Headed by a Snake

Tycondrius raised his hand and slowly closed his fingers, borrowing some of the mana Zenon had presented.

A small blur of wind visibly rotated around his clenched fist... "The way I see it, Centurion... within these winds... is a spark. Within it... is something you are subconsciously aware of."

Tycon smirked... "Something that exists... but is forbidden to speak of... against your nature to seek out..."

He shook his head, chuckling... "--especially for you."

A deep grimace set into Zenon's mustachioed face... "Why especially me?"

"Because you incorrectly believe that wind magic... is all you are capable of."

Playfully, Tycon tapped his finger on Sorina Capulet's shoulder, causing the young lady to jerk.

"Ow! That came as... quite a *shock*, Boss!" The Calculator grinned toothily, rubbing the surface of her shoulder armor.

Zenon averted his gaze, "I... I don't know how to be more than I think I am."

That was quite obvious.

Tycon gestured Zenon towards the Iron Golem, "Go. Give it a try."

Zenon turned reluctantly, taking a few steps towards the construct... He lifted a palm up, forming a larger wind sphere, nearly the size of little Athena.

A few moons ago, channeling such a spell would have cost him half his mana pool.

"Zenon, tell me truthfully..." Tycon growled low... "Have you ever doubted yourself?"

Tyrions do not doubt. In the doctrine of the Church of the Eternal Flame, doubt was... a sin. A man of the Church like Zenon would receive severe punishments for such heresy.

The Librarian shut his eyes... "Y-yeah... all the time."

"Have you ever felt... useless?"

"...Too often, Optio."

Tycon stoked the flames of uncertainty within his friend. The Centurion was... so very close to achieving a mental breakthrough. Somewhere locked in the human's psyche was the potential for greatness... power beyond that of his class and rank.

Tycon had seen it when they fought against House Galanis... and at the Martial Tournament in Caeruluem.

Somewhere hidden in the Centurion's friendly smile was a mountain of rage... a deep sea of hopelessness. He had seen hints of it when the man cast away his own self-safety... when he grew desperate... when he had a primal need for more power, more violence.

There was something else that Tycon knew... a fact that he would never try to teach a denizen of the Holy Country.

Clerics and Warlocks were the same class, their subclasses included. Instruments of their gods' agendas, they harnessed powers beyond mortal ken and willed it to change the world around them.

In theory, Zenon's magical prowess was a gift from his patron, the Eternal Flame. Such power was well within his grasp. To become stronger... he just had to ask for more.

"Think on that..." Tycon whispered... "--your desire to improve, to grow strong... to gain... respect... You are not so foolish to think that to come without a cost?"

The cost was his physical well-being... The cost was his sanity.

There was a reason all powerful wizards were mad.

Zenon opened his eyes as they glowed stark white with mana... "I am no fool."

He seemed to have figured something out. All Tycon had to do was to give the slightest push.

"That power... it's yours to command." Tycon hissed softly... "Tttake ittttt."

"Grahhhh..." Zenon growled low, the roiling wind in his palms increasing in size and growing chaotic... resentful... and violent.

"Letalis front!!!" Tycon called out, "withhhhh-DRAW!!"

Immediately, Tanamar, Lone, and Athena retreated backward-- such orders were drilled into those three, time and time again.

"Is that ALL, Zenon?!?" Tycon shouted to be heard amongst the whipping winds and clattering debris. "Is this all you have to offer? All I see is FEAR!!! All you reveal is your HELPLESSNESS!!!"

The flow of air, spinning around the room grew so strong that the stone seats in the chapel began to rumble. Starting with Athena, the members of Guild Letalis started to grab hold of each other's arms to keep steady.

"GRAHHHHHH!!!" Zenon was screaming... which arguably could have helped. Adrenaline tended to increase the power of spells at the cost of... finesse.

The headless Iron Golem slowly walked forward... hafted greataxe resting steadily over its shoulder. Its weight allowed it to remain stable.

Tycon clenched his teeth, his voice a demeaning whisper. With the storm brewing in the chapel, only the Wind Mage would be able to hear him.

"Pathetic. Centurion... is this the extent of your hatred?"

"MY... HATRED..." Beams of light shot out of Zenon's eyes as he screamed... his voice cracking as he did so. He reached a palm forward, thrusting it through the ripping and tearing wind sphere.

"KNOWS. NO. BOUUUUNDS!!!!"

An arc of lightning... bright... bloody... red... streamed from Zenon's fingertips, striking a score of points on the Iron Golem's body. The construct twitched and fell to a knee, dropping its weapon as it lost control of its functions.

"IS. THAT. ALLLLLLLL?!??!" Tycon yelled, empowering his voice with mana.

"GRARRHRRGHHHH!!!" The glowing-eyed Centurion screamed incoherently. He pointed both palms forward, the arcing crimson bolts of lightning increasing in strength and ferocity.

The Iron Golem collapsed to the ground, writhing, whirring, and groaning.

Tycon carefully estimated Zenon's mana usage... The output was high but acceptable. The Centurion would suffer the effects of fatigue, but not mana exhaustion... as long as he was stopped--

"HOLD!!!" Tycon ordered.

Obediently, Zenon retracted his hands, ceasing the flow of magic. He wobbled shakily and Tycon grasped the taller man's arm and steadied him. It stung-- as some of the residual lightning mana sped through Tycon's body.

"O... optio..." Zenon groaned weakly, "What... what in the... seven... hells... was that?"

"It was a lesson," Tycon smiled politely, gesturing towards the partially melted heap of scrap near the center of the chapel. "Take a look. You won."

Zenon took a seat on one of the stone pews and stared at his charred leather gloves, "I... that... was that... lightning magic?"

"Not... quite," Tycon admitted. "But it will do."

"I'm... I'm not so sure I like that spell..." Zenon grimaced.

His hands shook. His face had paled.

He'd probably be fine.

​ Tycon shrugged, "You're a member of Sol Invictus. Our abilities are powered by hate or... rage... sheer arrogance, at times. However you choose to cultivate... know that we will fight alongside you."

Zenon nodded as he clasped his trembling hands together. His eyes were elsewhere as he fell into deep contemplation.