Crossroads

Jericho could only scoff and shake his head as Málmr continued with his reasoning from moments prior. Of course, it was a valid point, he knew that; Magic was a skill that needed to be mastered, managed and used in a non-destructive way - he wasn't so ignorant to think otherwise. But was taking them from their homes and locking them within the Order their only solution?

He spoke the thoughts aloud to the man, waving his hands around to solidify his own point in a fashion that finally seemed less aggressive and instead saught debate, looking for ideas beyond what Miriam set in place. Sylen was quiet, though. The anxious replies and keenness to leave were curious, but before there was a chance to question, Sylen's fog reached his gaze and filled his mind. He was no longer in the Beggar, but by a dock, surrounded by faces he did not recognise-


That man - Floren. There he was, that rotten bastard, poisoning the mind of another lost soul and easing them into a life of utter depravity, morally ignorant and set in ways that evoked nothing but ire from Jericho. His breath was heavy as he had no choice in watching the scene unfold, heart shattering at the sight of the elderly mage in Floren's grasp. In Sylen's grasp.

So the stranger in the bar was also a witchfinder, was he? Though, he was smart enough to notice both Málmr and Sylen were not exactly comfortable with the path they had chosen.

But they had chosen it.

And the knowledge did not sit comfortably in his stomach.

“Or would you yield to an insect?”


Insect.

"What just-" Slowly, Jericho began to see the familiar shapes of the Beggar again, hazed and gaussian blurred as if he were in a dream. The man steadied himself with a ringed hand on the bar, huffing, "Am I completely fucking mad? What in Ivras is wrong with the two of you?" He shakily spat through gritted teeth as the memory came to a close, both enraged and disorientated from what had just happened. "Sylen, is it? A mage too? Quite a terrible scene you picked to show us." Another breath.

"That senile old man, he was such a danger, was he? Such a threat to your lives you roughhoused him and took him away from his love? His family?"

 If you were fearless, you'd accuse Jericho of being on the verge of tears, then. "How do you sleep at night knowing you are sentencing your own kind to a life of utter misery? We try and live peacefully out here - you are hunting us down like plagued mutts and expecting us to be thankful. Psh, fucking cowards if you ask me." A disgusted leer up and down the two men spoke further words he hadn't said aloud.

"Taking the easy way out and kissing the feet of a devil to save your own sorry hide." Jericho stood quickly, a finger pointing at Málmr as he continued his accusations, "And I don't want to hear you say that you don't do just that. The fact you've joined their ranks simply enables the less kind killers to continue their 'work.' Floren's company is not something I'd wish on my worst fucking enemy." A scowl sent Sylen's way then.

He didn't want to be angry... Who was he helping with his cussing, finger-pointing and gritted teeth? If it wasn't too late to guide them on a clean path, he was going to try. With a melodramatic sigh, Jericho sat back down and closed his eyes.

"Look, clearly neither of you are comfortable with the profession you are in. You are simply 'making do' in the terrible situation we are all in. But you don't need to let Miriam win. If you are not happy, if you cannot bear to sleep at night, then why don't you make an effort to change?" The suggestion came again, a reminder that neither of them were in this forever; If despair and guilt were eating them alive, why would they not take the offer for change?


 "I can help you right your wrongs. If you're afraid, join the rest of us - she cannot fight us all if her lackey's change their minds."