A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

Curious fingers poked and prodded the scale, and Sören watched idly. He did not care for the trinket; it was little more than a relic, and it was not like he needed the reminder. Most took the story in the spirit of entertainment, presuming its falsehood while revelling in its brief magic. Some promised an attempt to eke the real story out of him another night as they parted. It was one of the reasons he usually told so much of the truth; the self-satisfaction of knowing they were wrong. But it also served a test. In a world where channelers existed as accepted phenomena, those enamoured of similar mystery sometimes revealed themselves to the lure. Usually, they were the ones who lingered.

Eventually the gathering dispersed, yet a woman remained curled in her chair. He knew from description alone that she was the one the man from the banya had found so distasteful. The same one who spoke with the artist at the lakeside, and for whom he had decided upon staying in this particular hostel. He cast the bones to fate beyond that, and would not have approached her. But providence spoke. And she had an acid tongue.

She studied the scars, and Sören studied her in turn. He caught the scale between two fingers, clicking it against the tabletop like a count to his thoughts. A lazy smirk toyed the words she thrust in his direction. The hint of his own smile flickered and vanished. “Was there a particular part beyond your comprehension?”