The woman's calm front unnerved Lucressia. She found it hard to read her reactions when the mage kept resettling herself; perhaps this was some form of magic in and of itself? That thought sent a shiver down her spine. If the woman had some form of forbidden arts...
But that was idiocy. Terror delusions. If this girl was a maleficar, would she not have used what were doubtless grand and fearsome powers to destroy the Templar who so obviously frightened her? Would she even be here? Still, her composure impressed Lucressia; if it was not magic, it spoke to a firm center to her character, the kind of grace under pressure that Lucressia had trained for years to attain.
When the mage stepped into her space, something in Lucressia’s demeanor changed, subtly. She stood straighter, and her eyes were sharper; occupying her space was a threat, if a subtle one, and Lucressia took poorly to threats. She could not always meet challenges head on, but she never let them get away from her. And as an Antivan Crow, she was well trained at coming at things from unconventional angles. She was scared, she had to admit, of the woman with supernatural powers and, perhaps, demons and evil spirits backing her, but her fear bolstered her. Her voice dropped low; not only was it something she would not have anyone overhear, but it was a wonderful technique for making what she had to say seem serious, weighty, and most importantly, true.
“I am someone with powerful friends in the city, friends who back me in this.”
This is idiocy, part of her complained, but what choice did she have now? The mage suspected. Either she would string her along, and gain an accomplice, or she would have to find a way to silence her before she talked. It would have to be surprise or poison; which one had she better chance of not being immune against? She would debate it later, if she had to; she still had faith in the power of her words and the temptation they offered. Her head straightened even more, and her eyes glinted. Even a young woman, even a fledgling of her order, she could have a dangerous, sharp look when she meant it. She was, after all, a killer, and a murderer. Blood had been upon her hands for going on three years now.
Now she moved into the final play, the hook or the sink, and she took a breath. “But if I needed your help, what would you do?”