[P] one rich man in ten has a satisfied mind;

[Sarkan]

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