429 Stop, Drop, & Roll

Weaponmaster Bannok narrowed his eyes for a brief moment, an internal struggle clear in his eyes. He breathed a heavy sigh, his gaze focused elsewhere... "I've heard of them... once. The last words on a heretic's lips before I ended his miserable life."

The denizens of the Command Tent grew quiet... even Felinus paused his rote maintenance, his Elven ears twitching to hear. 

"You folks know about the Oathbreaker, yeah?" Bannok's voice practically dripped with loathing. 

Tycon nodded solemnly. Bannok spoke of a traitor of Tyrion... the greatest Champion of the Snake Cult. He was a man who led the most successful violent revolt against the Church of the Eternal Flame in modern times. 

Bannok continued... "After the prick got his head separated from his neck, they buried what was left of him in the Halls of the Dead Snake-- even going as far as worshipping him like a god. Seven hells, he might be down there, f*cking off as a headless ghost."

"I see..." Tycon shut his eyes, taking a breath. While such news was foreboding, it would not sway them from their mission. Even facing such a daunting foe, the path to victory would be paved by the bodies of their own. 

It was practically Tyrion military doctrine. 

Tycon allowed himself a smirk, "Then we are merely fighting ghosts of the past."

Bannok nodded, still deep in thought... "And these ones deserve no mercy."

...

When Tycon returned to the Guild Letalis camp, there were visitors... one welcome and the others not-so-much. 

Elven Hunter Felinus had silently stalked him. He did not hide particularly well-- as an elf, the gentleman could disappear nigh completely if he wished to. Naturally stealthy, the only adventurers capable of tracking him were himself and perhaps the two mages with aura-sense, Zenon and Athena. 

As the elf was no danger, Tycon turned his attention to the others.

Stormbrands. 

Led by the travesty of color that was Reaver Tancred and the open-coat, wispy-haired chest of Cleric Occam, Guild Stormbrand had created an impromptu arena out of rocks. They seemed to be holding public duels adjacent to his Letalis tents. 

"Who wants a PIECE of ORCUS! GOD OF BATTLE!!!" Tancred shouted, banging a gauntleted fist against his chestplate, "Step right up and get your arse handed to you, by yours truly!!"

The action reminded Tycon of a bird clanging rocks together to attract a mate... and it appeared that none of the females in Letalis, Snowy Village, and the other nearby guilds appeared interested. 

"Sure, I'll fight!" 

Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark stepped forward, presumably to get his arse handed to him. 

Seven hells. 

"I'll take him!!" Occam sneered stepping into the ring before Tancred could, "You look pretty weak, Fish!"

...Occam was particularly observant to sense weakness... not that Tycon considered it so difficult. 

Lone pursed his lips, "My name's not Fish, it's Lone."

"It's an insult, Mister Lone!" Athena shouted. 

Was she trying to be helpful? It was a strange time to do so. 

"Kick his butt!" The young lady added. 

...Tycon would assume she meant well. 

"Oh. I'm not a fish, then," Lone opened his arms wide, tilted his head, and bared his teeth in a grin. "I'm... I'm a frog in a well, destined to become... a toad... a TOAD THAT EATS FISH!!"

"You got a lot of talk," Occam laughed, gesturing Lone towards him. "How about you talk with your fists, like a man?"

"Oh, I've got lots more to say," Lone sneered arrogantly, pointing his chin forward. "And I'll say it with my SWORD!"

Lone drew his strongest weapon, the Shatterspike... a magical blade capable of cutting through even Tyrion steel. 

...The blade was stolen from Seldin Korr, who was literally standing nine fulms away. 

"My blood is boiling hot!!" Lone declared. 

Occam took a step back, his eyes furrowed in confusion, "What the..."

Lone was aflame. Literally. 

Tycon lamented the situation. He was fairly certain that Lone could have defeated Occam in single martial combat. Unveiling his sword led to his unfortunate loss before the fight even began. 

The young Ranger began to scream, trying desperately to pat out the fires. 

Seeming to understand the situation, Occam relaxed his shoulders. Removing a small paper cylinder from an inner coat pocket, he placed it in his mouth and used the panicking, flaming Ranger to light it. 

"Thanks."

"Stop, drop, and roll, Mister Lone!!!" Athena shouted... "Stop, drop, and rollllll!!!"

She turned to Duelist Ptolema at her side... "We learned that at the Academy. Never thought it'd be useful, though."

Tycon shook his head before shouting for assistance, "Mister Lawrence!!" 

Heavy Gunner William Lawrence, the physically largest member of Guild Letalis stepped into the ring, thick heavy boots clomping against the ground. The heaviest-armored combatant amongst them, Lawrence wore thick metal plates over chainmail, and a full helmet adorned with ox-horns. 

Cleric Occam straightened his back, keeping his distance from Lawrence as he sauntered towards Lone. Wise. 

Unlike Tyrion sculpted muscle cuirasses, Letalis' armor sets were made in the Dwarven style, which curved outward to deflect weapon strikes instead of guiding them into the indentations. All that together made Lawrence look less like a human exemplar... but more like an unfeeling, impenetrable fortress of darkened steel. 

Most intimidating about him was the massive, double-barreled scattergun hanging from a strap over his chest. Its power was similar to a ship cannon, thrice its size. 

"I'm sorry, Mister Lone," Ever polite, the large gentleman apologized through the echo of his helmet. 

"Just-- just help me! Ahhhh!!!" 

Without another word, Lawrence began to mercilessly stomp out the flames covering the young Ranger-- as stopped, dropped, and rolling as he was. 

Tycon found the result acceptable. If anyone was going to defeat one of his Letalis warriors, it would be... another Letalis member.