289 Pride as a Ranger

Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark charged forward, along with his wolf, Tres Leches.

It was his chance to show Boss Tycon-- to show everyone, the results of his several moons of training in the woods. It would be his first real fight since he ranked up to Iron.

His pride as a Ranger was on the line.

Rushing forward, he grabbed onto his wolf's tail with his off-hand... With an enchanted flash of Tres Leches' crimson mana, Lone drew a fully-formed mace from the wolf's butt.

Two weapons were better than one! Boss said that his endurance was one of his best aspects, and he was trained to swing his arms for hours. The elf seemed like he was pretty skillful-- but everyone got tired eventually, especially as weak as the elf's tiny arms looked.

Lone would win by relying on an unending onslaught of attacks. He wielded a heavy hammer made out of Dark Iron. He had a sword that could literally cut through anything. And he even had his bestest buddy, Tres Leches, attacking on the side.

He leapt up into the air-- an overhead sword going high and when he landed, he'd swing his hammer low. Tres Leches-- he'd do something, too! Three attacks! Like three wolves howling at the moon! That's how his wolf gained his incredibly awesome name.

"⌈Whirl Strike!!⌋" He yelled. Mana empowered his attacks, which would allow him to strike quickly with both weapons while keeping his balance.

"⌈Twin Strike,⌋" The elf muttered.

...Oh. Right. He was a Ranger too.

The elf deflected Lone's Shatterspike with his own sword, then struck Lone's wrist with his scabbard.

Lone landed on the tavern floor, his knee striking painfully against the wood so he wouldn't fall onto his face. Neither of his attacks were successful and he felt his left wrist swelling up terribly. He almost dropped his hammer-- but he was trained to only drop his weapon if he'd died. Tres Leches leapt forward to defend his master.

The elf turned to face the oncoming wolf, not looking at all surprised, "⌈Raptor Strike.⌋"

With a loud metal clang, Felinus' scabbard struck the center of Tres Leches' forehead. The wolf collapsed in a noisy heap.

Lone narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth.

"Shite."

...

The fight was a one-sided beatdown. The elf bashed Lone repeatedly with the unsharpened edge of his sword and gave him several painful whaps with his reinforced, hardened leather scabbard.

Lone was very powerful for a Bronze-Ranker... Gold, however, was... too much for the young man to handle.

The crowd had nothing left for the young man, save jeers and insults.

It was a good run while it lasted. And the elf was polite enough to not kill the young human.

...Though when Lone laid upon the floor, covering the back of his neck with a hand, the elf did continue lazily beating the young man for another several seconds.

Then the elf stopped. His ears twitched. In a flash of mana, Felinus used a movement skill-- Tycon saw the back door open up and the elf escaping, swathed in a blur.

"By the light of the Flame, what is GOING ON??"

The Caerulean Guard entered the tavern, shouting and yelling. Several uniform armored individuals wielding blunt sticks began to detain adventurers trying to escape.

It was time to go.

Tycon wished he had the cognizance to disappear at the same time as the Gold-Rank elf. He had no wish to be the target of Tyrion xenophobia.

Whether Lone was too injured to escape or was too foolish to try, he remained. Or maybe he'd forgotten that he'd committed high-degree treason in insulting the Tyrion High Oracle. The detained adventurers immediately shifted the blame for the disturbance to him and Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark was arrested with great prejudice.

Tycon was questioned as well. He cleverly implied that he had no relationship with the treasonous fellow, though he did have his wagered winnings reviewed. Apparently, betting was illegal if the pool of coin grew beyond a certain amount. Such large amounts were reserved for nation-run gambling: arena fights and racing events at the local coliseum.

He expected to have to bribe the guards but was pleasantly surprised when they released him, his winning intact. They let him off with a warning-- and a reasonably polite one, considering the circumstances.

Lone's weaponry was confiscated and the young man was carted off in chains.

Tycon watched him taken, feigning an expression of indifference.

...Happy Name-day, Lone Shadowdark.

He would be meeting with the Archbishop in a few days... Tycon hoped she was a magnanimous individual. She was his best hope for Lone being released.

...

A few suns later, Tycondrius met with Archbishop Natalya Crucis at the local eatery. His main quest in the Holy Country of Tyrion had to do with her. His main goal in his transmigrated life was to complete the three quests for Rylania, the Queen of Stone. He wouldn't think beyond that until they were complete. The quests were trouble, enough.

⟬ Natalya Crucis, Gold-Rank Human Hallowed Summoner. ⟭

She was a tall, mature woman who appeared even taller with the hat atop her head, part of her... holy uniform, as it were. She removed it upon entering the premises, revealing lively crimson hair tied into a ponytail.

Her forehead appeared quite large because of it, but her face was symmetrical and did not easily reveal her age. Her uniform revealed her arms and adhered to her curves, proving that she did not neglect her physical training.

Tycon reasoned that she was reasonably attractive, especially for one in her station. Good for her.

He stood up to greet her, exchanging pleasantries... but the sneer of disgust never left her face.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Archbishop," Tycon bowed deferentially.

The Archbishop was more-or-less a Princess in status. His actions showed his sincerity.

The woman groaned and rolled her eyes, "Sit down, Tycondrius of Charm."

She was being rude, but Tycon was here to ask for a favor... even if that favor was... to ask to perform a favor for her.

"Thank you, your Holiness."

"Spare me, Irvhir." Natalya sat down, oozing the snobbery and self-importance as her rank allowed.

Tycon felt his eyebrow twitch at the Archbishop's terminology.