The Golden Willow is perhaps the most respectable and reputable tavern in the city of Fogroth; unfortunately, I am neither respectable nor reputable, and so I do not enter. I suppose one could argue that patronage is patronage, provided a patron remains well behaved and discreet in their presence. I do not believe I am incapable of maintaining the illusion of good behavior, but discretion, in well to do places such as The Golden Willow has never been a personal boon. 

I should clarify, also, that I am not the self-deprecating type. It isn't that I think so lowly of myself so as to sour my image, or pre-emptively ruin my own reputation. To do so would imply that I had a reputation worthy of ruination to begin with. I am, as many would say, the bottom of the societal barrel. Most of the Tainted are. 

But I digress. I am to meet an important contact near The Golden Willow, but I do not wish to start trouble. If my white hair does not draw attention to my identity, then surely the dark tendril-like marks across my face and neck will. Thus, I do not enter. It's not necessary to disturb the hustle and bustle of their daily business. 

I stand stock still, my back flattened against the wall of the building's exterior. I have my arms and legs crossed as I lean back, as that is a comfortable position for waiting around, but to some extent I hope that my relaxed posture will make my presence less menacing. I mean no harm, and I am meant to be here, but I can understand why others may see me as a threat upon first impulse. Some flinch as they come and go from the tavern, but most ignore me. One notable individual attempts to spit in my direction as he leaves, though his aim is abhorrent, and he lacks originality. Honestly, if they're going to harass me, they may as well make it interesting, and not the same mundane display of disgust that I've witnessed hundreds of thousands of times before in my century and a half of wandering the lands.

By midday, when both the suns are high in the sky, I grow weary, but my contact still has not shown up. It wouldn't be the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last, in all likelihood. I'm perfectly capable of finding my way about the lands and, more importantly, finding the people I need to contact when they do not show up. However, this time things are just ever so slightly different. I am far from a reputable or respectable person, but unfortunately, I am bound by rules of complete diplomacy and respect. The contact I am meant to meet, thus, is to be a cultural guide before I make my way to the country of Oferria's capital city to meet the royal family. I cannot simply run around making demands of people the way I do back home. I am not inexperienced in these types of diplomatic scenarios, either, but they are not preferable.

Still, I have been here since sunrise, and so when my contact does not magically appear and find me, I bite at the edge of my lip, steel my nerves, and enter The Golden Willow's front doors.

The music and laughter of the tavern immediately drops to a low, whispering murmur. The quiet is deafening-unnerving-it always is. I walk through the crowd as they part around me, each pair of eyes another set of needles aimed at my chest. I am wearing heavy armor, but like this, I feel naked and cut raw. I tell myself that it doesn't bother me, and I tell myself, also, that it never has. It doesn't. One hundred years of burning glares and sharp words has made me strong. I stroll through the building and sit down at the bar, as if I have not single-handedly disrupted the entire flow of the day. I must ignore it all.

The bartender shrugs, and although he gives a slight nod to acknowledge my presence, continues to go about his routine serving and cleaning. I am grateful for people like him. I've never enjoyed being the center of attention. The negativity does not bother me even half as much as the focus does. I'd rather drown in the ichor and spit of a thousand enemies than face one more scenario such as this. Alas, I am meant to be ignoring the attention. 

The room is still unnervingly absent of noise and life as I ask the bartender, "I'm supposed to be meeting someone here." 

The bartender huffs. "Yep. Get that a lot. You'll need to be more specific I'm afraid." 

I frown. I was not given a physical description, as shapeshifting magic is common in these parts. Rather, I have been tracking him off of his magic. Every elf, regardless of country of origin or school of study, has their own magic signature. While it is possible for a skilled mage to closely mimic the magic of another, it is incredibly difficult, and therefore uncommon. It makes finding people by magic much easier, and much more reliable. The last letter I was sent had enough magic imbued within the paper to allow me to locate my contact, and I have been tracking it since. Even Still, it isn't as though I could show the letter to anyone. Nor is it likely that any random passerby would be able to help me, given how much nuance and skill the art of magic tracking requires. Even I, with as much experience as I have, can only tell that he is in the general location of this tavern. I cannot pinpoint him unless our flesh touches. 

"I don't know what he looks like... He's a Forest Elf. A mage." 

"Son, I don't know what city you think you're in, but most of my patrons here are Forest Elves, and at least half of 'em are magically gifted." The bartender has a brow raised and his lips tipped up in amusement.

The sigh I let out is not enough to be considered dramatic, but it is, perhaps, just a bit exaggerated. "I was not told much. I don't know what else to say. He's... Young. He controls plants."

None of what I say seems to provide any semblance of recognition or awareness to the man I am speaking to, and I briefly consider trying to find someone else to interrogate. However, before I can say anything else, another man cuts in.

"Have you ever considered that maybe your correspondent was purposefully misleading you?" 

The man is significantly younger than I- Or, in any case, he looks it. The ages of elves can be misleading, but this man has a fair amount of baby fat still present in his round, freckle-kissed cheeks. He is slightly shorter than I, but significantly more muscled, and his hair, while just as long as mine, is dark and curly. He is unfairly pretty; I might have even considered him beautiful, if not for the sneer and look of utter disgust he wears while looking at me. I'm not unused to these types of people; I am not exactly the most appealing person to hang around, after all. Still, he seems young enough that his animosity, if it could be called that, incites amusement rather than rage. 

"I'm sorry, I don't think this is any of your business." 

"It's my business when I'm supposed to look after the people here." He puffs out his chest, a cocky enough gesture. Some might consider it a show of confidence; to me, it makes him look like a Peacock-Kit. He wishes to give the appearance that he is important and well to do, but he is pathetic enough. A Peacock-Kit thinks itself a phoenix until it does not rise anew. I sincerely doubt he could stand up to me if he actually picked a fight, though I intend to be long gone before that could ever happen. 

Still, I am more than a bit annoyed at his arrogance. There are more important tasks to be completed than arguing with a brat. "What does that have to do with my correspondent...?" I tower above him, matching his intensity, and for a brief moment he does pull his posture back. 

Then, with a roll of his eyes, he turns to the bartender. "A Tainted in The Golden Willow isn't exactly good for business, is it?"

"Now now, sir, he's not harmin' anyone. I don't much care for conflict in my tavern." 

"Still. You Blood-Suckers aren't wanted here. You should be able to see that." 

That is enough to boil my blood. Volcanic rage erupts through my veins as I glare intensely at him. I had tried diplomacy. I had tried to be careful, to reign myself in. I had tried to remain inconspicuous and avoid trouble. Yet, in the end, I am not a respectable or reputable man by any means, and when it comes to the same violent language I have heard hurled at myself and my people for centuries, I can no longer just stand by and pretend that I am unaffected. I dig the sharp edges of my nails into the palms of my hands. Were I not wearing fingerless gloves, there would be blood pooling there. 

"I have every right to be here!" I snap. "Who the fuck are you to kick me out of a tavern you don't even own?" 

"I have more right to be here than you do!"

The animosity between us is compelling, and I adjust my stance. My hands raise-a gesture of self-defense, nothing more-but this, I suppose, is enough to signal to the bartender that enough is enough. He sighs, and he sets down the mug in his hands. "Boys, if you want to fight, take it outside." 

The brat beside me does not flinch, but he also does not back down. Perhaps it is in his best interest to keep pressing, because he knows that I, as one of the Tainted, will always be disadvantaged in conflicts. "Maybe I will." He quips, "What say you?" 

If he wants a fucking fight, I'll let him recount the pain of my fists and his bitter defeat to his great grandchildren. I don't care anymore. "Hand to hand only."

"If I pin you first you leave the tavern for good." 

"If I win, you must help me find my contact."

"Deal."

There are eyes on me again, and I know why they're staring. A fight between a Forest Elf and a Tainted One is not unusual when The Tainted are present- But Tainted don't often venture this far into the woods. It is an unusual circumstance by nature of my presence being extraordinary. I am but a novelty, and as we exit the tavern, a small crowd begins to trail out after us. The attention is unnerving. 

Thankfully, though, the stranger has at least enough common decency to tell them off. "What are you all looking at? Leave us. This is our business and ours alone!" I am grateful for that much, and for the fact that, whoever this man is, he holds some sway in the community. Those who had followed us out disburse, and we are left, shifting into preparatory stances.

"First to use magic forfeits." He says, and when I nod in agreeance, he makes his first move. The speed at which he launches himself off the ground is impressive, and reminds me of shifters I've seen in my travels, who could take on the agility and strength of their animal counterparts even when not transformed. I do have to give him credit enough for his dexterity, and how quickly he closes the distance between us, but the swing he throws at my face is easy enough to dodge, and he barely manages to block my retaliating punch. I wouldn't say my hand to hand combat skills are anything special, but I've been told I have an animalistic perseverance that could make even the most hardened fighters hesitate to challenge me. 

Still, he kicks off the ground again, springing backwards and resuming his predatory crouch. We circle each other for a moment, eyes locked in the heat of the fight. He is easy to read, his emotions bleeding into his movements, and by the time he goes in for another series of attempted punches and kicks, I'm prepared to dodge and block each one. 

I'm done playing games with him, though. I want to end this quickly so I can get on with my day and find my damn content. Thus, when he goes in for his next attack, I shift just enough to swing my weight up into a strike at his now exposed solar plexus. He chokes, stumbles, and barely manages to get out of the way of my follow up punch. But, as I meet his gaze again, something has changed.

His eyes are glowing now, a vibrant green reminiscent of the forests I've wandered through, and in spite of his earlier agreement to forfeit upon using magic, I can tell he has absolutely no intent of backing down. Within the next moment, he is flying at me again, though this time his hands are coated in a thick layer of bark and wood, the foliage crawling all the way up his arms and towards his shoulders. I've never been in combat against a Royal Forest Mage before, but I recognize immediately that this is not a fight I want to draw out, especially not without my magic.

As he charges at me one last time, however, I see my opening. In his rage and his quick decision to abuse magic, he's thrown out whatever ounce of combat skills he actually possessed. As he takes a final swing at me with the full force of his wood covered limbs, I swing every ounce of strength I have left into a single punch, knocking him square in the jaw, and sending him flying across the ground. His false limbs shatter and fade with the impact, sending fragments of wood splintering off in every which direction. 

The fight might be over, but I don't feel as though I've truly won. My magic did not make contact with him, but I can feel it reacting to the adrenaline of the fight. There is a distinct purple glow to my vision, and I know with certainty that whatever roiling emotions are passing through me right now have left my eyes aflame. I do not like bringing out my magic, because it means knowledge. It means identity. A man can hold a thousand names, but only one unique magic signature, and to have let myself go enough that I've revealed the source of my skills as a warrior- I feel raw. Exposed. 

More importantly, the stranger stares at me, eyes wide as the morning sun, and pupils equally blown. With a wheeze, he stands, closes the distance between us, and brings a shaking hand against the edge of my jaw. "You... You're a prince."

And at that same moment, something finally clicks in my brain. My magic has revealed who I am, yes. But this Peacock-Kit of an elf, this brat­- He knows who I am because he is the guide I was meant to seek out. That knowledge, combined with the sheer exhaustion that has sunk into my bones after half a day of waiting and a solid fight, combined again with the constant discomfort my presence brings, and the absurdity of it all, that is what finally makes me snap. With an air of exasperation, I force out a laugh. "Well, shit."