Tycondrius inhaled through his nostrils, grimacing. Dragan had the mind to keep their conversation private from the others-- two elves and a sharp-eared goblin. Thankfully, those three paid them no mind. They were having some sort of asinine conversation with the pink-haired whelp, Fortuna.
"Always the analyst, Mister Dragan..." Tycon sighed, offering a polite smile, "Sometimes, I'm uncertain on whether I'm the Tactician or if you are, instead."
"Pshh!!" Dragan scoffed, waving an open palm, "Thinking about the big-picture stuff is boring. I'll take my place at the front line, anysun. (I don't suppose that's changed in the future?)"
"Hah," Tycon shook his head. "It has not... You do grow in size, though. Future-you can beat current-you by physical strength, alone."
"Hur hur hurr. I sure hope so..." The Titanblood took a deep breath, his smile fading slightly... "(Is Dad in good health?)"
