He hated the looks he got sometimes – those questioning glances he got whenever he sat down at a bar to have a swing of mead, wondering, How old is this guy, anyway? At five feet, five inches, some of the guys in this tavern could've picked him up and thrown him out if they wanted to, but the stare from those pale grey eyes told them they might want to rethink such a decision. The tattoos that cloaked his wrists, and the dark hood he slung over his head spoke mysteries to the normies, but for Reks, they were just weapons – arms he held to intimidate, to threaten with wordlessly with his eyes and stance alone. It normally worked. It left him alone, but not lonely.
The only company he held was a mug of spiced mead and a plate of Hyoite's famous crab. He only sipped at his mead, head held down, and his hood covering most of his face. The upside to having cat ears (that he would forever hide from this world) was that he could hone in on every conversation being held in this tavern, and keep up with each and every one of them, all at the same time. They spoke of trivial things – of the fishing season, of the stagnant, ever frozen weather, and of family and friends. No one seemed to speak of the mages – or of magic itself. Perhaps he really was amongst normies here, but that wasn't what Reks wanted in the slightest.
He should rest, he knew – it would do good to give himself a vacation, wouldn't it? But he wasn't sure he knew of anyone who would come to this frozen wasteland for a vacation – maybe a quick stop for the mead here, sure, but besides that, there was nothing notable, except the family atmosphere the taverns and pubs seemed to hold. As he held his mug of ale out, he caught sight of his tattoos – spiraling, branching out across his wrists, a symbol of the curse, of his taint. And he smirked a little – because, if not for the curse, maybe he wouldn't be here at all?
So what, if no mages lurked in this town – was it a crime to enjoy himself? Reks laughed to himself, holding his mug to the bartender, who seemed apathetic and indifferent to the eighteen year old sitting at his counter. Peering at the barkeep from over his mug, Reks asked, "Not much entertainment around here, is there?"
He seemed to strike a nerve. The bartender looked up from the cup he was cleaning, and cut his eyes at Reks, unnerved. "Normally, there ain't," he muttered, with a crooked drawl. "You're a city boy, ain'tcha? I can tell by that look in your eyes. You're probably all stone and no heart – just like all tourists who come here, just to sit at the bar and run their mouths, criticizin'."
Reks cut his eyes at the barkeep, but did not put down his mug. There was that stare again – and in that moment, he thanked the spirits for his eyes, for intimidation really was the best sort of skill to have. The barkeep could not hold the mage hunter's gaze, and returned to his cleaning, grumbling. "We're supposed to have entertainment tonight," the keep grumbled again, cleaning his cup more vehemently. "A dancer. Paid good money for her." He gestured toward the tavern's stage with his damp washcloth. "You should get a good seat while you can."
He raised an eyebrow, curious, and flipped a coin the barkeep's way for his trouble. He had been wrong – Reks wasn't a city boy, far from it. He had grown up on the Isles, where troubles were supposed to be figments of the imagination. Maybe the streets did harden me, Reks thought as he left the bar, moving up closer to the stage to get a better seat, taking his mead with him. But I'd rather be tough than soft. So he'd relax, for now. But he knew there were mages in Hyoite, somewhere – and he'd find them, take them back where they belonged.
But even machines, Reks knew, took breaks. Didn't he deserve a vacation?