Deliverance

The Wicker.

A strange tavern on the outskirts of Mead, full of twisting staircases and winding hallways, built into the trunk of a centuries-dead tree. It’s known best for its eccentric keeper and permanently dark rooms, lit only by candles and oil lamps of all shapes and sizes. Those who prefer the shadows find themselves at home here, and Sebastien is no different.

The low flicker of candlelight leads him down the halls, his hands in his pockets and head ducked into his collar. Low mumbles of greetings are offered to those who pass, but none are in the mood to talk at such an early hour; the morning sun had barely kissed the horizon only moments ago.

He slips into a room that he considers his favorite; wooden floors perfectly polished, plush velvet seats, book shelves from ceiling to floor. A fireplace crackles along the wall, the vague scent of oak hanging in the air. He orders a tea from the bartender (she gives him a funny look, but he pretends not to notice), and leans against the counter. As he waits, his gaze lands on a stack of the day’s paper.

“Here you go, enjoy.”

Sebastien looks back as a steaming cup of tea is placed in front of him, tickling his nose with its fruity aroma. He smiles, reaching for a copy of the paper and his tea. “Thank you, my dear,” He offers with a soft nod before turning away. It does not take him long to settle in his seat of choice, back to the wall and fireplace to his right.

He skims the ink peppered across the pages, written by over-enthusiastic journalists and underpaid editors. Most are trivial. A new shop is opening up down the street and is welcoming new customers with sales and giveaways. A child's dog is missing. A thief is imprisoned. Sebastien skips each and every one until he finds the page he's looking for, the title sprawled across the top in thick black letters:

CRIMINAL ROGUE MAGE, DEAD

He didn’t have to read the article to know what it said.

A mage had gone wild in the streets of Mead. An innocent had been killed. He had been imprisoned, but escaped at the aid of his fiance before he could be tried. He was dangerous. He was a killer on the loose. But a witchfinder by the name of Mairyn Varlette had finally captured him, holding his thumb, print intact, as proof before a blood-smeared shrine to Fortune herself.

Sebastien rubs his finger over the bloody bandage that is wrapped around what used to be his thumb before he moves to fold the paper. It hurts like a bitch now, healing flesh throbbing against tight bounds, but it's nothing compared to a hanging, he figures.

With a sigh, he tosses the column to the table and reaches for his tea, closing his golden eyes as he leans back in his seat. He shouldn’t be smiling, but he is, with a peaceful tug of his lips.

For all intents and purposes, Basileios Veres is dead.