Crossroads

By the time the young man on Jericho's other side stood, pale and desperate to leave, Málmr stopped listening to the rogue's gentling arguments. He stepped down from his own barstool, and his magic sang at his fingertips to bar this strange creeping fog that the man seemed so afraid of - but it stole him away to its memory before could guard them all against it.

He forgot who he was while the memory played. He'd never felt so small, so fragile and terrified as he did in Sylen's place. The shameful fire and sickening acid in his stomach made him powerless, and the Witchfinders at the beach gave him no other choice than submission. What say did he have? What would they have done to him had he reached out to help that old mage?

It was only after the memory ended that he returned back to himself, leaving him with that tast eof bile in his throat, that the cold realization of what it meant fell on him. That man, Floren Varlette, was the one who --

"Fuckin' -" Reynard broke his thought process as he rubbed his face as if to scrub away the mist,and he threw his glass-cleaning towel on the wood before stalking away. "- Bar's closed. I'm not paid enough to deal with this shit." You could easily hear a 'fucking witchhunters' under his breath as he slammed the kitchen door closed behind him.

The memory had crept over more people than just Málmr, and next it was the rogue who snarled in retaliation pointing his fingers and throwing barbed accusations, and one glance towards Sylen (they all knew the lad's name now), told him he was going too far.

So he stepped fully down from his barstool and for the first time in years, he made full due on his stature and all the threatening weight behind it, his expression battlefield-dark, scarred and terrifying. "You may wish to persuade us, but lack the respect necessary for it."

"I say this to you thrice:" Málmr uttered, his voice as deep and rumbling as a mountain, shuddering beneath your ribs to hear it, "Cease your insults."

"You appeal to no one when you play the jackal." He turned away towards Sylen, leaving his anger at Jericho's feet, turning only an empathetic hand to the lad. "We are men just as you are."

He didn't go so far as to touch Sylen's shoulder, thinking he might balk, but instead he said as kindly as he could as he gestured to one of the round tables meant for the empty musician's stage, "Is it alright if we sit? You didn't mean to cast that, did you. It's alright. You're alright."

He tried to gently usher Sylen to sit, glancing at the rogue to say he was welcome to talk as long as he was civil, and once they were all seated, Málmr laced his thick fingers together and sighed. "I...I'm sorry for what happened in your memory. They were wrong to have treated you that way, wrong to have treated the mage so. They made you ashamed of your morals and made you watch."

He pursed his lips, thinking heavily. "But it must've been by Geirr's grace that we all met tonight, because that man in your memory...I believe he aims to frame one of the mages I arrested and have him hanged."

He solemnly described what happened that night in Mead, how he heard a gunshot and ran to it, saw the shadow mage, Veres, screaming on the ground, shot through the leg. Floren Varlette, ("Would you swat a fly?" ) had lain unconscious next to his sister who tried to help despite the danger she was in, the smoking gun just inches from his hand.

Málmr was soon to be called to Namarast to be witness to the crime at the beach, to condemn the necromancer to his fate. Floren was called upon for Basileios Veres, his sister now missing as the only other witness. He claimed self-defense against a murderer, with no way to contradict him.

"There's only Varlette's word against Veres', who cannot recall the night." Málmr grimaced. "Something must be done to stop this corrupt witchhunter."

Then he looked at Sylen. "Your magic...." He trailed off, unsure of how to say to even begin comforting him. "I'm glad of it. And if you need someone to speak to, I am here."