[P] gold teeth and a curse for this town;

[Sarkan]

Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.   Most of the time, Sarkan enjoyed his work.  There was something meditative about it, being alone in the woods, stepping softly, reading sign of the comings and goings of wild things. It wasn’t the kind of thing that really let the mind wander, but it did quiet, and he’d always enjoyed the little puzzles of where to set a snare, or what scent to lay to coax a beast from its den. But today his mind would not settle. He was up near the northern part of the forest, and snow fell thickly through the skeletal fingers of the canopy. The winter storm was a blessing, covering his tracks and his scent, and he was warm with his cloak around his shoulders and his breath rising steady as a steam-engine from his mouth and nostrils. But his thoughts kept turning like a bird caught in a bramble patch, and his brow was furrowed as he studied the game trail before him and the snare not quite set to his satisfaction. Nor could he shake the feeling of being watched, though there was not so much as a peep of birdsong, only the wind moaning in the branches.  Killer. He didn’t care for the label, and he knew it would stay with him as surely as his scars, but it was better than prisoner. Or dead, for that matter, and the unicorn hadn’t acted like he’d wanted to have a chat.  Still, it felt sloppy. Seven years, and he’d never before had that kind of bad luck. Perhaps he should not have returned so soon to Delumine, but Sarkan had wondered whether the rash of activity might not be a good cover for his own work. Someone else was killing, someone more careless than himself, and when they were caught (as they inevitably must be), he ought to go as well. Until then, nobody would miss another bramblebear or white hind.  A few minute adjustments, and the snare was set. Nothing too intelligent would blunder into the noose, but when he returned in a few days he would hopefully find something useful. Sarkan blew out a breath as he stepped back, shaking the tension from his shoulders and looking up -  Straight into the gaze of a golden alicorn, unmissable in the otherwise white world. He was several yards away, but not nearly far enough to not see what the Percheron was doing.  “Fuck,” he swore under his breath. Then he raised his voice enough for the man staring at him to hear. “Hello. Bloody fine weather today, isn’t it?” Perhaps the stranger didn’t know what he was looking at, or knew of no reason to be suspicious of a man setting a trap in the forest. Sarkan did not yet reach for his knife.  @Somnus