Tycondrius-- or rather... the current Tycondrius had lost the memories of his past self. For over two years, he had to stumble over pieces and fragments learned secondhand in order to assume his role enough for no one important to notice the difference.
Theoretically, Hades did not have that issue...
According to that gentle-orc... a notion reinforced by a certain Idiot, Tycon was previously known as Tyrael. The particular circumstances of how that was possible were unimportant.
That 'Tyrael' had enough power to challenge archangels and lizard gods at will.
Thus, it fell to reason... that 'Tyrael' would have friends and peers of similar ability, Hades being a prime example.
The Death Orc was an excellent resource. However, him having taken the godly domain of death and the dead, he was bound by the Laws, preventing him from interfering overmuch with the lives of mortals.
A different ally of 'Tyrael' might not be beholden to such limitations.
The assistance of such a being had great potential. Tycon was trying to kill a god, after all.
"Y... yeah. Yeah. I can do that," Hades nodded slowly.
...The way he did so made Tycon question the orc's truthfulness.
Hades rolled up his sleeves, rotating his wrists, stretching his hands, and cracking his knuckles-- "Yeah! Easy-peasy, dude. Anything else?"
...The orc's display of confidence brought forth a degree of guilt in Tycon for having doubted his stalwart companion.
"Ah," Tycon furrowed his brows, "it would be ideal if you found an ally not inhibited by a large-scale, God-Rank ritual, thank you."
"Uhuh, yeap," Hades chuckled... then loosed a heavy sigh, "Y'know... them rituals are getting more and more common these suns."
"I'd rather not experience one anytime soon," Tycon rolled his eyes.
The Death Orc raised his massive hand, projecting the mana-silhouette of his equally massive, soul-reaping scythe.
The spell Tycon was asking of his friend was... complex-- enough for Hades to summon what-Tycon-assumed was his enchanted mana-focus.
It was easy to find a light in a dark forest when viewed from above... so too, a Gold-Rank or stronger power amongst a sea of spirits, Unranked and Bronze. However, it would require an astounding amount of mana for the orc to extend his magical senses enough to reach every soul under his purview.
If Tycon was dealing with even a Sky-Rank caster, he would be hesitant about suggesting such a taxing spell.
Hades was far superior, an Abyssal Necromancer ascended to godhood-- to God-Rank.
The quality and the sheer volume of mana in his body far surpassed the limits a mortal could withstand... or even comprehend.
ραпdα nᴏνɐ| сom Further... he was the overseer of the Realm of the dead.
...Finding a single amicable gentleman or gentlewoman sounded like something he should be able to do.
However, as Hades began channeling something reasonably useful... he glanced over Tycon's shoulder.
"Hey, uh..."
"...What?" Tycon grimaced.
The orc's voice had changed.
It was a signal... for Tycon to mentally prepare himself to be immensely disappointed.
"How 'bout..." Hades leisurely pointed a finger, "that guy over there?"
Tycon... slowly rotated his head... looking... to that place.
"Brother-Hades."
"Eh-yeap?"
"Can we do better?"
"Well-- lemme put it this way:" Hades lazily stretched his arms above his head, yawning loudly... "Absolutely f*ckin' not."
...
There was a young man crouched down on the riverbanks, staring at his reflection in the water.
His attire looked expensive-- but it had seen better suns.
His suit and trousers were made of white manaweave, resistant to minor cuts and stains... yet the wearer had managed to run them frayed and ragged.
He wore a sash across his chest, the shade, princely blue-- once. It was covered in mud and filth, its vibrant color and very-*very* expensive dye faded to mediocrity by the hellsworn sun.
Of course, his sky blue hair kept it soft and silken look... likely owing to the bloodline of angels coursing through his veins.
He was a Daeva, a Prince, and... theoretically, a close friend and competent traveling companion.
...He was also in desperate need of a proper shave.
"Mister Tarquin Wroe," Tycon sighed... "Pray tell... what do thy angel eyes see?"
The Daeva tilted his head up, his gaze far across Letherna's waters-- his disgusting neckbeard in clear view.
Tycon followed his eyes... but there was nothing of interest on the horizon.
There was... river. Sand. Dull grasses. There was a spectral hand of a lost soul being violently consumed by river scavengers.
"I'm... searching for someone," Wroe whispered.
His voice was almost... reverent, as if speaking a certain name aloud was forbidden.
"Bro," Hades interjected, "It wasn't that dude that just got eaten, was it?"
"We did not know that person," Tycon countered.
"Okay. Just checkin'. I mean... the timing of that scream, right?"
Tycon waved dismissively to the orc as he turned to face his old, angelic companion. A serious concern had blossomed in his heart... one that he needed to confirm.
"Tarquin Wroe... dearest friend..." He pursed his lips and took a breath... "Tell me... who do you seek?"
The Daeva shut his eyes... causing a single, lonesome tear to trail down his cheek, "I... I don't know."
It... sparkled.
Angels' tears sparkled-- or at least Wroe's did.
Tycon found it mildly amusing... but ultimately, it proved his former companion's worthlessness.
"He's drunk from the waters," He shrugged, turning to Hades.
"Well, yeah," The orc huffed. "Everyone drinks from the waters eventually."
...Judging from the state of Wroe's attire, he had been traveling for numerous suns.
He was a lost cause.
"Yo, how 'bout you do that sword thing on him?" Hades casually suggested.
"I cannot. Rena was a special case."
"...You wanna go catch some fish or some shite?"
Tycon hesitated at the thought... but shook his head. It seemed his anger and frustration curbed his hunger... which only upset him more.
"I do not," He crossed his arms... "Brother-Hades, you are... certain that Mister Wroe is the best we can manage?
"I am the leader of Sol Invictus-- the gladiator guild that ruled over the deadliest legal arenas in the Realm. Further, I am the War Prince of Charm-- a *General* of a substantial land force from a nation constantly embroiled in clan wars instigated for the sole reason of determining the size of their leaders' genitals!!
"Hundreds-- if not thousands of individuals *must* have died by my command! At least *one* of them must have some power or repute... and might reasonably like me enough to help me?"
Hades pursed his lips and gestured to the forlorn angel, "Well... this one-- he's actually alive, though?"
...Tycon tilted his head.
Wroe was... alive?
",
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