619 Troia’s Ques

In it, Krysaos (actually Sea Wolf Sect Leader Lang Hai) made a futile attempt to commandeer the ship of Guillaume De la Croix, Chantal's father and her predecessor. However, in Krysaos' version, he was successful, reducing Guillaume to a caricature of the storied hero he was. 

The mutiny resulted in exuberant worship from Chantal... and he described her oversized breasts in fantastic detail. 

He also strongly implied that he laid with her and that her sexual prowess was only, by his words, 'so-so'. 

Krysaos then went on to boast that he had used guile and superior swordsmanship to defeat and kill all the old, monstrous High-Captains under Guillaume's command... eventually banishing the Fleet Admiral to live the rest of his short life ashore and in shame. 

In actuality, Guillaume was assassinated... and the High-Captains were killed while attempting to hunt down the most likely culprit, High-Captain Liang Qiang. 

"Blood and thunder," Tycon whispered. 

From what he knew, Chantal still had yet to find her father's murderer. If Tycon chanced upon that plot, he could appreciate having a favor from a Fleet Admiral in his pocket... 

"Niiiiice," Upon reaching the camp, Krysaos grabbed a bedroll, unrolled it, and made himself comfortable. 

He just... laid there... still covered in the perspiration, blood, and muck from the previous battle... allowing it all to... soak into the cloth. 

In the not-so-distant future, the stench would be abhorrent. 

...Tycon was glad that he kept his own bedroll in his spatial ring. 

"So you're an adventurer... and you're on some kinda quest?" Krysaos asked.

"That's the gist of it, yes."

"And what's the deal with that guy?" The stubble-chinned human gestured to the unconscious fellow lying against a tree. "He dead?"

"That," Tycon looked over, "is a gentleman companion of... ours."

"Our crew, you mean," Krysaos added. 

"Right. Also, he is still breathing, so perhaps..."

Krysaos had gotten off of the bedroll and was rifling through the pockets of Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark. He looked back to Tycon with his usual grin-- "Aha. Sorry. Old habits."

Was he a Buccaneer or a Thief? 

"There's nothing good, anyroad," Krysaos shrugged. 

He was a Thief. 

Krysaos leaned over, examining the bronze-skinned human with greater interest, "What did him in?"

"Curse magic. Elven artifact," Tycon shook his head, "And the quest is to bring said artifact to safety, while also discovering the way to dispel the curse."

Krysaos suddenly jerked away, confusion on his face... "H-hey, Tycon. I think I just saw his skin move-- like on his face."

"Like... a grub into a roach?" Krysaos clicked his tongue... "Why's he got one long ear and a normal one?"

"The curse magic is volatile," Tycon explained. "The magic will even out eventually." 

That is what he hoped, anyroad. 

"Sounds like a good story," Krysaos grinned. "Care to tell me about it, First Mate Tycon?"

Tycon pursed his lips. It seemed he had gained a new title. 

"I'll try to summarize..."

...

⟬ Cersei's Rest, High Oracle Troia's Office, six suns prior. ⟭ 

"With all due respect, young lady, I wholeheartedly refuse!"

Decanus Tychon raised his voice as he abruptly stood out of his seat, causing Croesa to flinch. 

Serving as High Oracle Troia's interpreter, she was used to dealing with wealthy, entitled Bishops and Centurions. But still... being in the office of the High Oracle... not to mention the presence of Lady Troia herself was usually enough to keep them calm... to keep them professional. 

The man they were dealing with, though... 

He was different. 

Decanus Tychon didn't carry himself like a military leader... or even a self-serving merchant. He spoke to Lady Troia like an equal... 

Croesa always wore pigtails in her hair, so people told her she looked young... and most Decani were at least over twenty. That meant... she and Tychon should be about the same age! 

Why was he so rude?!

She didn't understand this man... not at all. 

The green-haired man across from Troia's desk sat back down, his arms crossed... "Troia," you are already taking one of the strongest members of my Sol Invictus away." 

The young boy in blue armor at Tychon's side raised his hand, smiling sheepishly... "Boss... I volunteered to go."

Croesa sighed and shook her head. Spear Hero Pale was only a few years younger than she was... but he was far more reasonable and respectable than most adults. 

It made no sense to how he could be so polite, when his superior was so... not that. 

"Not now, young man," Tychon waved Pale silent, "And don't forget, young lady-- you are already holding my daughter hostage!"

Croesa frowned. 

If anything, that was a reason for Decanus Tychon to acquiesce to Lady Troia's quest. Instead, he was trying to leverage that fact in his argument. 

A flustered High Oracle flashed several gestures in rapid-fire, defending herself. 

Croesa translated-- that was her job, "But... Miss Sasha is... she's studying to be a sanctified Oracle."

She wrung her hands nervously, refusing to meet Tychon's gaze-- even hiding behind Lady Troia's chair for extra security, "Y... you submitted her application, yourself... Sir."

The Decanus was seething, and Croesa could swear he could hear him gnashing his teeth, "Young lady, you are asking me to deliver a dangerous set of artifacts to the Eastern States. That... is directly opposite of where I need to go."

High Oracle Troia sighed, leaning forward in her seat. 

Croesa whispered her translation... "The Swords of the Forgotten King must be sealed by Elven magics... or else..."

"--Yes, yes. Else some terrible prophecy will be fulfilled," Tychon interrupted. "Fire. Brimstone. Giant lizards..." 

The frustrated Decanus groaned like a spoiled child before burying his face in his hands. 

Most Tyrions found it an honor to work for the High Oracle... especially for something so high-profile like one of her prophecies. 

If anything... they should at least be terrified of her. No one in Tyrion was stronger than High Oracle Troia, the wielder of Divine Armor Dawnbringer.