Crossroads

"Cease your insults."

The rumble of Málmr's voice shook Jericho to his core where he stood before he could answer Sylen's surprisingly spirited retort, eyes widened and framed by furrowed brows. The power in his voice alone spoke wonders - such a pity he was part of the opposition... He'd swoon if the circumstances were not as dire.

"A jackal? If I'm the jackal here, that must make you the sheep." He'd huff his riposte, which would, unbeknownst to him, be the last he would give to the pair. Jericho acted rashly, a trait he found obscene in his men - Gods, what a group these three were. Victims to their own minds and exploding together in a terrifyingly beautiful way (he would think after the fact.)

Before he sat, Jericho passed a glance to the food left atop the bar and returned the gaze back to Sylen, who seemed pale, sickly and on the verge of chucking up. He lowered his stare and picked the plate up to place before the man as he sat. "You should try and eat. Strength is important to manage with magic use." A surprisingly sincere piece of advice was given, perhaps telling the pair that he would yield for now and entertain a civil conversation.

With gritted teeth and relinquished breath, knuckled white and eyes closed, Jericho turned to face the pair who had since taken their seats opposite him around the table. "Forgive me. I do not wish to speak out of turn, nor do i wish to misplace my ire onto either of you." A line that was most likely thought impossible by the others slipped from his mouth and a curt bow of his head was offered as extra damage control.

"But you cannot blame me for feeling this way. People are suffering, just look at him." A gesture to Sylen, "I understand not under either of your eyes, yes, but there are plenty who use the witchfinder title as a means to torture, hunt and kill for their own desires. We all know this." A sigh joined him where he sat, slumped in the wooden chair as if all hope had been lost already.

"Floren for one. Bas and his fiancee are dear friends of mine, she's detailed the situation in a letter. And he insulted me personally a few weeks or so ago," Jericho's hand waved as if that was the worst part. "I think all three of us can agree that the right thing to do is take him down and crush the crown he thinks he wears. You might both be the enemy, but I can make peace with that for now, trusting that you use your title for..." The next word seemed to come with a struggle, "Good. And perhaps you will begin to see that this isn't the only way we can help mages who do need a hand."

Still, Jericho would listen to everything the strangers had to say for themselves. To the deeper recount of Bas' unfortunate situation from Málmr, and Sylens subtle admittance that this was all completely new to him. They could make this work if they tried - if Jericho tried to see them all as people simply trying to live, just like he.

Sylen's mention of possible help did spark a new sense of eagerness, gave him hope that maybe this wasn't as dire of a situation as he previously thought. It was incredibly clear to see that the newly turned mage was feeling anything but hopeful, though, the desolate look in his glistening eyes (he wouldn't blame him if he cried, he could only guess how terrifying it was to be hit with magic out of nowhere, especially in the current climate) and unwillingness to look at either one of them proof enough he didn't want a single part of this.

"Sylen, I think there is actually something you could do to help us." Jericho's smirk was once again glued to his lips, his focus on the younger of the men, "Do you think there is any possibility you could select visions you wish to show? We could use your first-hand visions to track him down, could we not?" The suggestion came with hope in his voice, sparkling eyes blinking in Málmr's direction as he awaited the other's opinion on harnessing Sylen's new gift.