A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

Sören had a fondness for words, and if he assumed an insult in the smoothness of her voice, he at least appreciated its grandiose wrappings. “I take but a blink, and lo, the chair becomes a throne,” he said of her demand, amused. Her shoulder tipped an inconsequential investment, her posture curled relaxed, like it just so happened Sören was the one in orbit of her vicinity. He did not care to impress her; he thought she had already decided on that, anyway, whatever he said. But the threat of apathy stung. Not of her reaction to whatever he chose to share, which would undoubtedly be as muted as her expression now, but that she might not actually want to hear how he would tell it. There was power in words, and Sören considered himself a poet.

He rubbed his jaw, obscuring the smile that was a little more boyish than his usual proclivity. “It might burn them from your skull,” he warned. “I would not be so cruel.”

He leaned a heavy hand on the table and stood, the scale pendant rocking back against his chest as he straightened. Around them the kitchen’s occupants had thinned, though they were by no means alone. His throat was parched from the first telling. If she’d truly been enamoured of the story, and desired to hear more, she might have at least offered to fetch the reward of a drink. Poor thanks, and poorer manners. Fortunately for her, he found the scathe of her wit pleasant enough company.

“Unless, perhaps, you are not so mortal as you appear.” He held out a hand for her cup, should she want her own refill while he was up. Leather strips tied with charms circled his wrist, the pale lip of a jagged scar upon his palm. “For I could believe that.”