"Alright, I think we can all come to an understanding here, right? I'm being oppressed, just like all of you. Right?"

Fahlnem was sure he had a few spare moments to think while the market crowd, quietly, decided on what they would do. Like a hive-mind, contemplating whether or not to resort to barbarism, each individual for themselves, in a brash attempt to claim the prize of capturing a warlock. The Pyromancer never fancied himself any sort of warlock. He actually fancied himself a smartass, first and foremost. But nonetheless, he preferred the title of 'mage' or 'pyromancer.' Just as he had this mental process, a tall working-class man with tapestry-covered skin stepped forward, pointing determinedly at Fahlnem. "'e's a warlock! An Elf, to boot! What'll 'e do if'n we jus' grab'im, ey?" Yeah, still not a warlock. Sorry. It's 'mage.'

A few of the more desperate-looking individuals took this opportunity to bolster themselves and advance on him, reaching out and trying to poke, prod, or grab him. "Hey! Fuck off. I'm not a warlock, alright? Just leave me the hell alone." He could barely hear his own warning over the increasing rowdiness of the townspeople. He was lucky he got this far in the pursuit of peace. Or, at least, the pursuit of no bloodshed.

"Just grab him already!"

"First one to capture 'im gets the Markes!"

"Anybody got a rope to tie him up with?!"

Already gonna have bruises on my wrists from wrenching myself away from their grubby paws. He rose his voice, as well as a hand ignited in raging flame, indicative of his declining mood. "Everybody back the FUCK off before someone gets murdered. Final warning."

The crowd saw silence for a minute, with a few suspicious individuals trying their best to shove their way through the procession, unbeknownst to Fahlnem. The tattooed individual stepped up again, throwing a punch at the Pyromancer's face. He took it hard, stumbling back into the arms of the crowd with a bloodied nose and perhaps a broken jaw. God fucking damnit. He reached with his left hand around the forearm of one of his wannabe-captors, and his eyes lit up with blue arcs of vindication.

He remembered a fatherly individual. Cold at times, and easily irritated by continuous streams of energetic questions. His magic teacher. "Argus, what's the deal with wands and staffs and things like that? I can cast fine without them, but every mage has something like that, right?"

"Focuses. They take the strain of spellcasting so that our bodies can last longer. Low-power spells like the ones you practice with aren't enough to affect you when you use your body as a focus."

"Quiet. Finish your spell first. You are doing it wrong, at any rate."

Fahlnem slacked his stance, standing upright and tilting his head. Argus smacked him on the knee with his obsidian staff, his preferred focusing device for spells. "Ow." He dropped back into his stance. "When can I get one of those?"

"When you can put it to good use. And yourstance is fine. You need to concentrate better. Focus on drawing the mana from its reservoir, deep in your soul. Convey it to your palm, adjusting its essence into that of Fire."

"Right. Sorry." Fahlnem closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He wasn't exactly sure how to find his mana pool all of the time. He figured it was because of how well he could concentrate sometimes and not others, but its size in his consciousness varied. After locating the reservoir of energy and grabbing mental hold of it, he drew out the amount of mana he thought he would need for the spell, opening channels in his consciousness to direct its flow through what he imagined as a filter. This filter converted his mana into Fire mana, which could then move to his hand to be expelled as he saw fit. He stiffened his body, extending his right elbow out of the invisible circle he was supposed to maintain his stance in, and formed a fireball about the size of a kickball. Almost immediately, the fireball untethered from his palm and launched with all of the velocity but none of the trueness of a good arrow. It barely even hit the target after making several figure-eights in the air.

"Better. The process of spellcasting is divided into-" Fahlnem immediately cut in, eager to show his teacher that he was capable. That he knew how to be a mage, he just wasn't experienced yet.

"-four phases. The first, Motion. You use a stance or a focus device to form your spell. The second is Momentum, when the spell is in the air, if it's ranged. Then Impact, when it hits the target. And finally, Dissipation, when the spell 'dies' and dissipates its residual mana. ...Right?"

"...Yes, that is correct. Each phase is influenced by the prior; your fireball is weak and inaccurate during the Momentum phase because you do not take enough time to stabilize your spell in the Motion phase. That is all for today."

Fahlnem dispelled a deadly amount of electricity into the man holding him. He, along with 4 others in close proximity, hit the ground in an instant. Fahlnem regained his posture, glowering at the rest of the crowd. "Rest of you fuckers wanna get cooked? Huh?" He outstretched his arms in a triumphant manner. The crowd was silent. The Pyromancer wiped a stream of blood from his nostril while his right arm illuminated with violent arcs of electricity. He could tell, just by the air of the market, that they were all fatally unfamiliar with the concept of Lightning magic. The buffoons probably only got as far as mastering the basic elements. He pointed an electrified finger at the man who socked him earlier, taking a few short strides closer.

"The train station. Tell me where it-"

"Warlock! One of you, grab him!"

This again? Thought I cured some idiocy when I crisped the first couple of shitheads. He craned his neck, observing a group of marching individuals cladded in purple robes. While they were most assuredly Humans based on the breadth of their shoulders alone, their ears had adorned on them a purple tip to make it seem as if they were Elves. Immediately, Fahlnem scanned for their weapons. Phew. Just halberds. Normal-looking, too. No Pale Spears here.

...

Oh, shit. This dumpster-dick just used up all his mana. Time to skedaddle.

Fahlnem immediately turned and broke into a run. The three white-and-purple individuals chased through the crowd after him, knocking over their fellow Humans in the pursuit. Fahlnem, contrarily, weaved in between confused citizens, leapt over boxes, and crawled under saw-horses. He rushed past a procession of well-to-do merchants, raising a hand with which to give them 'the finger,' his fingering finger a small, disrespectful pillar of flame. Worth the mana. Almost immediately afterward, his right arm was almost pulled out of socket as an unaccounted-for pursuer grabbed him, stopping him in place. Everything but that arm continued moving forward, wrenching the breath from Fahlnem's lungs as his body was ragdolled. Before he could recover from this unfair treatment, another white-robed man stepped in front of him.

Fuck. There were five of them, huh?

The man knocked Fahlnem out with just one punch to the noggin.

Fahlnem awoke with a start. He recognized the man from the wharf in front of him, bathed in white armor, with none of the white-robed men to be seen. Taking the chance to speak first, he-

"Weird for us to meet again like this. You must have a crush on me." The man spoke first.

Fuck. I was gonna say that.

"Uh... yeah. It's not exactly my own preference, y'know? Where's your spear, by the way? Didn't have it last time, either. Actually, you've looked like a, uh... what's your currency called, again?"

"Markes."

"Yeah. You look like someone who begs for Markes. You people call them anything weird in this realm?"

"...Beggars."

"Yeah. You look like one'a those. Got a name?"

"I am one of the eighteen Pale Spears. They call me the Forgotten of Vows. I am the twelfth-most powerful." The man extended his arms to the sides, a sheer-white spear coalescing in his hand as his body became cladded in monochromatic plating. Violet stamps and ribbons adorned his shoulders and forearms, as well as one long ribbon of lilac cloth spanning the width between his legs. Fahlnem noticed a relation between the man's ranking and the accoutrements on his body. So the more purple they wear, the stronger they are? More venerated, maybe?

"That really is awesome and all, but I'm gonna have to give you a bit of a better name. How's Forgo sound? Perfect. Havin' a nice day, Forgo? Oop, wait, don't answer; because I'm sure as fuck am not. Not having a nice day. At all. The thugs stole my shit. I've done, and I can't stress this part enough, literally nothing wrong and I've been treated like an asshat since I got here." He glanced behind him. He was wearing proper cuffs now. It'll take longer to get out of these.

"I understand that you have a number of questions and... concerns about your imprisonment. Surely, you understand that this is due to your status as a warlock. Don't try to deny it; I saw it myself at the wharf."

"Yeah, what was that all about, anyway? And who were the lookalikes that chased me through the market?" His wrists began to heat up, slowly reaching a yellow hue.

"When you arrived, you were dressed in white. Pretentious, but also heretical. I was alerted by those 'thugs' that captured you that an improperly-dressed Elf was wandering the city and establishing chaos. I saw you were of my kin, an Elf, and a foreigner, so I sent a fireteam after you; the Lilac Rites you ran into earlier."

Fuck. I've been played. The cuffs began to heat up.

Forgo continued. "Not only did you execute thirteen unarmed civilians, you did it with magic. I was going to help you. Now, following protocol, you will be transported to Ianann, the Elven capitol, to face our leaders as a heretical warlock. Your confiscated equipment will be dismantled and sent to the human city, the Maw, for study and sale."

"None of my stuff is here?"

"No. By now, it will have been on its way to the Maw. Any further questions before you are loaded onto a train to Ianann?"

Alright. The beggar I gave lightning Dust to; he said that the Pale Spear would be in the train station checkpoint. I just need to finish melting these cuffs, erase Forgo here, and catch a railway to Ivory Maw. Perfect plan. "What's your armor made out of? It looks incredible." The cuffs around his wrists began to glow white.

"Scorium. It resists magic. Queen Dalamus created it with alchemy." Fahlnem couldn't see Forgo's face, but he knew he was smirking. "You won't be getting out of those cuffs, by the way. They're Scorium too."

Damn. New plan time.

A Lilac Rite shouted through the bars on the door. "Train's ready. Time to go." Forgo grabbed Fahlnem by a shoulder, wrenching him up out of the chair. He whispered in the Pyromancer's ear as the two hobbled to the door of the all-white jail cell. "If you express yourself to be an upstanding citizen before the court, you may be forgiven for your crimes, so long as you recant the way of the warlock. Just something to keep in mind."

As Fahlnem boarded the train against his will, he had a number of ponderings in his mind. He would mull them a bit longer before expressing them to Forgo.