Peacekeeping; strife [Outlander Prompt]

He'd never been to the this stretch of coast to the southwest, enjoying the warm summer day at the docks, the gulls crying amidst the heat that was blessedly mitigated by the rush of cool sea-salt air. It wasn't quite a reminder of home, for his beaches were cold more often than not, but it was far closer to nostalgia, and that was enough for him.

He'd parted ways from Danaë when Lucie pulled her sleeve and brought her to look at dresses and things of a feminine nature, and amidst wry, comfortable grins and explanations, he wanted Danaë to have a good moment with her daughter not fraught with his bumbling lack of knowledge about colors and lace. He'd love whatever Lucie picked out, and that was enough for him. So, for the better part of an hour, he'd found himself being pulled away from the new merchant stalls and towards the ships, admiring the style of ships he'd never seen before. The eyes painted on the hulls drew him in, calling to something earnest in him he hadn't felt in a long time.

He knew he was afraid of the sea now, knew he could never step foot aboard a ship for all his nightmares. The destruction in Faline had more than taught him that. But still, he could let himself long for what he couldn't have, admire it from afar. The summer sun filtered through risen canvas sails, and he lifted his broad, scarred hand to see it, letting his thoughts trail as they may as he came closer.

The sounds of many voices brought him out of his reverie, and he found himself walking towards a large crowd who watched new cargo be brought in. There wasn't much about the event to set it apart from any other merchant ship unloading their wares on the dock, aside from the curiosity from what might be inside, and the flourishes of magic easily brought about by the foreign crew. Málmr's brow faintly furrowed, glancing amidst the edge of tension in the crowd, before his eyes joined the rest at the sound of something snapping up above them.

Cries of surprise, a push of fear to get away from a heavy crate that'd broken free of the rigging, all cut short as the crate stopped in mid-fall as one powerful mage of the crew extended his hand and caught it before it could hurt anyone in the crowd. Exclamations arose, murmurs of hissing tension, and scattered applause rippled through the crowd as a result, making Málmr rather uneasy. No mage here in Ivras had telekinesis so powerful or so carelessly displayed and after the rampage of the Archmage....

The ropes were still snapping despite the effort of the crewman, and Málmr took in a breath and rose his hand up too, creating a small round shield to help bring it back down until it rested safely on the ground, a bruise blossoming painfully across his forearm as he did so.

The men and women around him flinched to a second display of magic, and he ignored it, feeling his skin on edge with heartache that he willingly accepted. He crossed glanced with the outlander mage wordlessly, nodding to them --

"Rotten mages. Pox on them all." Someone spat to his left.

A chill ran up his spine as murmurings of agreement spread through the hostile crowd, and he felt the rush of danger, of battle about to erupt. The answering murmurs, the stares suddenly upon him, treating him as the monster he so feared to become, all of it made his blood run cold. He should have left it alone, should have let the matter go.

"We mages only wish to keep you safe." He said, his deep voice carrying over the crowd as he ground his teeth. "Should we not have stepped in when the rope snapped? Had you all not gathered to mock them, you would not have been in danger." 

"We wouldn't be in danger in the first place had it not been for mages!" Someone to his left bit out.
"It was the Archmage who killed those people! The Order is filled with murderers waiting to happen!" 
Behind him, a yell of agreement, then off over his shoulder: "No mages! Remember the worm!"

The crowd riled itself up after that, and nothing he said after that could calm them, his deep voice swallowed up by the crowd. Someone picked up a stone from the docks and threw it, and pain blinded him as it struck his brow. After that, rocks were thrown freely at the crew, and then when that ran out, random things from the crowd's pocket.

"ENOUGH!!" He boomed as shallow blood ran over his eye from the cut on his brow. He opened that wound by created a tall, glimmering shield wall between the crowd and the crew, moving it closer to the crowd to push them back, and back and back, making them stammer and drop their weapons. "By command of the Ivran Order, disperse immediately!" 

Again he pushed the shield wall away from the crew, and again the crowd cried out as they tried to back up, the outer edges filtering away in their shock to escape an Order mage's magic. They pushed him as they fled, till he was the last one standing, and he let the wall fall in a sudden wave of tiredness that had nothing to do with the use of his magic.

He glanced one last time at the mage of the crew, a look of wordless understanding passing them both before he turned to go and find Danaë.

She would not be pleased to see him hurt again.