Headed by a Snake

The owner of the estate seemed to think himself a noble in the style of the Kingdom.

Tycondrius was being led to his guest room by a maidservant, her attire traditional to that region.

She refused to meet his gaze, something also dictated by Kingdom tradition.

She said no more than what was necessary, which he found rather droll. He was able to forgive that, though-- it was consistent with 'tradition.'

However, when that whelpling offered an overly enthusiastic 'is there anything else, my lord'... Tycon began to doubt.

--mostly because of the thick, expressly *non-traditional*, cloud of pheremones enshrouding her.

"Have someone wake me for dinner," Tycon waved dismissively. "Tell me where your master entertains his guests."

"Of course, my lord," The servant smiled.

It was a subtle motion, but Tycon noticed the girl straighten her back with pride. Her eyes continued to wander, though-- and, subtle, that was not.

"Master Clayton most often uses the trophy room when meeting with the most illustrious of personages."

"Hm," Tycon nodded. "Very well."

It seemed the servants were trained to sing endless praises of their owner, no matter how awkward.

But was that, too, on behalf of tradition?

...Or was the whelpling wholly unaware that her master did not deserve such treatment?

Weeks prior, Ophelia Moonwell had prepared a document detailing several notable personages based in City-State Whitehearth.

Clayton Smith, the so-called Mercenary King, was not high on the list... but his entry, in particular, Tycon committed to memory.

Mercenaries were relatively common in the eastern territories, their employment pivotal in the early formation of many of their City-States. As such, their reputation was seen as both honorable and lucrative.

The Smith Estate saw that potential early on, purchasing the loyalty of several companies over the better part of three decades.

Thus, it was the Smith Estate that catalyzed the development of the Adventurer's Guild; the non-profit was a stop-gap measure against a mercenary monopoly.

Still... Clayton Smith was a unique existence in the States, able to offer 'competitively priced' services to large, mercenary-seeking organizations.

Those organizations were appeased. The wealth and social power of independent mercenary companies steadily declined. The Smith Estate flourished.

The rabble who swore allegiance to their Mercenary King-- they were not paid well, but they grew so dependent on the Smith Estate that they could scarcely refuse their contracts.

Tycon rested his head on his closed fist.

The house servant praised her master and his meeting hall, but he could not fault her.

It was not her job to know or care who her master invited to entertain.

Greasy merchants who valued saving coin as opposed to trusting in an honorable name? Spineless mercenary leaders willing to enslave themselves to a questionable master for a steady trickle of copper coins?

Tycon found the notion laughable.

"My lord... is something not to your liking?" Asked the servant.

Tycon curiously tilted his head downward. The child had yet to leave.

"Forgive me," He said, shaking his head before forcing his usual smile. "I merely found it amusing."

A deep red bloomed on the servant-girl's face and she averted her gaze.

"My lord... you're... you're different from the others."

"Oh?" Tycon smirked, "You noticed."

"Shall... shall I attend to you while you're resting?" She asked.

The young woman was twirling a finger around a strand of hair... and biting her lower lip.

That combined with the flush remaining on her face-- and that he was trying not to gag on her lustful scent, Tycon discerned that he'd formed a positive impression.

However, he was not in the mood for any sort of 'entertainment.'

Much was on his mind.

Soon, he had to deliver grave news to the nation-representatives he'd summoned.

Besides that, he'd recently suffered another piece of unwelcome news... and though he'd committed a series of mood-lifting murders immediately after, Tycon was in the mood for a nap.

"No. Instruct the kitchens to prepare snacks and refreshments for after-dinner discourse. Also, have the wine watered down for... reasons."

The girl's expression faltered considerably, "I... of-- of course, my lord."

Still, she did not move to leave.

"If I may, Sir... allow me to assist in removing your--"

"Go."

Tycon rolled his eyes, watching the crestfallen child-in-heat depart.

He shut the door... and ensured the girl's presence was gone before he loosed a relaxed sigh.

Finally, he began removing his boots, his gloves, his military coat, and the like...

The room had a garish, full-bodied mirror, the only source of magical spying he sensed in the room.

He turned its front to face a wall and draped his clothes over it.

As he was unbuttoning his long-sleeved shirt, he caught the whiff of a delicious scent.

The guest room held yet another secret.

...Out of curiosity, Tycon inspected what was supposed to be a spherical scale model of the Realm. Pressing a concealed button, it unlatched a mechanism, unveiling a bottle of dark liquor and a single glass.

He removed the cork, which came free with a satisfying pop.

The bottle held malted-grain whiskey, his favorite libation.

It was well-aged... guaranteeing a smoother taste than the more ordinary spirits he often purchased.

His gaze drifted to the bed.

Tycon's decision to sleep had become a dilemma.

He was accustomed to sleeping in miserable conditions... which made the luxury of a well-crafted bed something he held in high regard.

...The current him yearned for quality rest over quality booze.

He had done a great deal of work in the past few suns.

Manslaughter was a tiresome endeavor.

He was exhausted...

His stomach was filled to a decent level of satiety and he had secured shelter and the relative safety therein.

All that was left to crave was sleep... even if only a few bells.

The troublesome task of... saving the Realm-- or something like it, hung over his head.

But he would deal with it after he napped.

Or perhaps... when he woke up, he would decide on something else?

Tycon returned the lovely bottle of wonders to its hiding place. Then, he looked to reset the mechanism that locked it away... which was not as obvious as he hoped.

His scrutiny, however, was interrupted... as he sensed a hostile presence quickly approaching his room.

The double doors burst open, the perpetrator of the clamorous display none other than Natalya Crucis, the Archbishop of the Holy Country.

"In the name of the Eternal Flame, and ALL THAT IS HOLY, WHAT IS GOING ON!??!"

Scarlet red hair. Aesthetically pleasing curves about her body. Radiant mana violently raging all about her.

She was just as beautiful as the sun he last saw her.

As exhausted as Tycon was... he still had the mind to observe proper decorum.

"Lady Crucis," he said with a bow. "You seem upset."

"And WHAT gave you THAT idea?!" She screamed.

There were many observable reasons, one of which being her tone of voice.

--another being her aggressive stance, with the energies sheathing her arms notably shaped into curved blades.

Tycon shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Shut the door, Natalya. The servants can see us."

Two did, in particular.

"Oh, is that the Archbishop? So the esteemed Sir already had someone..."

"Hush yer mouth, child," Another maid scolded. "Master Smith has already--"

The abrupt slamming of the doors shut interrupted their conversation.

The Archbishop, still rather incensed, went on to layer an ⌈Arcane Lock⌋ Spell over the physical one, securing the room against magical and non-magical entry.

Tycon casually walked to Natalya's side, adding his own touch to her Spell Formation. A ⌈Silence⌋ layer would prevent any outsiders from sating their curiosity.

It did not halt the effects of the room's scrying mirror. However, he had nothing to hide. As long as the spell subsisted, any suspicious observers could be at ease.

"I did not give you permission to approach me," Natalya scowled.

"Battle regalia looks good on you, milady."

The Archbishop wore a set of functional padded armor, thick enough to deflect a glancing sword blow. The design, however, accentuated her ample bosom, thus was more appropriate for ceremony than battle.

The cloth was dyed a crimson-red, her favorite color, and accentuated with gold trim as befitting her station.

Natalya also wore dark trousers, well-fit to her form, and of a breathable material. It was better for running, jumping, and performing acts of violence than the flowing gowns often worn by the clergy of the Church of the Eternal Flame.

Also, a sword adorned her hip. It suited her.

Her attire as a whole matched her personality.

Natalya was a woman confident in her role in her Church as well as in her femininity. She did not shy from physical violence-- and would often pose as the aggressor.

There was nothing surprising about her uninvited visit, even despite the fact that a private visit to his personal quarters had certain implications.

"You have gawked for long enough, Snake."

"I disagree," Tycon replied calmly.

He stared a few moments longer, burning her form into his memory as a cheeky act of defiance. Once content, he turned his back and walked away.

"What. do you think. you are. doing?" Natalya demanded through clenched teeth.

"I'm going to bed," Tycon responded lazily.

Suddenly inspired by a stroke of whimsy, he turned back while motioning toward his soft and luxurious goal.

"Natalya, would you like to join me?"