#asanja

But he was also a Tremere. As much as she enjoyed his company and his thoughts, she knew that on some levels she could not allow herself to trust him explicitly.

And yet she wanted to.  She definitely wanted to.

After the chaos in King’s Meadow, with the Sabbat, the Archbishop, and the losses they had suffered, she desperately wanted someone to talk to. Someone that had not been there, someone who could listen without judging them. Someone that could help her make sense of the whole mess. The potions, the monsters, the enemy that they had faced - the losses.

She could go to Kepler, she knew that. She could tell him that she had been terrified - hell, he already knew, she bet - but he was someone she respected too much to want to come off as weak. She was a wanderer, not a fighter, while Kepler had spent years fighting for the freedom of Gothenburg. To have the city keep its freedom, to defend the city from Sabbat. While she had been involved in a fight that should have killed her and gotten out more or less unharmed, she was not a fighter.

Just incredibly lucky.

Witch was not a question. She appreciated the other woman’s no-nonsense attitude and her capability to fight was legendary - having seen it first hand, Asanja was impressed and holding nothing but awe and respect for the Brujah. But respect aside, Asanja did not trust her enough to show such a vulnerable side of herself. Lichen was an option even worse, and she would rather fight another Monster creature than talk to Pierre.

So Quetzal seemed more reasonable. Part from that he had not been there to begin with, he was a good listener and she felt fairly safe to show him some of her less flattering sides.

Some of them.

And she felt that she could trust him with Lichen’s well-being. He seemed about as dedicated to that as she was. Thus, asking him about her Haven, asking him to check on the little one, seemed perfectly reasonable.

At that point in time, she never questioned her decision, or her trust in that Quetzal would be able to help. That he would help, no matter whether he could or not.

Question remained, though: why was she after him? Why was he a person of interest to her? He couldn't remember that he had any qualms with the gangrels, not to mention that gangrels rarely acted on behalf of others of their kin. Their clan loyalty was shockingly absent, in truth. So whatever reasons she had must've been her own.

After near three quarters of an hour he caved in. She wouldn't come to him, then he would have to swallow his pride and his anxiety - and would gladly swallow a lot more if she only stopped staring at him - and ask her straight out for her intentions.

Doing so, however, was more complicated than he had thought. Coming up close he could see the individual strands of brown hair that had strayed from the low ponytail resting at the base of her neck. He could see the immovable line of her shoulders, and he realised - with discomfort - that he had actually not seen her move even once. In fact, he could not recall that she had ever changed her posture during the entire time that she had observed him.

Even now, as he got closer, the only thing that shifted was her eyes, glancing up instead of straight ahead, while she silently waited. She didn't seem surprised at his approach - and he would have found her an idiot if she had been, considering how she had followed him around with her eyes for such a long time - yet neither did she seem willing to break the silence between them.

"My apologies," he said and cleared his throat. "And good evening. I noticed that you have been looking at me for a while now. Have we met before?"

The silence was deafening. Her eyes remained on him, even as she cocked her head to the side with one, jerky motion - it kind of reminded him of an owl watching its prey.

"I apologise if I have somehow offended you?" he tried anew, feeling anxiety rise with every passing second. He had never been comfortable with extended silence. He lived for conversation, and this gangrel appeared as far from it as one could be.

Not that any gangrel he had met was particularly prone to chatter, unless encouraged to share stories of the world.

She made no motion to show that she had heard, nor that she intended to reply. He felt his mouth run dry, his smile cracking at the edges. Did she truly believe that she could stare at him for so long and not be confronted with it? Or did she just lack any and all understanding for what he was saying? Contemplating that, he wet his lips before asking, firmer now:

"Do you even speak English?"

"Yes."

He almost flinched backwards, not having expected her to reply at all. As it were it took a moment for him to process that she had indeed answered, and only then did he blink.

"Oh, that's... good," he frowned and wet his lips. "So have I offended you? I must admit that while your attention is flattering, it is becoming somewhat unnerving."

The gangrel seemed to have reverted back to silence, however, as she merely raised an eyebrow, gave him another long look, and then - without explanation - took her eyes off of him to sweep over the floor.

It somehow felt as if he had been released from a predator's hypnosis - free to go, at last.

The silence left him hesitating, however. Should he leave without answers? Should he stay? Demand a reply? Everyone knew that gangrels were dangerous, and he wasn't feeling up to the task of finding out whether this one was amongst the easily offended ones.

Not more than he already had.

"Well," he said in the end, taking a step back, "I'll leave you to yours then. Good evening."

He turned to leave, wanting to leave the room - and the gangrel - as soon as possible. The very air was getting heavy and tense, and while he had no need to breathe he was highly susceptible to the tension.

"Your fly is open," he heard from behind him, flinching at the words.

Throwing a glance over his shoulder he immediately met the eyes of the gangrel, whom was now watching him again with the ghost of a wry smile in the corner of her lips.

"Excuse me?"

"Fly. Open."

Shifting her eyes just momentarily to rest in level with his groin, they returned to lock with his just a moment later. The smile was gone, but the intensity in her eyes remained.

Grazing over the fabric on the front of his jeans he felt a spike of cold when realising that she wasn't lying, and at once the silence felt more appropriate. He had never felt quite so humiliated.

Or left a room quite as fast.