Sarkan

The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.

 
Sarkan quite liked Novus so far. 

The towns were charming, the vistas impressive, the weather relatively mild. And the citizens he’d met were as welcoming as they were diverse - 

Which made the matter with the unicorn all the more unfortunate. 

What bothered him the most was his lack of guilt. He’d never killed another equine before - someone who spoke, walked, laughed like he did. Someone he could have met in a tavern, shared a beer and a couple stories with. In all fairness, it had been self defense. The unicorn had interrupted him as he worked; Sarkan had looked up and there he’d been standing, and the Percheron had watched his expression go from panic to fury to resolve. As for himself, he’d only tightened his cloak around his shoulders and waited, his own face impassive, until he knew which reaction was warranted. After a moment the unicorn had smiled, and stepped forward, and bid Sarkan nearer, and he could feel the little stirring of compulsion like a stray wind beneath the cathedral boughs of the forest. Maybe he shouldn’t have played along, but he did, obeying, reciting his name when asked, coming closer, closer, until the unicorn lowered his horn like a spear and sprang - 

Killing him hadn’t felt different than any other quarry. They all died the same. Sarkan made the scene look like a mauling (which it could have been, in a way), had left the horn, had made it more messy than his usual. Like a beast could have done it, or any murderous bastard. 

After that it seemed best to leave the Dawn court for a while. 

Now he strode through a field blanketed by a thin veneer of snow, the afternoon sun tracking winter-low beside him. He’d crossed a stream a little while back, and seemed to have left the forests behind when he did; the landscape had grown rolling, and rugged, and he could taste the sea on the cold air. Sarkan hadn’t had a real destination in mind, until a fellow traveler a few miles back had told him of a winery across the border in Terrastella. “The best in the country,” he’d proclaimed, “and don’t let those Night Court merchants tell you any different.” Sarkan, long since immune to most salesmen’s tactics, had laughed and said he wouldn’t. 

By the time he found it the sky was a mixed palette of washes of pink and gold. He only recognized it by the neat and narrow rows of grapes, though they were only bare and twisting silhouettes. Sarkan was surprised and pleased to see the sea, winking blue between the rows of vines, and paused to watch it as he shifted his pack, in which his cloak lay folded and clean. 

Then he ambled down the lane, the wind off the water whipping his mane into frothy peaks white like waves, whistling as he went. 

@Red

Sarkan

The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.

 
He did not see her at first, there among the slumbering vines, all brown wood and dark dirt and patches of snow in between. But as soon as she moved Sarkan wondered how he could have missed her.

Maybe she had sprung from the vine, he thought, when she shook her head and shed grape-leaves. He had never heard of a wine nymph, but he liked the idea of it. Sarkan wore an easy smile as he turned toward her, and tucked his nose toward his chest in acknowledgement. “Hello,” he returned, and when he met the green of her eyes it did nothing to dissuade the image.

He was a hunter and so he did not miss the change in her breathing, the way it did for prey when it caught his scent. It was easy to dismiss; she would be far from the first intimidated by him. Sarkan did nothing to try and make himself seem smaller, but neither did he draw nearer - his intent was not to frighten young unaccompanied mares.

“That depends,” he said with a laugh. “Is this the home of Galloway wines, best on the continent?” Her gaze had yet to waver when he looked away, scanning the darkening fields with his own. Sunset did not linger long in winter; soon the wind would have teeth. The thought of returning to the road for unknown hours was not terribly appealing.

“I hope I’m in the right place,” he said, and turned back to her. “I’m not sure I could find the path again in the dark, and I’d rather avoid a tumble into the sea.”


@Red

Sarkan

The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.

 
Something wild lived in her gaze. It was not like the others he had met, the sailors and the citizens of Delumine, with their sturdy houses and scholar’s way of looking at the world. When she stepped forward, just a little nearer, and the last bit of sunset caught the green of her irises, Sarkan thought he could see leaves shifting there. And, beyond them, a leaping doe, a laughing fox.

He almost asked her about it. Almost stepped forward to see what else lived there, where nothing should be but herself looking back at him, when a coyote wailed and she closed her eyes and that little-world was gone.

The sound died away, a shiver on the wind unfollowed by another - just a lone hunter. But Sarkan felt like he was still waiting for some answer beyond the one she gave.

“Good.” He said the word like a smooth round stone, unworried with how it disturbed the evening. At her command to follow, he said nothing, only waited to obey. When she turned toward the house Sarkan’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, all those red spots like fallen autumn leaves.

He wondered if she was alone. And then, before he could direct his thoughts elsewhere, he wondered if it would be the same, killing her, as it had been with the unicorn. Would it be as easy to walk away? It was only a thought, rootless, the idle kind of thinking that happened when you were using a knife, or walking along a ledge - what if, what if?

Then he did feel guilty, enough to shift his gaze away, and maybe that was answer enough.

Far away at the base of the cliffs the waves went shush, shush against the shore and Sarkan, road-weary, watched the landscape idly as they walked down to lamplit rooms. And then he watched less idly, when he noticed the leaves uncurling like hands, opening palm-up as they passed by.

Curious.

The grey lengthened his stride until he walked beside her, one ear turned toward her and one to the sea. “It must be lonely out here,” he said. “And I’ve heard stories of kelpies in these waters, along these coasts. Have you ever seen one?”


@Red

Sarkan

The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.

 
When she answered him she was looking away, and so didn’t see the frown that curved his mouth like a bow. It was just as well, as the reflex was gone in the next moment; but his brow still held a furrow when he glanced at her.

He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Sarkan himself lived a solitary life, though he rarely thought of it as lonely; why shouldn’t she be as ambivalent about company? But something about the way she’d said the words, a little longingly and distant as a star, pricked him. And made him wonder how badly she wished she was alone now, instead of playing host to a stranger wandered in from the road.

But he is smart enough not to press her, and so silence stretches over them both, until it’s broken by the creak of the door and the trilling of a sparrow. The sound makes the grey pause at the door, ears pricking forward curiously; when he does enter he has to duck a little, and the dusk light bleeds in around him, pooling on the floor.

Before he could get a look at the bird, the flash of her green eyes caught him, surprisingly fierce. Sarkan attributed it to the thought of kelpies, and smiled back. All he ventured to say was “Wise of them.”

And neither of them added anything more for the next few moments, as he crossed to the table and watched her lift the bottle. The firelight turned her hair to ruby, to garnet, to every autumn leaf; it set her alight as though she were a thing of flame, too. Sarkan remembered the way the leaves had bent toward her, leaves up and open, as though they, too, believed she was light.

He was beginning to think she was something more than just a girl. And Sarkan loved to puzzle out the truths of wild things.

For the time being, he only leaned back when she kept the glass just beyond his reach. Unhurriedly he unshouldered his pack, set it down on the stone beside him. The bird was watching him, its round black eyes pricked with light from the fireplace; he huffed a soft breath its direction, still smiling, before looking back to the mare.

“I appreciate any good trade,” he said, “but how about a name for the story of the vintage, and money for the wine?” The road had been long, and company before a fire was good; Sarkan was in no hurry to go anywhere. “Name’s Daniel. Who's your friend here?”



@Red