[AW] they all jump when they hear the sirens;

[Sarkan]

Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.   Why not, she said, and he dropped his muzzle and started toward her, never mind that he could tick off a handful of reasons why not. It was a little like one of those party games so enjoyed by the wealthy; any of one of them could be the killer. “My thanks,” he answered, when he was near enough to speak at a standard volume. Still, the fog did its best to dampen the words. Her shape had condensed from the suggestion of a horse to the girl she was, remarkably distinct; Sarkan made no secret of the way his dark blue eyes looked over her, though the only place they lingered at all was the hurl bat at her hip. Then he raised a brow and began to walk again, ferns trailing cold damp across his legs as he ambled down the path. He didn’t ask where she was headed, but he took care to match his long stride to her pace. Somewhere in the trees a woodpecker trilled, loud in the gloom. He flicked an ear absent-mindedly toward it, then back to his companion, idly wondering what her business was here. Less or more nefarious than his own? She was young, around the age he had been when he left home, and her coat did not look as winter-thick as other Deluminans he had met. Yet she did not hold herself the way a child did, did not smile as openly to the stranger she’d allowed to join her. Sarkan was glad she was suspicious, if that’s what that coolness was. There were terrible people in the world. “That’s a remarkable axe you have,” he said, and made no effort to hide the admiration in his voice. Now he looked back at her - or rather, the weapon she wore - with the appreciation any tradesman had for a master’s work. He’d never held one that had been meant for felling men, not trees, and her ownership of it made him more curious than anything else about her presence here. "Is it common in these parts to be so artfully weaponed?” @Apolonia oh you <3