Don't Rock the Boat

Sylen threw another rock at the wall. It clattered pitifully onto the floor with a nearly inaudible thump.

He'd been down here for about an hour now, with-- well, with whoever this guy was. Uwe, maybe? Some mage, an Order mage, who seemed to be a bit too dainty for Sylen's liking; they'd only met after being assigned to work with each other earlier this morning. Since the Archon's election, a lot of Witchfinding duty had become a lot more 'bureaucratic'; their task had been to go around town and, essentially, take census-- registered mages, non-mages, and then of course unregistered, who would be sent to Namarast.  Of course, when the first door they'd knocked on had three unregistered mages behind it, Sylen and Uwe had found themselves quickly dragged into the cellar, their only exit locked tight.

The mages were all young, barely more than teenagers, if that. One of them had caught Sylen off guard; they'd turned his shoes to stone, as well as Uwe's, which was not only completely unexpected, but had led to the Witchfinders' relative defeat-- and thus, temporary imprisonment. Sylen, though bored, wasn't too worried. He'd been in countless situations like this before and gotten out of all of them. Uwe, however, Sylen was worried for.

Sylen scratched at the stubble lining his jaw and sighed, one arm resting over his knees as he crouched against the wall. He glanced upward. "They still haven't decided what to do with us," he muttered to his companion. "I can hear them talking on the floor above." He gave a displeased sort of smirk. "Can you hear them any better than I can?"