Headed by a Snake

"Look, man! I said I was sorry!" Lone held his empty palms forward. His bumping into this adventurer was purely accidental. They didn't even know each other.

"Sorry? SORRY?!?" The leather-armored man was screaming. He slammed his chest with his hand, "I could've been HURT! What would you do if I tripped and fell? Huh? HUH??"

Lone was getting frustrated. He had already apologized. If this man wanted more than an apology, then he was purposely trying to cause trouble.

Lone gulped and gathered his courage, "I'd probably just walk away."

The man stared at him with furrowed brows, "You'd what?"

Lone repeated himself, raising his voice, "I'd probably walk away! Because I don't FREAKIN' care!!"

Shocked for a moment, the man scowled, "Why you--"

The man flew forward, tumbling several times before smashing into a street-barrel full of refuse. Confused Lone looked to the doorway, seeing Dragan with an outstretched boot, and Tamaki beside him.

"We got the info. Pretty sure we've got the right place, this time," Tamaki explained.

Dragan yawned while picking his ear with his pinky. He pointed at the guy he had kicked, who was dazed, struggling to get to his feet, "Who the hell's that? Friend of yours?"

Lone shrugged, "Not really."

"Wanna kick his ass?" Dragan offered.

"Yeah," Lone admitted. "I think I do."

...

Tycon walked into the slaughterhouse with the young Kimura Taree at his side and a weighted burlap sack over his shoulder. The walls were lined with mold and wood rot, the floors and surfaces covered in splatters of dried blood, "Quaint. I like the decor."

Taree took a deep breath but nearly gagged. She scowled, "It smells gross, Boss."

"It's the sickly-sweet smell of corruption, young lady. Remember it well."

"Smells like weak men," the little girl huffed.

"Be polite, young lady," Tycon wagged his finger. "We're here to talk, not to pick a fight."

"Yes, Boss," Taree obediently fell in behind Tycon, a skip in her step.

No less than a dozen men walked over to surround the two. They were armed with butcher's knives, rusted chains, and meat-hooks. No military weapons? Their equipment was a joke.

"And who in ze seven 'ells are you supposed to be?" A fat, bearded and aproned butcher demanded. The thick accent of the Kingdom's Old Language rolled off the butcher's tongue.

"We're looking for a-- how you say..." Tycon squinted his eyes to think.

"Reynard!" Taree offered.

"Ah, yes. Monsieur Reynard! I don't suppose you... fine young gentlemen have heard about him?"

The men looked around to each other before bursting out into raucous laughter.

Tycon smiled calmly, though Taree crossed her short arms in annoyance.

The butcher's laughter turned to a wicked snarl, "And where did you 'ear of zat name, little boy?!"

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear... How rude!" Tycon appeared shocked, "Namecalling! In this day and age?"

"I know, right?" Taree placed her hand over her chest with her mouth in a tiny o.

Some of the men started to edge forward. A hairy man in a long leather coat leered at Taree with lascivious eyes, "How about you give us ze girl and--"

Tycon snapped his fingers.

Taree punched the man's left knee, forcing it to bend inward at a broken angle. As he struck the floor, Taree slammed her left fist into the man's solar plexus. He stopped moving.

Tycon snapped again, mana surging through Taree's lithe body. She smashed a flying kick against another man's ribs, spinning in mid-air to smash her heel into the man's temple.

She springboarded off of the man's chest to grab the head of a third man.

"Rising STORM!!" she drove her knee into the man's jaw. His teeth crunched, some of them flying loose.

"Rising STOOOORM!!" she drove her opposite knee into the side of his cheek, breaking his cheekbone and collapsing his face.

She landed and turned around as the man behind her collapsed to the floor, convulsing, "Why doesn't anyone take me seriously?"

The brutal display of force made the other thugs hesitate. Tycon directed his golden stare directly at the aproned butcher, smiling joylessly. He decided to use the Old Language, for emphasis, "(I learned of Mister Reynard from a little bird.)"

The golden-eyed youth undid the drawstring on the burlap sack and turned it upside down. The butch and his men watched in disbelief as 8 severed human heads rolled out onto the blooded tile. The boy picked up the last head, "(This beautiful little bird, here. See how he sings.)"

The surrounding thugs began to mumble in the Old Language-- "(Sacred gods, it's Marceau.)" "(He was one of our strongest men.)" "(The boy is a monster!)"

Winding up his arm, Tycon hurled the man's severed head on the wall, splattering blood on the wall like a rancid tomato. Taree watched the movement with indifference, but everyone else in the room was shocked. Not a single one of the thugs was Bronze-Rank or higher.

"I politely asked this... 'Marceau' where I could find Monsieur Reynard."

Tycon closed the gap between him and the butcher, he grabbed the fat man's collar and pulled him down, so they could see eye to eye.

"(Now, will you sing for me, little bird?)"

A door swung open on the opposite side of the large room, prompting Tycon and the fat man to turn their heads.

"W-were under attack!" The man screamed. "He-- he's already taken out a dozen men! We need--"

Before the man could continue, the side of his head was bashed in by a red pole and he collapsed in the doorway. Pale, the 9-year-old boy appeared in the doorway and waved, "Reporting! I haven't found Reynard, yet!"

"Very well!" Tycon yelled back, "I'm asking my new friend."

Tycon looked back to the butcher, "I didn't catch your name, Monsieur?"

The fat man gulped, smiling weakly, "My name is Gilebert, (young master.)"

"Ah, that's right. A fine name," Tycon released Gilebert's collar and smoothed the older man's shirt and apron with his bloody hands.

"Got it! I'll keep looking!" Pale yelled. He dragged the unconscious man out of the doorway and slammed the door shut once more.

Tycon smiled at his new friend, "(Your parents, they were born in the Kingdom, yes)?"

"(Y-yes, young master.)"

"(You look like a very smart man. Your parents must be very proud of you, yes?)"

The older man nodded, sweat dripping from his brow, his knees buckling.

Taree glowered upon smelling the acrid stench of urine spilling onto the floor down the man's legs, "Gross, Boss."

"Anyroad, Monsieur Gilebert. I'd like to make an appointment with Monsieur Reynard. (Will that be a problem?)"

"(No, milord. I'll... I'll let him know.)"

The doors behind Tycon burst open, and he half-turned in annoyance.

Dragan stepped in, greataxe over his right shoulder, a bleeding barrel over his left, "Alright, which one of you cheese-sucking pricks is R-- Oh! Hey, Boss!"

"Too slow, Mister Dragan," Tycon waved.

"Ohh."

Dragan looked to his left. He looked to his right. He looked at the dumbfounded thugs that stood around gawking. He looked at the 3 unconscious thugs downed by Taree's hands. Finally, he looked down at the array of severed heads on the floor, "Ohhhhhh."

From behind Dragan, Tamaki put away the arrow he nocked and Lone resheathed his swords.

"Go back," Tycon groaned. Taree waved excitedly at her brother with blood-covered hands.

Dragan placed the bloody barrel onto the floor, "Well. Boss has got it from here. Let's head to the whorehouse, boys!"

The three left the way they came in. Tamaki shut the door because he was raised properly.

Tycon turned back to his new friend, "Anyway, Monsieur Gilebert. (Where were we?)"

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