A Quiet Crossroads (Lake Baikal, Siberia)

[Sören]

Kemala did not exactly answer the question, though he hadn’t expected her to do so. Roles reversed he doubted he’d have answered it either, at least not with full disclosure. She said enough in what she didn’t say though, and it satisfied the raw edges of his curiosity without diminishing the hunger. If anything it sharpened the attention he laid upon her. People usually sorted themselves into categories with little effort on Sören’s part; which was to say even those he found useful were rarely of actual interest to him beyond that use.

She made an assumption of his intentions at the lake, but he didn’t deny it. It had been the point of his storytelling, after all. The conversation slipped to mutual shores, and he let her steer it there despite so much mystery still shrouding her own story. Meanwhile she amused herself at his expense, but he didn’t appear to mind. His lips quirked into half a smile. “I think I would not drown,” he said. Little changed in his expression, but perhaps he did not only mean swimming. 

Sören’s competencies had breadth if not necessarily expertise, but his truest skills lie in orchestration -- as befit a true king. He tipped a shoulder, leaning onto his forearms. He did not drop her gaze, wondering if she would offer the bargain of her aid herself or if he might need to reel a little tighter. “However I would prefer not to be so ill prepared this time.”