DD1 ASC - Chapter 20 - Refusal

After Galen's departure, their evening picked up for a while and Typhoeus made an exaggerated show of waiting on Arilla hand and foot before it took an abrupt turn for the worse. Contrary to what the young noble had said, neither of them had ever had a problem with sexually aggressive adventurers before. No catcalls, wolf whistles or unwanted advances had ever bothered them within the confines of the Guild's great hall or training grounds until now. It was like a switch had been flicked, or as Arilla suggested, a noble's coin purse emptied, and a steady stream of harassing suitors poured forth, making their way over to their table where they would proceed to proposition one or both of Typhoeus and Arilla. The offers went from the mildly amusing to the downright disgusting, with the attitudes of the men and very occasionally women varying from them awkwardly looking over their shoulders as they delivered their pre-prepared lines, to downright predatory as they made blunt demands for sex in exchange for some vague form of protection.

Needless to say, they refused every offer, and after it became clear that the parade of adventurers making a fool of themselves wasn’t going to end any time soon, Typhoeus and Arilla decided that it was past time for them to leave. Hoping as they made their way to the exit that they would be able to enjoy the remainder of their evening somewhere else, far away from the noble’s fiscal reach. They were halfway there when a large calloused hand emerged from the crowd, grabbed Typhoeus painfully around his small waist, yanking him off balance as he was pulled away from Arilla and ass first onto the open lap of a burly looking adventurer who had clearly been enjoying his drink.

The man was absolutely huge, and Typhoeus could tell from the way that he smelled that he likely had more than a little bit of giant’s blood in him, probably in the form of a giant blooded trait. It was a shame they were meeting under such circumstances as Typhoeus found giant’s blood tended to give human meat a moreish umami flavour that he rarely got the chance to indulge in. The human appeared almost bear-like in his size and disposition, his coarse brown body hair coating the exposed muscles of his chest and arms that bulged out from beneath his too small 'V' neck sleeveless vest. He was warrior tagged and had over fifty levels on Typhoeus's disguise, putting his class firmly in the beginnings of its third tier of power, or bronze rank as the humans preferred to call it.

Typhoeus was strong for his size; his stats ensured that, but he was positively dwarfed by the much larger adventurer who by the feel of his tight grip, had also invested heavily in his strength score. He tried to squirm out the man's grasp, but it was futile. The hulking adventurer merely laughing merrily at Typhoeus's obvious discomfort, his breath reeking of strong yeasty beer and plaque as he squeezed the struggling dragon closer to him in a tight embrace.

"Now, where are you going beautiful?" he asked, clearly uninterested in Typhoeus's answer as he seemed to be paying far more attention to the approving faces of his four friends who were sitting around his table. Judging by their class tags and attire, they were adventures one and all, most likely members of his party given the close gaps between their levels.

"Let go of me!" Typhoeus yelled as he struggled, his voice quickly drowned out by the raucous noises of celebration filling the hall.

He only received another laugh in response, the big man seemingly finding his spirited protests funny. Typhoeus quickly wracked his brain for a spell or skill that he could use to see himself clear of this situation, rejecting out of hand anything too complex or mana intensive to be seen from a lowly level 5 mage. It didn’t take him long to realise that his position was hopeless, and he would have to put up with it. Typh the mage would be trapped, helpless before the much higher levelled adventurer's superior physical might. While Typhoeus the dragon could extricate himself with ease, there was simply nothing he could do that wouldn't also raise suspicions that he could ill afford. Still, he screamed for help, even making pleading eye contact with people nearby in the crowd who quickly turned their backs on him. Those few who could hear his vocal struggles over the din of the party were clearly not willing to risk their neck for a lowly level 5 being assaulted by a party of over 50’s.

Typhoeus had been through countless battles against humans before, and he had long since lost count of the number of different ways that he had been physically injured. With a confidence that he wasn’t sure that he truly possessed, Typhoeus told himself that whatever happened next, he would be able to endure. Just like how he had endured all of those painful wounds in his past. Ultimately the wandering hands of one low levelled human was nothing compared to the multitude of vicious injuries that he had already suffered at the hands of adventurers and dragons alike, and yet strangely enough, beneath the rough ministrations of the warrior’s calloused palms, all of his self-affirmations fell flat. The way that the big man casually ignored his vocal refusal of consent hurt him in a profound way that he had failed to anticipate.

"There's the spirit! You see lads, women can't resist the smell of a real man,” he laughed in his deep voice, once again turning his attention away from Typhoeus and back to his friends. "That's why I don't believe in bathing; it’s all about pheromones, you see, drives 'em crazy,” he continued, egged on by his chuckling comrades as he effortlessly held a still struggling Typhoeus in place.

“Just let me go!” Typhoeus begged, trying to pull the warrior’s muscular forearm from around his waist, his screams for help cut short as a thick, calloused hand clamped tightly over his mouth.

“Easy now Boscoe, that Traylan brat won't want damaged goods,” the ranger said, a wan half-smile on his angular face as he studiously watched Typhoeus struggle, the dragon taking the opportunity to try sink his teeth into the palm of Boscoe's hand. His blunt human teeth failed anticlimactically to pierce through the warrior’s tough skin.

“Aww, come on boss, it’s not like we need the money. And the kid didn’t say how pretty this one is,” Boscoe said before finally turning to Typhoeus. He lowered his head down and inhaled deeply through his flaring nostrils before speaking directly into Typhoeus’s ear, the man's hot breath against his neck causing him to shiver with revulsion. “Maybe, I’ll just keep you instead of passing you on. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You can’t have ever been with a real man if you’re content with that other girl. Five minutes with me and I could fuck you straight and you’d b—”

“Knock it off brother, you know impressing the Traylens is about more than the money,” the rogue said, the smaller man interrupting the big warrior’s lurid speech.

“Fuck you, Harlowe, I don’t see why we need ‘em. We’re doing just fine without ‘em, aren't we?” Boscoe said, spittle flying as he addressed the rogue.

“Because the world’s changing you dolt. The Merchant Council won't last, and even if it does, getting the Traylans as our backers will net us more than enough money to pay our way to iron. Now, rough the girl up a little and send her along to Galen. If you want to get your dick wet, we can find you a nice whore on the row afterwards,” the mage said coldly, earning herself a disgruntled look from Boscoe.

“And fuck you too Ferros, I don’t pay for it. You know that you’re just bein’ soft ‘cus she’s another girl mage like you,” Boscoe yelled over the wooden table, painfully squeezing Typhoeus closer into his lap.

“Harlowe, control your brother. I fear he’s about to do something terminally stupid,” Ferros said, the mage looking towards the slender rogue as her eyes momentarily flared a bright orange to emphasise her point.

“Don’t even think about it, Harlowe,” Boscoe said, shutting his brother down before he could even speak. “Alright Typh, it is Typh right? Whatever, the Bossman and Ferros here think, pleasing the Traylan’s tike is important. It’s why we’re here at his stupid graduation party for fucks sake. Now I want you to go and take that glorious ass of yours over to the little lordlings table and beg that boy to let you bounce up and down on his noble dick. I don't care if you act like a dead fish or if you give him the ride of his life, but you make damn sure to tell him that Medraut’s Rovers sent you his way, understand?"

Typhoeus could only glare at him in answer, biting harder into the meat of Boscoe's hand as he continued to struggle in vain. "Right yeah, I forgot for a moment. Blink once for yes, twice for no," Boscoe said in between chuckles. Typhoeus didn't know what to do. He wished that Arilla was here to decide for him, or better yet, that his disguise wasn't so necessary and that he could just kill the adventurers and be done with it. Still, he knew one answer would bring about an earlier end to his humiliation, so he blinked once.

"Good girl, now let me give you something to remember me by before I let you go,” the large warrior said, and Typhoeus felt the hand holding him tightly around his waist move. First, it went lower, down past the hem of his dress before moving back up past his knee as his rough hand glided underneath the soft fabric of his dress, the thin material bunching up as it swiftly rose along his thighs with the unwanted movement of Boscoe's hand.

Whatever resolve Typhoeus had to suffer through his humiliation crumbled in the face of this new violation. Reflexively he turned to his skills, releasing his tightly bound [Sovereign's Aura] from its resting place deep within him, constraining it to extend only half an inch out from his skin as it tried to leap out and swallow the room. His unruly skill contained to where he wanted it; he demanded that it burn. Gifting the skill with unrestricted access to his deep well of mana as within the bounds of his aura, Creation shifted several gears to conform to his will. In that moment, his usual mix of delicate runework and elaborate spellcraft was completely forgotten as his mind was occupied solely by the unwelcome invader inching its way towards a place that he had reserved exclusively for his own and Arilla's pleasure. A torrent of mana poured into [Sovereign's Aura] and drunk deep on the power he supplied it with. The rapacious ability demanding the mana supply of a dragon yet finding only a mere human’s.

For that half an inch of space that Typhoeus’s aura filled, all of Creation that happened to fill that small space ignited in Dragonfire as his mana pushed his will onto the world. Hair, skin, clothes, the very air they breathed, it all burned.

The laughter stopped. Cries of alarm echoing out from all around him as Typhoeus’s mundane vision was momentarily obscured by a cocoon of golden flames as the surface of the proudly unbathed Boscoe combusted. His thick coating of coarse hair being laden with months worth of sweat and natural oils made for predictably good kindling, spreading the fire much farther than it would have gone otherwise. The natural fibres of his clothes were reduced to ash, ash that was almost immediately encapsulated within his now bubbling flesh as the warrior’s molten tissues started to slough off of him. A Typhoeus shaped imprint of skin, fat, and muscle essentially pouring off the adventurer and onto the floor of the hall.

Typhoeus sprung to his feet as he hastily cut off his supply of mana to the ability. [Sovereign's Aura] growling with frustration as he put it back into its cage. The fires stopped, for the most part, but the damage was already done.

Given his level, Boscoe would almost certainly survive, and with the careful ministrations of a well-paid healer, he would likely make a full recovery, but it would be an excruciating and more importantly, expensive round of healing. Typhoeus looked at his assailant and smiled at the devastation that he had wrought. The adventurer's chest and lap had been turned into a messy ruin of charred flesh where exposed muscle and bone could be seen peeking through between patches of crispy flash cooked fat. The intoxicating smell of roast human with a hint of giant filled the air, and Typhoeus felt himself begin to salivate as hunger pangs reminded him of how little he had eaten this evening. Boscoe looked back at him in undisguised horror, his face spared the brunt of the flames by the size differential between them, allowing the large man to look into the eyes of the dragon that he had so thoughtlessly provoked.

Typhoeus took a step forwards, delighting in how the large man tried to recoil in fear, his muscular limbs not responding as the warrior’s body shut down as it went into shock from the sudden and massive trauma that had been inflicted upon him. The dragon leaned over the much larger man, carefully resting a small hand on the scorched wood of Boscoe’s chair as he exaggeratedly inhaled through his nose. A trailing finger running along the still warm ruin of the warrior's chest, almost sensually.

"I do so love the smell of a real man. You must be right about those pheromones,” he purred, looking Boscoe dead in his eyes, as for the first time, he smiled at him with undisguised hunger.

After several heartbeats, he took a step back, turning around to face the rest of Medraut’s Rovers, the adventuring party having taken the time to form up and train their weapons and arcane foci on him as the crowded hall watched on in frozen silence.

[Warrior level 52], [Ranger level 57], [Rogue level 54], [Mage level 56].

Typhoeus looked at them and their levels and felt no fear. From the ranger's glowing arrow pointed at his heart to the mage’s flaming lance held hovering suspended in the air above the tip of her runestaff. He merely stood tall, suppressing a smile as he reminded himself how easily he could end them all. While he was confident that his life was secure, his disguise as Typh was in dire peril; if the adventurers retaliated, then he would be forced to cast his disguise away as he reverted to his true form and made a hasty retreat. The thought of having to leave Arilla behind in his flight, being the only thing that kept him from following his instincts to pre-emptively strike out at the adventurers who he deemed complicit in his assault.

"I believe your friend has had a terrible accident. He tried to stick his fingers where they didn't belong and spontaneously caught fire as a result," Typhoeus said coldly, staring the ranger down as he loudly projected his voice, and this time without the loud music or the chatter to drown it out, his words carried clearly throughout the otherwise silent hall.

The crowd murmured in its discontent, as apparently that sort of behaviour was only tolerated when there was enough background noise where you can pretend not to hear someone scream for help. He turned his gaze away from the adventurers, daring them to attack him while his head was turned as he looked out over the crowd. Once again making eye contact with the same people who had turned their backs on his cries when he needed them before. One and all, they looked away, but this time to the floor with shame in their eyes as it became apparent to them and the rest of the crowd what had very nearly happened while they were partying nearby.

The murmurs grew in volume to mutters as the crowd parted, and Arilla emerged, limping forwards as she was flanked by a pair of concerned looking clerks wearing the symbol of the Adventurers Guild emblazoned prominently on their starched uniforms.

“I believe there has been some very untoward behaviour being exerted upon Miss Typh and Arilla,” the older of the two clerks said, his words doing much to defuse the situation as the adventurers lowered their weapons slightly.

“This girl attacked Boscoe. I demand that she be thrown out of the Guild and handed over to the guard immediately,” Medraut said, the ranger addressing his words to the older clerk whose eyes narrowed in response.

“If you would like to make a formal complaint, then you are welcome to do so, but we have multiple reports of our members being offered payment to harass these two novice adventurers, and I find it highly irregular that Miss Typh would choose to attack someone over ten times her level without provocation,” the clerk said. “Are you sure that this wasn’t some kind of accident like the young mage suggested, or do we need to petition an adjudicator to resolve this?”

"No, no, we don’t need to do that,” Medraut said hastily, visibly deflating at the mention of an adjudicator, as he turned to Typh and spoke through gritted teeth. “You're right. He had an accident catching fire like that, happens all the time."

“Good, well in that case, I am glad this has been resolved peacefully,” the clerk said with a straight face. “In future, please refrain from drawing steel on Guild grounds. Now you had best see to your injured warrior don’t you think?”

Medraut nodded respectfully at the clerk as he put away his bow, the rest of his party, with the notable exception of the rogue Harlowe following suit as they stepped away from Typhoeus. Their looks of anger promising what their words could not, given the public nature of their confrontation.

"Harlowe, we're done here. Grab your brother and let's get moving; he needs a healer," Ferros said, the mage not looking entirely displeased by the resolution as she took charge. The rogue seemed to momentarily baulk at putting away his long knives, finally acquiescing after reading the mood of the room. Reluctantly he moved forwards to practically peel his much larger brother out of his chair with the aid of the still silent level 52 warrior.

As they began moving Boscoe, who had yet to make a noise beyond a quiet whimper, he began screaming loudly, his agonised wails overpowering any murmured conversations within the large hall. If it wasn't for [Sovereign's Perception], Typhoeus would have missed the hushed words that Harlowe whispered into his brother's ear as he was forced to use his knife to cut the big man free from the chair that he was partially seared into.

"Don't worry brother, we won't let this stand. We'll get that bitch later, just not in front of so many witnesses eh, when Rolfy’s done with her, she'll be begging for the knife, I promise you that."

Typhoeus frowned as he heard the words, but that was a problem for later. The jovial atmosphere of the party was dead; maybe it was the smell, or perhaps it was the screams, but no amount of drink and lively music could resurrect the once celebratory mood that he had brought crashing to a halt.

The clerk waited patiently for the team of adventurers to leave before turning to Typhoeus. “Miss Typh, I feel that the Guild owes you an apology. Rest assured that I will look into this matter personally, but perhaps it would be best if you left the premises for the night,” the clerk said as he looked at Typhoeus, the wrinkles around the older man's eyes showing no hint of emotion either way about the evening's events as he waited patiently for him to respond.

“Of course. Thank you for your timely arrival,” Typhoeus said cooly.

“Think nothing of it, but in future, do try to refrain from using offensive auras within the Guilds grounds,” the clerk answered impassively before turning around and walking away as onlookers steadily streamed around him. The partygoers finally deciding to make their exit from the hall and out onto the starlit streets of Rhelea.

Typhoeus looked over to Arilla to see her hurriedly limping over to him, wincing as she put weight on her broken ankle. Her eyes were watery and full of unspilled tears as she looked away from him, refusing to meet his eyes as she came to a wobbly stop in front of him.

"I'm sorry that I caused a scene," Typhoeus said, reaching out for her hand.

"No I'm sorry, I tried to get help, but it took so long. I’m so weak and useless!" she cried, ignoring his outstretched arm as she stepped forwards and hugged him instead, burying her head in Typhoeus's shoulder.

"No you're not; if you weren't so obviously injured, I'm sure you'd have come rushing to my rescue earlier," Typhoeus said, a relieved smile on his face as he softly stroked her hair. The two of them took a long moment to just hold one another close as they stood there in silence.

"I'm so sorry. I just wish I was stronger. If I didn't get hurt fighting those goblins…" she trailed off, sniffling against him as she spoke into his neck. "I just really hate this world sometimes. I hate how the strong are always abusing the weak. Tonight should never have happened."

“It’s okay, I’m okay. This was hardly the worst thing that has ever happened to me,” he said, lying to her for the first time in days.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“No I’m not. Now let's get you to a proper healer. The evening is still young, and at the next place we go to, I want you to get the drinks,” he said, his false good cheer eliciting the faintest hints of a smile from his distraught warrior.

Despite the brevity of their conversation, they didn't leave until long after the hall had emptied of its other occupants, leaving just a handful of staff to clean up the large mess made by the party's attendants. While they had received a lot of dirty looks, nobody had come forward to chastise or punish Typhoeus for his actions. For all of her undeserved self-hatred, Arilla was right about one thing. In this world, the strong preyed on the weak with impunity, and by maiming that warrior 50 levels his senior Typhoeus had proven himself to be anything but weak.