Unsatisfactory was the answer he’d been given. The details as to how she came to identify him were lacking, and it was that very point that held the most importance to him. So she’d heard the legend, she’d believed in it. How she came to conclude that the nephilim’s parents had died early was, as well, a point beyond his reasoning, and though it had made him wonder, it was by far to a lesser extent than he’d wondered about the former. His brows had not undone themselves from the soft knot previously formed, and the eyes beneath them remained as probing, intense as ever. He searched her expression, more or less, for something hidden away, but he would first have her account of things before he’d put effort into reading between the lines.
Her nervousness had not abated; the consequences of which rendered Vergil’s role as an audience a mite ambitious if only for the hesitation, the halting manner in which she spoke. Nonetheless, he listened keenly, understanding to some level the meaning of what was conveyed to him. It was really no wonder to him why the subject at hand was one fraught with difficulty for her. To him, at least, it appeared as though she had struggled with it—and why not? Her peers, the people in her environment, would likely have not been half as open to what she had to share as he had. He liked to think himself broadminded, with that circumference ever expanding. His patience, then, was a touchy thing at worst, but a gift at best for whosoever should find themselves at its opposite end.
Suddenly, this had become about her more so than the personage she sought. “Yes, I know what you’re trying to say. We call that intuition,” he informed with a tone as patient as his demeanor. “You could also call that your sixth sense, though that term for it isn’t as widely used. In any case, most, if not all, people have that ability. There’s only the matter of honing it, actually paying attention to it instead of it brushing it off. Too many people ignore intuition, or think of it as something novel rather than an inherent capability—and because it’s not there, in front of them, they don’t think it’s essential. While it’s true that harnessing one’s intuitive power is… a challenge, harder to learn—and one doesn’t necessarily need it as we would our other senses—that doesn’t make it a throwaway part of ourselves. In your case, I gather that it hasn’t been suppressed. In fact, it’s relatively strong, isn’t it? You can perceive things that so many can’t.”
Vergil’s opinion on the matter came from firsthand experience. To be born a thing not human had gifted him with a clearly defined sixth sense that he had noticed from the first. It was just about impossible for one of his origins to turn a blind eye toward all that he felt and knew, and harder still for him to stamp it out. By contrast, he believed himself fortunate to have a sense of perception so indispensable. He had, likely, reminded her of what was already obvious. That would make continued interaction all the easier, wouldn’t it? Plus, now that he had provided her with validation, he would believe it all the easier for her to put an ounce of trust in him. On top of that ounce, more would likely pile. He believed in this weakness, found it a common human trait—though such a conclusion hadn’t rightly wiped away the uncertainty within him in regard to her essence. After all, his intuition told him a story he couldn’t quite organize. It was what had him wary, partly calculating, prompting him to keep her at arm’s length. Something about her he could not trust, though it couldn’t be ascertained whether or not that was his tendency toward paranoia influencing him upon the whole. Nevertheless, Vergil would cooperate as far as he felt comfortable. Confidence in his stature, his surroundings, in his might had afforded him the calm that he exuded. Essentially, one would behold a master in the heart of his domain. Only see how he carried himself, his weapon quite close to his person, and the awareness of those eyeing both him and the outsider attuned to their changes, their predatory instincts. If one should come traipsing along, it would be the furthest thing from a surprise.
For the present, the air about them was fair. A thought came to mind which prompted the nephilim to lift Yamato from the asphalt and to take two steps away. “I’m sure you have more to talk about. Let’s not stick around.” He’d gotten himself out of the way, motioning through simple action for his company to move ahead of him. That is, if she so wished it. “There’s nothing to worry about, but I don’t like the idea of having one too many pairs of eyes on me. People are going to take notice, and if not them– well, I think you understand. That’s one of the things you have on your mind, right?” They were situated not quite near the residential district; further in the city, more like, with a healthy distance between Paradise and where Vergil now stood. While it was not his intention to return home just yet, he would at least start on the way there. Have a change of scenery. Demons should not congregate in one place. Packs were a danger: this he wished to avoid, too.
It was difficult to obfuscate the timid nature of the woman; hard to grip it and push it down under the gaze that felt so analytical upon her. Even in his demeanor, she understood she was being watched. She knew that she had to be a product of uncertainty in this encounter, and despite her own much more submissive position, she still worried she would come across as something she isn’t. Something that might make him question her intentions by physical confrontation.
Yamato caught her attention every time he moved the weapon. Silvery eyes dropped down to it, and back up to what she perceived as a stoic expression lay open upon Vergil’s visage. He hardly had to try to be the alpha; hardly an effort to present himself as one above. Even if that wasn’t his intention, it was certainly her perception forcing her to remain somewhat meek in response.
Stormy was not fond of confrontation of any sort. She hated to put people in awkward positions, or cause them to feel uncomfortable, or threatened. Deep down the quiet pang of concern dwell with the outcome of this meet and greet falling to the end of her existence. He was validating her in his words, yet she felt a bit foolish for trying to describe something that would easily be defined as intuition. It was, in fact, but she felt it was more than that. Like a dream that warns against something happening the following day, or week, or month.
Bags and instruments shifted against her back as she pulled firmly upon the straps holding them securely to her form. Self conscious, the ginger’s eyes darted back down to stare at the ground a moment before she started to simply walk upon his beckoning. She could barely look up, but when she did, she hardly met his gaze directly. Trust came easy for her; exploited as it sometimes was, and she openly offered it to him when he brought up valid concerns for avoiding eavesdroppers, and possible other issues that come with speaking openly about such sensitive topics.
As the distance between them waned with intent to walk ahead, albeit somewhat disoriented by the unfamiliar streets, some odd features might catch the nephilim’s attention. Under a sleeve the scar of something having pierced the top of her wrist was faint, but in the right light it might become more evident. And upon her hands where a sixth digit may have resided, was a surgical scar suggestive of its removal. Perhaps not in the slightest bit significant, but certainly not of the norm.
When she passed him, she helplessly studied him with wide, curious eyes, absently brushing slightly dirty fingers against her temple to collect the red spirals behind her ear. She made little effort to hide the fact with her freckled brow wrinkling with light concern, and interest. “I-I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any discomfort.” she offered in a soft tone, genuinely worried she might have actually caused some issue for him by approaching him at all.
