A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

His skin rippled with discomfort, and not from the cool winds across the lake. Something in Sören’s attention sharpened, but not to Kemala’s words. He abandoned his search through the bag in favour of scouring the placid waters around them. The runes rushed into his grip, and with it his senses roared to bright life. Tension held him taut for a few moments more before his gaze returned to the woman opposite, as if to assure himself she really was using the power. Her fingers trailed languidly. The engine was still silent. His expression flickered with the possibility of being wrong, and he grunted in dismissive irritation.

Then the boat beneath them shuddered. A thunk hit the wood, broke splinters beneath his feet, like they had been speared from below.

“Skitprat,” he muttered. His palm pressed down, jaw hard. The sharp point receded with a wrench, sending them rocking. A weak spurt of ice-cold water gurgled between his fingers. The runes circled fiercely, but he was not sure he had the time to manage the repairs and protect them at the same time. He did not yet check for Kemala’s reaction. She had defended against the rage of a tsunami and intimated knowledge of arcane strength. He required her to hold her own. At least for a moment.

“Visa dig själv!” he yelled. Somewhere close the water frothed into a frenzy. The arc of a tentacle rose.

[[translations: "shit" and "show yourself"]]