Winter 8th. 1124
Lycus.
Lycus, don’t you see?
The collar. The collar around thy neck. It doesn’t bother you?
Great wings of metallic blue unfolded, bristling with water. From Lycus’ lips spewed cerulean bubbles; they floated up to pop by his horns.
„No, Rækkis, it does not bother me.”
…Bade to take a smaller form, Lycus rode upon the shoulder of a Servitor responsible for policing the commerce and logistics of Dullahan against arcane threats. This decorated man with metal nodules implanted upon his cheek, he only knew as Captain Biles. The captain who tricked him, claiming that very collar was a gift.
„What does bother me is the lack of magic. There is Metaphor in the /things/around us, but not in the souls of mæn.”
Claw upon the metal loop about his neck, Lycus slowly blinked beneath humming pipes of warm water as they passed beneath Sabre, pipes of steam washing over him like a comfort. A far cry from the bath homes of Æntaris, though the tunnels reeked of mænnish scent; how could humanity live like this?
„Rækkis?”
„Perhaps I am bothered, after all.”
So you see.
Then look ahead, now. Your future is at hand.
Brick and mortar. Stone towers, hewn from the rock and risen again. They touched the sky, curling inward between claustrophobic alleyways packed with the shuffling gait of the proletariat. Lycus sought thoughts from them, but he knew he could not have the taste. Captain Biles would not allow it.
Boom.
„Yes, . . . Boom.”
Pop.
„ . . . ”
Lycus held his gaze low, brought to a security booth helmed by the cold, bejeweled eye of a machine. „Captain Biles?” it chirped. „Welcome back to Chevalier.”
„Aye, Proletarian, all is well? I‘ve brought something mighty special from the skies o‘er the eastern route. Here to get ‘er registered and drink my honors.”
„Riiiight . . . All is indeed ‘well’, Captain Biles.” the disk-shaped head replied, jointed eye lingering on Lycus. „What a fascinating creature. Is that a dragon?”
„Damn right, she’s all mine,” said the captain, thumbing in against his chest. „Are you going to let us through?”
„Against my better judgement . . . ” The ruby eye turned, and as one might pull back their arm, it dragged a fortified barrier along a painted line. „Please head straight to the registrar.”
As the hollow-eyed captain tipped his cap to the service automaton, Lycus leaned over his shoulder, head bouncing to the tune of his captor’s step. Though his voice was small and wiry, the Krakon made his displeasure known.
„So you know, I am no Dragoness, nor am I a Dragon. Know that I am a Krakon, Lycus Cæruleus Maximus of Æntaris, son of the Arche of Lacon, Lævos the all-knowing. You would do well to have respect for your elders, little humæn.”
The captain pushed Lycus’ snout away with but a finger, rolling his head to the other side. „A prince, are you, beastie?” The man smirked.
„No, no, no. All Cor’ai, indeed many Krakon are His children,” Lycus attempted to explain. „He is no king, as we are not princes.”
Captain Biles pursed his lips together, a single twitch tightening to one side. „Ahh, how do I put it? I don’t give a damn, beastie. I’m forking you over for my promotion, and that’s that.”
Lycus blinked in disbelief. The stubbornness. The conceit! How dare this…
black-eyed toad speak to him that way?
