A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

She acquiesced quickly enough to the bargain. Sören had not been sure of that, wondering if she might instead bristle at the dangling of bait only for the lure to pull away and demand a sacrifice in turn. If a smile twitched, it did not remain on his lips long. Instead his gaze followed the dark slice of skin revealing the sweeping bone of her collar, and the image inked there.

Kemala had offered her name like a piece of treasure, but the true prize was in the captivation of an audience, and that was what he offered in kind. A scholar’s interest absorbed looping whorls reminiscent of a gleaming serpent, its head flared into a hood. He considered setting Paragon’s eye to the task of answering her question with a depth of insight she might find surprising -- assuming such a cursory search would drag anything up. But he didn’t seek to impress, and he wanted to hear what tale she would spin and the way she would tell it, whether it be truth or lies. He wanted to be impressed. Craft mattered as much as content.

"I do not," he said instead, truthfully. "And you can call me Sören." His attention remained a moment longer before he turned to finish preparing the tea. It wasn’t a job he rushed. Afterwards he held the cup out to her, handle winged out for delicate fingers to clasp.