⟬ Fifty-nine suns later... in a war tent outside of City-State Forcen. ⟭
"Ahhh..."
Tycondrius ignored the sigh, emitted by the human, Cecil Salt. He continued to review the various missives placed in front of him, ensuring he understood their relevant points.
Commanding from the higher echelons of a combat force involved writing at a desk far more than yelling in a field.
"Pretty funny, I think..." Mused the suspiciously care-free Sergeant, "Naming the operation: World's End, that is."
Tycon closed his eyes, making a checklist in his head. He needed to send at least a dozen more missives before the sun went down-- and, if at all possible, one to his daughter, Sasarame.
"I mean, with how harsh the training is... some of the troops think that's *actually* what's at stake."
"Sergeant."
"Yes, Commander?"
A deep frown cut into Tycon's face as he looked over the battle-scarred veteran.
