09-14-2014, 03:11 PM
Sören was grimly patient while the officer rang through, hands still offered in mild surrender. He watched quietly, unaggressive, but unmoving either. "Tell me. What exactly do you think I stabbed her with?"
His brows rose in question, curious but not demanding of an answer. Swathed in the alley's concealing shadows he was robbed the chance of easily showing innocence, but certainty of it made him bold. Beneath the heavy wool coat, Sören was clean. He was also sure he would not die here, knowledge secured facing the heart of the abyss, but that did not mean he wished to get shot in the process. He was heedful, yet despite the demand, he held his stance.
The man kept glancing at the girl, and the curious set of the look - like a moth to flame - tightened Sören's jaw. A tendril of paranoia curled in his brain and his fingers itched to curl, to feel the storm build with each closed digit until he forced the power into submission and shaped it to will. But to do so would warrant unwanted attention, and he did not need a supernatural gift to wrestle control of the situation - though his gaze did dip warily to the muzzle of the gun pointed in his direction. His feet remained firmly planted, the ice creeping up through the soles of his shoes. He was unwilling to relinquish proximity to what he already considered his property, so he forced a decision.
"So. Are you going to shoot me? Or are you going to let me help?"
His brows rose in question, curious but not demanding of an answer. Swathed in the alley's concealing shadows he was robbed the chance of easily showing innocence, but certainty of it made him bold. Beneath the heavy wool coat, Sören was clean. He was also sure he would not die here, knowledge secured facing the heart of the abyss, but that did not mean he wished to get shot in the process. He was heedful, yet despite the demand, he held his stance.
The man kept glancing at the girl, and the curious set of the look - like a moth to flame - tightened Sören's jaw. A tendril of paranoia curled in his brain and his fingers itched to curl, to feel the storm build with each closed digit until he forced the power into submission and shaped it to will. But to do so would warrant unwanted attention, and he did not need a supernatural gift to wrestle control of the situation - though his gaze did dip warily to the muzzle of the gun pointed in his direction. His feet remained firmly planted, the ice creeping up through the soles of his shoes. He was unwilling to relinquish proximity to what he already considered his property, so he forced a decision.
"So. Are you going to shoot me? Or are you going to let me help?"
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