Crossroads

 Sylen dragged his tired feet up the steps of the Beggar and Flagon and walked in.

 It was oddly quiet for a tavern; and he did take note of that, of course, as he took note of all things– but right now, he didn’t really care. Whatever ominous meaning the silence in a place like this had, it just didn’t matter. He had more pressing things to think about.

 He’d spent the last twenty-four hours pitying himself, hiding in his room at the Allowance Inn, refusing to come out, and nibbling at what little jerky he had left in his pack. 

 He’d originally thought that if he were to go out, people would swiftly identify him as– well, as a mage– and rat him out. It had taken him the better part of the day to realize he had technically always been a mage, even if he didn’t know it, and that no one had ratted him out thus far. He didn’t have wild horns or glowing eyes or skeletal limbs floating behind him, nor did he have any sort of magic that made him fly or blast fire or what have you. For a mage, he was relatively well hidden.

 Mage. Sylen grimaced, lips tightly closed, a feeble attempt to push back the nausea slicking his throat. The last thing he’d ever want to be, and here he was. He still hadn’t really wrapped his head around the realization; there was so much denial, so many years of not knowing, he just couldn’t take it at face value. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to accept it. He wanted it gone.

 He lazily strolled up to the bar; he didn’t drink, but the bar meant he’d have his back to the rest of the tavern, and he didn’t want to look at anyone else, or let anyone else look at him. He slid into a seat on the far end, far as he could be from anyone else, and paid no mind to the other patrons in hopes that they’d pay no mind to him. He muttered out a quick order to the barkeep, picking at his nails listlessly as he waited for his meal.

 Then, of course, the other patrons started talking. Sylen wasn’t listening at first; he didn’t care. But observation was compulsory for him, it always had been, and undergoing training as a Witchfinder had only exacerbated the impulse. On top of that, the barkeep got involved, which meant Sylen’s dinner would be kept waiting.

 Something about a friend, about mages. Sylen sniffed, head still turned away from them. Something else, about making a change; about destroying mages. Cold fear beaded in Sylen’s throat.

 Then the deeper voice again, a long-winded response with a certain tune– almost as if it had been prepared, like a speech or a song. Sylen looked up.

 The man speaking was burly, tough, but his expression looked soft, almost hurt. A Witchfinder’s pin and cloak adorned the man’s shoulders.

 Between him and Sylen sat another man, his flamboyant garments nearly singeing Sylen’s eyes– same with the blood-red hair– and an ego that radiated outward like the heat of the sun hitting metal. Without any possible doubt, a mage, and clearly not an Order mage at that.

 Sylen’s Witchfinder instincts kicked in. He should apprehend the mage, bring him in, get him set with the Order. But then, there was another Witchfinder here, and openly so, cloak and all– and he made no move to apprehend. If anything, he was defending himself. Sylen felt his brow furrow; he chewed at his inner cheek. Maybe it would be best to let the other Witchfinder handle the mage.

 Sylen kept his head down, gaze still aimed at his fingers atop the bar, and listened to the rest of the speech while dread pooled in his gut, prickly and cold. His heart thumped hard against his sternum, threatening to break his façade of normalcy, and his will barely kept his heart at bay as he struggled to keep his demeanor intact.

 “I make no assumptions of others, of what drives them to their actions,“ the other Witchfinder said. ”So please, don’t make assumptions of me.“

 Sylen’s will lost the fight. He couldn’t help it. He felt his expression curl– in pity, in pain, in disgust with himself– and he dropped his head into his hands, knuckles gone white as he desperately gripped his dark curls. His heart slammed against his ribs, fast and hard; he prayed under his breath that the others wouldn’t pay him any attention.

 “Your meal,” the barkeep grunted. A plate slid across a foot or so of the bar, stopping only when it bumped into Sylen’s elbow. He didn’t look at it.