The Eye of the Beholder

[Sören]

At least sense finally caught up enough for her to seem afraid. She recoiled, wide-eyed, tense. Sören might not claim to be a decent man, but he did not revel in her fear. It was necessary, though, given her persistence. If she was to be useful, he preferred her to understand the dangers of his company, and if she were not then it appeared to be the only way to shake her loose. His arms folded, one fist clenched in the crook of an arm. The runes hovered close. No, he did not think her Atharim -- nor had he suspected, until her words now. For a fleeting moment he wondered if it was he who had been blithely led into a trap. But none sprang. Nina practically trembled. 

Still, he let that question hang like a noose. Let her wonder if it would tighten suddenly, or simply slip free from the yoke of her shoulders. “A snake wouldn’t have allowed herself to become cornered, alone,” he said, soft emphasis on that last word. “And yet someone truly ignorant would not remember that name.” If she had been a channeler herself, he had no doubt he would have felt the shiver of it on the street. Nina had barely asked permission for her interference as it was; she would not have held that back. Perhaps a friend or relative, then.

“It would have been quick. There would have been no warning, first.” Suspicion that had not been there before hung like fine mist, now, as he scrutinised her. There was no tattoo, but no denial on her lips either, despite that she was afraid. That, he noted. The unexpected lure of a secret whet his appetite, but it was soured somewhat by the sense of a misstep. He brought up the tattoos only because he had been sure of what she was not. Sure enough to warn her of what he was, and betray himself in the process.

Sören could be cruel. He could certainly be cold. He did not lose sleep over the lives he had cut short, when those actions had been necessary. But he was not capricious.

He turned aside; enough that she could scurry for the exit if she wished.