Headed by a Snake

Chapter 1057 Krysaos the Diplomat

Krysaos led Tycon to a few rickety rotwood tables outside of a small eatery. It was right on the docks, so they didn't have to go far and, obviously, the owner wasn't around to complain.

He'd spent some time earlier dressing up the most-intact table with the least-filthiest tablecloth he could find. He also managed to scrounge up a pair of wooden bowls, an oyster-shucking knife, and a couple of other things he thought appropriate for the 'Grand Commander' of the Wyrmslayer Alliance.

Personally, he was hoping Tycon would comment on the decor.

--or rather, Krysaos hoped he'd avoid commenting on the fishrot stench common to every dock in the Realm.

And the first words Tycon said were:

"Krysaos, you must try the oysters with this sauce."

Because, of course, that's where his priorities lied. The LT might have been the perfect guy to save the Realm, but he was probably only doing it because the Realm had decent chow.

As soon as Tycon had sat down, he started summoning food-related stuff out of his spatial ring at random.

A knife. An oddly small chopping board. Fresh herbs. lemons and peppers. Clay jars filled with sloshing liquids.

A suspicious paper square that contained some kind of paste...

Everything Tycon took out had a use... and eventually made their way into four tiny bowls.

--one of which, he pushed forward for Krysaos to try.

...It also looked like it was made of the cheapest stuff.

"What's in it?" Krysaos asked.

"Finely minced Tyrion shallots, freshly cracked black pepper imported from the Tempest Isles; and a crisp, white vinegar made at my mother's estate in Charm."

Nevermind. It was not cheap. It was not cheap, at all.

"...I'll try it."

Krysaos had seen the guy murder dozens of people without as much as batting his unfairly long eyelashes. But when it came to food... he was like some kind of pervert.

Not even ten minutes into the meal, Tycon had gone through half the stew pot and most of an oyster crate.

It made Krysaos wish he got three crates instead of two.

--or maybe even four.

The Tyrion sauce, among the others, was pretty good. Krysaos wasn't sure if he liked it more than just plain lemon and chili-pepper sauce-- but even that was more extravagant than he was used to.

--but ANYroad!

Krysaos grabbed the edges of the table and leaned over.

"Alright, LT. We gotta talk."

Tycon drained another bowl of clam stew before taking his handkerchief to the corners of his mouth, "Yes, go ahead, Krysaos. Hesitation does not behoove a leader."

Krysaos sat back down, clenching his fists in his lap. It was easy to say something like that... but the things he needed to discuss...

"I've... been thinking about ways we could survive this," he said.

The arrival of the Tyrant God.

The Dragon War.

The Cataclysm.

Krysaos had stolen the divinity of a god, so he basically felt what was going on in his blood and bones.

The Realm was about to get cata-clyzed... and he didn't like just *how* certain he felt about that.

Tycon was wearing that subtle, all-knowing smile of his-- the one he had when he was in a really good mood.

He must have really liked the oysters.

"I'm open to ideas, Sea God," he said, "especially any constructive criticism, if you've any to offer."

Tycon then opened the second crate of oysters using just his fingers.

Seven hells. The guy wasn't that strong, last they traveled together.

"So hear me out, Tycon," Krysaos leaned in close, like he was about to share a deep dark secret, "You and me, LT, we're probably the two most persuasive fella's in the Realm."

"...Go on."

Was that interest? That sounded like interest! With their wits, his own natural charm, and Tycon's beauty and average to above-average luck, Krysaos was confident in the two of them weaseling their way out of the whole war!

"I'm willing to bet, knowing who you are, that you know who's who... So tell me: who do we gotta talk to?"

Tycon lightly inclined his head, "Talk, Krysaos?"

Ah. That didn't look good. Worried that he was losing the Commander's interest, Krysaos picked up the pace, spitting out all his ideas before Tycon could get up and leave.

"Here's the plan!" he said, "We cede one or two of the enemy's demands. We show some domineering power to show we can't be f*cked with-- maybe we even beat up a f*cktard or three. But all that'll be just a show-- because *then,* we'll put a ceasefire on the table! Then, we make a deal. And THEN we all go home at the end of the sun!"

Tycon took in a deep breath. It was a shite sign if Krysaos had ever seen one.

That made him remember-- or maybe something divine or deific reminded him, that Tycon had this weird, medusa-bloodline.

That guy.

He really, really, *really* did not like dragons.

"The enemy," Tycon started.

"Look, guy-- I get it," Krysaos waved, "Bloodline prejudice, right? I get that. But let's look at the big picture, guy. There's a whole lotta regular people that're gonna take the field. No one wants so many folks to be offed like that? So the best solution is to find a compromise!"

Krysaos flashed a cunning and (hopefully persuasive) smile.

"I know it won't be easy, but the odds have always been against us. Let's do this-- you and me against the world."

He knew he was being overly optimistic. He didn't *really* know how to negotiate in the world of high politics. But he did know how to make deals with drunks, thieves, and pirates.

It couldn't have been all that different, really.

"...Us against the world, indeed," Tycon said, shaking his head. "Krysaos, were you aware that the lizards have Domination Mages in their employ?"

...Krysaos squinted his eyes, real small.

"C-come again?"

Tycon took in a slow breath before sighing almost dismissively.

"Notwithstanding the divine strength and will the Tyrant God bestows on its lackeys... the lizards are a particularly loathsome foe on account of their Domnation Magics. Their effectiveness is especially potent on those resistant to high-tier mental attacks, notably the elven bloodlines and... winged lizard descendants."

Krysaos felt his heart drop to the pit of his gut. He had a feeling Tycon wasn't trying to make him feel like shite, but that's how it ended up.

A controversial order he'd heard earlier in the sun had suddenly made a lot more sense. There were a lot of elves in Whitehearth, including most all of its leadership. But there was a huge commotion when all the elves were removed from the front lines and relegated to support roles in the rear echelons.

"Tycon," Krysaos frowned... "Can the enemy's Domination Mages... take whole armies?"

"Technically, yes," Tycon said, pursing his lips. "The enemy's standard forces comprise regular, sensible troops. However, from intelligence reports and after personal f*cking experience, I have determined the enemy's entire chain of command to be predisposed to pleasuring lizard genitalia-- and if not by force of magic, then by their own f*cking, selfish wills."

Still, Krysaos was undeterred.

"...You sure, guy?"

"Is that a real question?" Tycon scowled.

Whoops. It *was* a question, but it was a pretty stupid one. Tycon had a pretty nasty temper. He must have been having it especially bad, because not even food kept him appeased to a normal level.

"Sounds like you're sure," Krysaos said, sucking air through his teeth, "But listen... the world's about to end, LT. Is there something we haven't thought of? A different way than a head-on battle?"

Tycon steepled his fingers, thinking real hard on whatever he was thinking.

"...As long as the Tyrant God lives," he said, "it will continue to impart its Divine Fervor to its followers. We can assume that the enemy leadership and their Drake Armor pilots cannot be bargained with. They'll fight with neither fear nor hesitation as their god commands."

Krysaos inaudibly cursed his socks. The Drake Armors were easily the most devastating war weapons the enemies had. Their side had more than a few Divine Armors from Tyrion, but the enemy surely had between five and ten times the amount.

"And if all those guys are willing to fight to the death, that severely limits our options," Krysaos growled... "Then... what are our chances of... killing the lizard god? It's not like it's the *actual* lizard god."

They weren't fighting a true god on their divine homeground. With how strong that thing was, the Laws made it so the best it could do was send down an avatar of itself to the mortal Realm. So, following the logic, it probably had mortal-Realm-type weaknesses!

Nothing lasted forever. All things came to an end. That was a Divine Law!

"Our chances are infinitesimal," Tycon shrugged. "But we must. So we will."

"...F*ck," Krysaos cursed. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

"My sentiments, exactly," Tycon remarked. He had just finished the last of the clam stew.

Krysaos felt his eye twitch. He had failed to pour himself a bowl, mistakenly thinking he would've had more time.

But... there was no point whining about something that was gone.

What was important was the present and their actions from that point onward.

"...But if I know you, LT," Krysaos said, "In the case things get outta hand... I'm willing to bet you've got some kind of secret weapon or contingency plan perfect for turning the tide."