Headed by a Snake

A bell and a half passed quickly enough.

Ophelia called for a chalkboard to be wheeled in, for her and Tycondrius to better deliberate what they identified as the foremost issue. Many-Big-Guns' switch-type spell circle architecture was unable to handle the transitioning between an idle-state and one with a catalyzed rate of mana depletion.

They spent over a third of the time arguing... which was worth three potential, if theoretical solutions.

All were flawed. None, they mutually agreed upon.

It was, however, an overall enjoyable discussion.

Unfortunately, the Arcanite Princess eventually remembered that Tycon's purpose wasn't to improve her Divine Armor crafting.

"But... I digress," Ophelia sighed deeply as she rubbed her temples... "Wine?"

"Please."

Ophelia stood up, shook her legs out, and poured what smelled to be Elven wine into two wooden cups. That she kept alcoholic beverages in her research area was excellent foresight on her part.

"So the way I'm taking it is... you've no idea as to my fiancee's whereabouts," She said as she offered Tycon his cup. "You don't have the balls to lie to me, Ivory Prince."

"Uh... thank you."

...He wanted to argue, but the resulting conversation would go nowhere. Thankfully, the subtle notes of blackberries, the delicate touch of oak, and the hint of black pepper made up for the insult.

"Where's Quies, then?" Ophelia asked before taking a tiny, elf-girl sip of her wine, "I'll just have him scold you... not that you'd listen to him, but I'm sure he'd annoy you half to--"

"He's dead," Tycon interrupted.

She spoke of the previous leader of Sol Invictus, Pathfinder Quies. Though he hadn't seen the fellow's corpse, Tycon was reasonably confident of that particular elf's fate.

"Oh..." Ophelia frowned... "I'm sorry."

Tycon found it amusing that her vibrant hair seemed to wilt slightly at the news. She shared that particular idiosyncrasy with his medusa sister, War Princess Cassiopeia.

"Worry not, Sister Ophelia," Tycon smiled. "Quay's son is alive and well-- last I checked, anyroad."

"Is that so?" Ophelia's eyes shot up, before again frowning... "Who's the mother? That Highblade Princess?"

"...N-no."

"One of the dark elf girls from House Darkwalker?"

"Princess Briza? No..." Tycon shook his head. "The boy is half-human."

"Wait, don't tell me..." Ophelia furrowed her green brows... "Archbishop Natalya Crucis? Some kind of... red-haired hero?"

"I highly doubt that he's had relations with Natalya," Tycon smiled wryly.

It was not the first time he'd heard that suggestion. However, Ophelia was partially correct.

"I'd like to meet him, then," The Arcanite Princess nodded. "Is he with you?"

"He's adventuring with the... Holy Country's High Oracle in the Sleeping Country."

"Holy... huh," Ophelia tilted her head. "What... Class is he?"

"Hero," Tycon smirked. "As you'd assumed."

Ophelia slowly lolled her head up and nodded... "I want to say that's... unbelievable-- but it sounds about right for Quay's son."

"That Sol Invictus is working for Lady Troia is related to my presence this sun," Tycon inclined his head. "The High Oracle has tasked me personally with returning the Blades of the Forgotten King to you and City-State Whitehearth."

"Huh... The Child Princess?" Ophelia pursed her lips, "I'd thought you were sent by the Highblades?"

"Is that so?" Tycon rubbed his chin in thought... "House Highblade *is* strangely confident in me."

"It is a wonder... the Highblades are probably the most inclusive family in the Realm. Empty night... What did you *do*, Tycon?"

Tycon shrugged, "I suppose it's because... I gave them justice."

It wasn't something he could take full credit for. He wouldn't have cared much to do so in the first place, if it weren't for the insistence of Coraline Heartsong and the late Lone Shadowdark.

"That'll do it," Ophelia nodded. "The artifacts, then?"

"I've brought the swords' host... and the swords along with him," Tycon sighed before taking a deep pull of wine... "Ophelia, concerning the curse--"

Ophelia held up her hand, "If I may... the curse has been detailed in Lieutenant Teneca Highblade's report, among my other sources."

"Ah, very good. I've brought a researcher from the Sapphire Tower to assist in the process. She has a personal stake in freeing her boyfriend from the artifact's domination effect."

"Miss Heartsong! Wonderful," Ophelia clapped her hands together. "Then you have a good launching off point for decursing the swords."

Tycon nearly choked on his wine. That... was not what he had agreed upon when he accepted Troia's quest.

"I'd... really rather not," Tycon forced a smile and a strained chuckle. "Aha... I have... things to do, Ophelia. You-- you understand."

Ophelia sat on her desk, pursing her lips, "The task is easily a Gold-Rank quest if not higher, Tycon... and I'm the only Gold-Rank in Whitehearth.

"As my rivals have long since discovered my fiancee's disappearance, my presence alone is the only thing keeping the city's upper echelons from going for each others' throats. Thus, I will task you, Prince Tycondrius, in decursing the swords."

"This... is not my problem," Tycon grimaced.

"Oh, Ivory Prince~" Ophelia fluttered her eyelashes, "Do this for me and I'll grant you full reign of Landris' metalshapers."

Tycon narrowed his eyes... "Would I not have them, otherwise?"

"Nope! With my fiancee absent, they're *mine*," She scoffed. "Ohhh~ think of all the coin you'd save."

The thought gave Tycon pause.

"...I suppose I can ask Captain Krysaos and the Neptune's Revenge to take the quest," He muttered... "but I see little to no benefits for myself."

"From the reports I read, I learned that the Forgotten King has taken control of one of your precious guild members."

"I already have a replacement," Tycon scowled.

He'd recruited a young boy named Rickert in the western parts of the States. He was... seven... and he had no special potential to speak of. Still, Tycon was confident he'd grow into the role... eventually.

"And how long would it take to train him?"

Tycon took a deep breath and sighed... "A decade, perhaps... six or eight years, if I'm lucky."

"You're helping, Tycon," Ophelia smirked.

Tycon bent over, rubbing his hands on his face, "It's... still not enough..."

",