Headed by a Snake

"Is this the best you can do?"

[Inspirational Surge conditions met. Activate? Y/N?]

« Make it so. »

[Activating.]

Tycon unstoppered a full waterskin and without hesitation, began pouring water on Barza's open wound. The water would wash out any large debris from the dirt and rocks in the air. Within moments, Tycon's Inspirational Surge had begun healing Barza's grievous injury, the blood scabbing over, then forming a barely visible scar. It was because of this that Tycon was so willing to attack without holding back.

"He did pretty shite, Boss."

Dragan crossed his arms, looking over Barza's unconscious form. To show his frustration, Dragan went as far as to give the downed man a light kick. Tycon took a deep breath before kneeling down to clean the blood of his sword on the remnants of Barza's slashed and tattered shirt.

"Not necessarily, Mister Dragan. I thought I saw something."

"You mean smelled something? Because I'm pretty sure he--"

"No, besides that… When I mentioned Miss Capulet to him, I saw a shine in his eyes."

"So? So he's crushing on a smart chick? What's that have to do with--"

"I think Mister Barza almost activated a Skill."

Dragan's eyes widened and he pulled his head back in shock. Shaking his head, he groaned.

"Nooooo! Whaaat? There's no way, Boss. Not at this guy's Rank. Bah! And he has a low-tier class."

Tycon ignored him and proceeded to physically check Barza's condition. Since it was the first time he had remembered using it, he was uncertain to the efficacy of his healing Skill. After finding nothing else amiss, he directed a thought to the System.

« System, inquiry: The unconscious fool's class? »

[System response: Barza Keith, Bronze-Rank Warrior.]

It appeared that the training was able to change the young man's class. He's now the Warrior class, low-tier, but better than his previous one... Any of the classes that stem from Warrior would suit him. But the skill he thought he saw...

Tycon turned to Dragan, "But what if it's possible?"

His seriousness caught Dragan off guard. He scratched his head in thought, "Yeah. Then he might be worth something, after all."

…

"Y'know, that was really somethin', Boss."

The pair walk-jogged back to the campsite. Dragan was holding his greataxe in his right hand and steadying the snoring Barza on his back with his left.

"What was something? The fact that I'm not left-handed?"

"That skill you used? The uh... Dragon-something? I've never seen you use it before."

"...What kind of skills do I usually use?"

"Ah, I dunno, Boss? Usually, you just yell at us to do things?"

"Well, don't expect it much anymore. It took an unreasonable amount of mana for its effect."

Dragan shrugged, "You mean you have a low Completion Rate on it? If you raised your Skill comprehension, it would reduce its stamina... err, mana consumption while increasing its effect and damage."

Tycon hopped over a tree stump and slashed at a group of vines in the way. Dragan leaped up and over, using the crook beneath his greataxe blade to swing from a branch. Tycon spoke to finish Dragan's thought.

"--which is why Tarquin Wroe makes a better Warlock than he does a Fighter. And why I specialize in Command Skills and not Weapon Skills."

"Exactly, Boss!"

Tycon huffed, watching his step and zigzagging through the brush.

"Mister Dragan, you're quite astute at times and an absolute donkey at others. Did you know that?"

Dragan laughed in response as if it had been his plan all along. The pair slowed to a halt, arriving at the camp.

"Hey, Boss. Watch this."

Dragan rotated his body and tossed Barza up into the air. The man spun impressively, but still managed to fall gracelessly onto his face. He sprung awake, his face covered in dirt and leaves, "Wha-- What?! Where am I?"

"Heyyyy. We're back at camp. Thought you died, man!" Dragan laughed.

Barza touched himself with his hands, clumsily grabbing at all of his body parts. It looked quite lewd.

Tycon muttered in annoyance, "The man should be checking for his sword…"

"We should beat him with it," Dragan suggested gleefully.

Tycon placed the surplus swords with the rest of the supplies and provided food to his two sentries, Horse and Jeremy. Invictus had purchased the second horse, Jeremy, at the cheapest available price.

"Corporal Horse. Private Jeremy. Report."

"(A squirrel tried to approach the camp. And a deer. The camp is safe,)" Corporal Horse proudly reported.

"(Holy shite, a talking horse!)" As useless as Horse's observations were, Jeremy's were even moreso.

"Very good, you two. Keep up the good work," Tycon groaned.

…

Barza and Bucket were eating from their provided rations. Hard tack. Fruit preserves. Crushed peanut butter in a ceramic jar. Bucket had made himself a small peanut butter and preserves sandwich. He sat upon a familiar, leather-covered log, swinging his legs happily while eating. Barza idly munched on a strip of dried meat, brooding grimly in thought. Looking over to the carefree boy, Barza couldn't help but ask, "Bucket? What are those markings on your arms?"

"Got grabbed by tentacles." The boy responded between bites, "It really hurt."

Barza wanted to ask if he'd heard correctly, but he was afraid that he had. He chose to ignore it with great prejudice, else he'd feel the need to ask more questions, "Hey, Bucket... Did you pass?"

Bucket tilted his waterskin up to drink big glugs of water. Then he stuck a finger into his mouth to unstick the PB&J.

"I dropped the log. But I kept my spear! So Mister Wroe gave me an 8 out of 10."

Barza shuddered involuntarily. Tycon had explained the point system to him prior. There were three scores: Good, Needs Work, and Absolute Failure. Bucket had probably received a Good. If they both did poorly, the both of them would be given a punishment mission-- cutting firewood while swords and weights were strapped to their backs, provoking a Devil-Bear and leading it into an ambush. Barza was almost certain that if there was a dragon in the forest, Tycon would demand the two of them steal from its treasure hoard.

"Did *you* pass, Mister Barza?" The boy asked innocently.

"I… I don't think so," He admitted.

"Oh, come on! What happened? Did you drop your weapon?"

Shock flooded Barza's senses and his side began to ache again. Cold sweat flooded down his back as he remembered the sensation of fear. Tycondrius had tried to kill him in cold blood. He could have sworn that he took a sword slash to the chest, that he was bleeding out and his flesh was turning cold. But when he had awoken, he'd only found a superficial cut on his chest-- signs of blood, but not enough to prove such a grievous wound. His shirt, a sure sign of evidence, had been removed while he was unconscious. Mister Dragan had told him it was ruined in the fight.

"Bucket… I think… I died."

Bucket's eyes grew as wide as a Devil-Bear's. Slowly, as if not to surprise him, the boy placed a hand on his spear.

"Are you a zombie?"

But before Bucket could forcibly ensure Barza was dead, Tycon, Dragan, and Wroe approached. Tycon was positioned between the other two and took a half step forward.

"The three of us have discussed your performances."

Barza and Bucket stood up, at attention. Bucket had been drilled to hold his spear to the side, pointed straight up, his opposite little arm as straight down as possible. Barza stood ramrod straight, sweating in nervousness-- he wished he had the simple reassurance of steel in hand.

"Mister Barza, prepare your armor and gear." Tycon ordered, "You, alone, will be assigned a punishment mission."