The Eye of the Beholder

[Sören]

He was trying to capture something useful in the scrawling malfunction (at least that was what he assumed was flashing a red distraction across his blurred vision), but she failed to take the hint -- despite that for a moment the shadow of her form scrambled encouragingly back. By now Sören had pushed up to his knees. His breaths began to temper a prison around the pain, and he found a little more solace when he closed both eyes entirely. The control soothed him even if the vulnerability did not.

“Do you require a gold star? I presume you have two working eyes,” he said into the prism of his present darkness. No smile lifted his lips despite her attempt at banter. “Try telling me something I don’t know, and then perhaps I’ll be impressed.”

He gave her no reason to stick around, but she did so anyway. If she really cared for the thorn of his company, she was welcome to it. Since he could not presently walk away. Instead he offered out his hand palm up, accepting her offer. It burned presented to the air, a nuisance he had not even wholly registered before now. The brand on his skin hid somewhere beneath the blood, but she had no way of knowing how unprotected it left him to hold all those fingers straight. A few bands of worn leather circled his wrist, and a tattoo exposed itself on the inside of his forearm now that he held the arm out. 

“You stink like ash,” he observed blandly. “Can I have a smoke?”