The fates... were infuriating bastards.
Capricious.
Fickle.
Arrogant and entitled whores, the lot of them-- ravenous for the next creature that caught their eye.
They conspired together, servile and flattering to whatever hero or god they fancied at the moment.
...Their short attention spans never lasted long.
Tycondrius of Charm refused to be a thrall to their arbitrary whims.
Fate? Chance? Luck? Whatever the word for it... as troublesome as it was, it could slow but not stop the inevitable.
The only end for the enemies of Sol Invictus was death.
Death, after all, was a reasonable gentleman.
He and Tycon were friends.
Rain fell down in blanketing sheets on the deck of the Neptune's Revenge. The black clouds above were adamant about preventing any sunlight through. Furious, high waves and heart-quaking peals of thunder threatened to break or capsize the ship at any given moment.
