Troia dipped her head, bringing her hands up in a panic, [Why are you angry?]
"I'm *not* angry," Tycondrius pursed his lips.
[You're a little angry,] The young lady stressed motioning her palms together as if squeezing Tycon's supposed emotions.
He groaned, averting his gaze away and to the side. He wasn't angry-- he was... frustrated. And the source of his frustrations were the... hand signals from a frail teenage girl.
Troia circled around to stand in front of him, again wearing her smug, know-it-all smile, [I will help you.]
Tycon grimaced as he inhaled deeply through his nostrils. While it was nice of the young woman, he was very doubtful she was as useful as she thought.
"Hmph," He crossed his arms, "And how are you planning on accomplishing that?"
[I will call a hero to aid you in your quest,] She signed.
"A hero..." Tycon shook his head, chuckling derisively. Hero was easily the rarest Class in the Realm, and the appearance of which was portentous to threats that could destabilize or destroy the entire Realm.
pαпdα Йᴏνê|,сòМ He absolutely did not want the aid of an actual Hero.
Still... a figurative hero wouldn't be so bad.
Tycon pursed his lips... "The only person in this place capable of helping me would be... the High Oracle."
The High Oracle was the only person in the Holy Country that ranked above Archbishop Crucis. With a word from her, the process of getting his request approved would be expedited greatly.
However, from what Tycon had gathered, that person was notoriously difficult to talk to. Though she was reputed to be an Oracle to her deity, the Eternal Flame, in actuality, she was treated more like a goddess.
If Tycon wanted an audience with her, he'd likely have to literally fight through dozens of the Church's most zealous defenders... including the Archbishop. But if this young lady had connections...
Troia pointed to herself.
Tycon raised a hand.... and also pointed at her.
She pointed at herself again, smiling radiantly.
...Oh.
Of course.
"Troia..." Tycon twisted his lips to the side, "are you, by chance... the High Oracle?"
She nodded.
...Tycon narrowed his eyes and sneered, "You don't look like one."
The young lady opened her mouth wide in shock-- but quickly composed herself... [Is it because I'm a girl?]
"What? No," Tycon glared.
Doubt does not always relate to gender discrimination. In fact, he thought it was sexist of the young lady to assume so.
"Everyone knows the High Oracle is a girl," Tycon argued.
[Is it because I'm short?]
She was a little bit taller than Athena-- maybe matching Sasarame's height in her dark elf form.
"Negative. You're about... average height for a young lady, are you not?"
The young lady puffed out her cheeks. Her eyes lost focus as she lost herself in thought, but brightened with another short-sighted accusation...
[Is it because I'm pretty?]
"Sure," Tycon shrugged. "Let's go with that."
Sasarame was much prettier than Troia was. However, beauty was subjective. Saying she was attractive without context was not a lie.
High Oracle Troia grinned with a smile so bright it probably utilized a bit of radiant mana.
Tycon had to squint to prevent his eyes from hurting.
...
⟬ The Owlbar Inn, late that evening. ⟭
Barza Keith, the Lone Shadowdark, heard the whistle of a crossbow bolt and felt it thunk into the table he was taking cover behind.
Undeterred, he bound a strip of cloth tightly over his injured bicep. He didn't want to use his healing potion for just the arrow wound. He and Edge were being attacked by a gaggle of thugs and undead.
With the way the night was going, it was only going to get worse.
"REALLY, EDGE?!" He turned to scream at his partner, "Did you not CHECK who the buyer was??!"
Edge ducked his head down-- a thrown hatchet had bounced off of the top of the wood. A few ilms down, and it could have been in the man's skull, "Come ON, Lone! How in the SEVEN HELLS would I know we were dealing with the Flamescarred NEMAYANS!!"
Lone drew his pistol and rolled out of cover. Two well-placed shots dropped two Sleeping Country gangsters, but a green bolt from a mage's wand forced him to jump for cover behind the bar.
A skeleton had crawled its way over the counter. Lone grabbed its skull and smashed his own skull against it, turning it into bone powder.
...Breathing it in, he was overcome with a coughing fit.
"You good, Lone?!" Edge shouted.
"NO!!" Lone replied, "The buyer's name was DIMITRI!! You can't get MORE NEMAYAN than THAT!!!"
"FIIIINE!!" Edge half-groaned and fully-yelled. "I made a mis-TAKE!!"
"YES!!" Lone roared, hocking phlegm and spitting to the side, "Yes, you did!!"
Lone watched Edge roll onto his back, kicking the table forward with both feet. It crashed into an approaching skeleton and it clattered apart into inanimate bones.
The undead the Nemayans had raised weren't too resilient, but, there were a lot of them. Also, they were supported by people who were still alive... which really wasn't fair.
Lone began to haphazardly throw half-empty bottles of alcohol over the bar at their attackers. Maybe if he was lucky, one of them would get hurt?
"Is that your big plan, Lone?!" Edge yelled, "Think of ANOTHER ONE!!"
"Geek the mage?!" He shouted, "Maybe!?"
"Got it!!" Edge flipped onto his feet, simultaneously drawing two handfuls of throwing spikes, "⌈Fan of Knives!!⌋"
This was their best plan, yet.
Lone emerged from cover, his pistol steadied in both hands.
The Sleeping Country gangsters were all screaming as Edge's skill sent eight sharp blades straight at the robed mage. All eight stuck into the man's eyes, mouth, neck, chest, and arms.
That was a *really* good Skill.
The distraction allowed Lone to place two well-placed shots into the chests of the remaining two living-- and a head-shot into the last not-so-living.
"Clear!" He called out, holstering his smoking weapon.
Edge sank a dagger blade into one of the Nemayan's throats, before wiping it on their clothes.
"All clear," The Rogue confirmed.
"Seven hells," Lone furrowed his brows, "Where's the Necromancer?"
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