to sleep, considering the generally warm weather.

...Tycon furrowed his brows.

Something was wrong.

He sharpened his senses and looked about his room.

Near the door was his bookcase full of military doctrine, most of them in the Tyrion language. On the walls were tattered banners and knickknacks he had taken from defeated warbands. In the corner of his room was a neglected string instrument that he never cared to learn.

Nothing *seemed* amiss. Everything was as he remembered it. Everything was... normal... and painfully so.

He walked to the open balcony and looked upon his mother's territory... Charm. The pebble beaches were as he remembered. The scent of the salty sea air filled him with nostalgia. The familiar buildings below were all built with light-colored stones, roofed with red tiles... reminiscent of how his people lived hundreds of years ago, in the Holy Country.

He was home.

That was wrong.

It was a place he had only been in his memories...

« System, inquiry: Where the hells am I? »

⟬ System response: The host is in a Reality Marble, a recreation of the capital city of Charm. ⟭

« ...Thank you. »

⟬ You're welcome. ⟭

Seven hells.

Another Reality Marble.

It seemed everywhere Tycon had gone had a new mage capable of creating one. Maybe that was a common occurrence in this Realm? From what he knew, it should not have been.

« System, I'd like to leave this place. »

⟬ Exiting... Access denied. ⟭

Tycon sighed and shook his head. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy.

« System, change settings: ...Recreate my spatial ring and its contents. »

⟬ System response: Settings are locked and require administrator access. ⟭

That... would not do. That would not do, at all.

« ...System, brute-force whatever user-input sequence is necessary to get me access. »

⟬ Activating brute-force protocol in the background... ⟭

Anxiety filled Tycon's cold, reptilian heart. He needed his equipment... his swords, his Arcanite armor, his speed-increasing boots, his crossbow and poisoned bolts...

« System, prioritize the protocol. »

⟬ Understood. Diverting mana towards process. ⟭

With the abrupt change, Tycon found it more difficult to breathe. He spent a moment catching his breath, readjusting to so much of his passive mana being redirected.

He felt vibrations at the door... someone was about to enter. He quickly righted his posture, crossed his arms, and wore a scowl to mask the dull pain in his head.

A maidservant with a light-brown ponytail entered his room, light blue scales on her neck and the outside of her arms. Upon meeting Tycon's gaze, her jaw dropped and she nearly released her weapon of choice-- a wooden broom.

If she were human, he would have judged her to be just-over twenty years of age.

She was not.

"P-p-prince Tycondrius!" The woman placed her hand below her neck as she sighed in relief... then she furrowed her brows and glared, "So you've returned."

The woman was familiar to him... her scent, her stern voice, and her judgmental eyes.

Still... she was different than in Tycon's memories.

Her dress was covered with fine embroidery, the material not at all durable, as would be expected of a servant. Though medusae age gracefully, she wore scentless makeup to hide her imperfections. Further, she wore painted nails and golden jewelry on her neck, ears, and wrists.

Tycon was in his home territory... in his mother's estate, that was certain.

However, If his hypothesis was correct... he was not in a recreation of the past... but a recreation of the present.

He felt a chill run down the length of his spine.

If this woman was here... who else was in the palace?

",