10-14-2020, 03:44 PM
Sören reclaimed his own seat, and placed his tea on the table in front of him. His arm rested there alongside, fingers flexing and curling in contemplation of her words, while the rest of him lounged at ease. If any of it surprised him it did not spill into his expression, as must befit the wonder and awe owed to such a story, but he did pay rapt attention.
He thought of Alistair Grey, behind bars for the sort of malcontent her tale hinted. Of vengeful gods and unspeakable acts against innocents. Nothing substantiated the claim, but it was not the first time he had heard such conspiracy. Kemala’s own motivations and prejudices aside however, she meant to hook, and she succeeded. Sören’s gaze dipped back to her collar, as though his gaze might pierce the cloth that concealed it now and look again.
Beyond the tattoo on his forearm, plenty of others dotted the skin she could not see. Superstitions engraved from distant travels, mostly; ink, or sometimes scars. He’d once tried to instil the runes into the symbols, much as he might for the sorts of wards and protections he cast about his belongings, but nothing had happened. Tattoos might hint at other things, of course, not least the miasmic scent of a cult. Though if that was the case he doubted she would have shared it so freely, unless she was angling to enlist.
“Screw the gods,” he repeated, though perhaps it was fate he was thinking of as he drew the tea to his lips. Such an inescapable cloy clenched his stomach in a way the tart mint could never wash out. She said she had stood alone against the raging of the sea, and he did not scathe the assertion (though he might easily have done, to look at her), but she had still failed. Her defiance was but a howl in the wind of greater powers, heard by none but her own ears. He’d seen the newsfeeds. Read of the devastation.
No pity stirred. He would be disappointed if she had expected it.
After a moment he rubbed at his jaw. She offered a paltry amount with the expectation that he continue, little more than a lure and hardly remuneration for what had already been paid. He might have scorned her for the trick. He did. But in the keen pursuit of knowledge, Sören would suffer the insult with little pain to pride. He wanted answers, and he would have them, for he would pay whatever fee she demanded.
“I didn’t fight the creature unaided,” he conceded. That small hint of smile wavered, but swept clean without taking hold; one might even have parsed some regret in the brief flare of his emotions. It was a moment in which he decided what and how much he would share. He glanced again at her collar. “What hero ever truly does? I was gifted a favour of the gods. A talisman worn around the neck, and imbued with such qualities even I could not discern, though not for want of trying. It came with a warning, as such gifts are usually wont to do, and it cost me dearly.”
He flattened his palm carefully against the table, resisting the urge to squeeze the first that would welcome the runes into his soul.
“Tell me the rest, Kemala.”
He thought of Alistair Grey, behind bars for the sort of malcontent her tale hinted. Of vengeful gods and unspeakable acts against innocents. Nothing substantiated the claim, but it was not the first time he had heard such conspiracy. Kemala’s own motivations and prejudices aside however, she meant to hook, and she succeeded. Sören’s gaze dipped back to her collar, as though his gaze might pierce the cloth that concealed it now and look again.
Beyond the tattoo on his forearm, plenty of others dotted the skin she could not see. Superstitions engraved from distant travels, mostly; ink, or sometimes scars. He’d once tried to instil the runes into the symbols, much as he might for the sorts of wards and protections he cast about his belongings, but nothing had happened. Tattoos might hint at other things, of course, not least the miasmic scent of a cult. Though if that was the case he doubted she would have shared it so freely, unless she was angling to enlist.
“Screw the gods,” he repeated, though perhaps it was fate he was thinking of as he drew the tea to his lips. Such an inescapable cloy clenched his stomach in a way the tart mint could never wash out. She said she had stood alone against the raging of the sea, and he did not scathe the assertion (though he might easily have done, to look at her), but she had still failed. Her defiance was but a howl in the wind of greater powers, heard by none but her own ears. He’d seen the newsfeeds. Read of the devastation.
No pity stirred. He would be disappointed if she had expected it.
After a moment he rubbed at his jaw. She offered a paltry amount with the expectation that he continue, little more than a lure and hardly remuneration for what had already been paid. He might have scorned her for the trick. He did. But in the keen pursuit of knowledge, Sören would suffer the insult with little pain to pride. He wanted answers, and he would have them, for he would pay whatever fee she demanded.
“I didn’t fight the creature unaided,” he conceded. That small hint of smile wavered, but swept clean without taking hold; one might even have parsed some regret in the brief flare of his emotions. It was a moment in which he decided what and how much he would share. He glanced again at her collar. “What hero ever truly does? I was gifted a favour of the gods. A talisman worn around the neck, and imbued with such qualities even I could not discern, though not for want of trying. It came with a warning, as such gifts are usually wont to do, and it cost me dearly.”
He flattened his palm carefully against the table, resisting the urge to squeeze the first that would welcome the runes into his soul.
“Tell me the rest, Kemala.”
![[Image: odinraven.png]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/odinraven.png)