come with me into the field of sunflowers

[Sarkan]

Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.   For a long time after he spoke the filly didn’t turn. But the wolf - the wolf stared at him, ruff bristling, teeth white with youth, and Sarkan stared back. It was clear now that the animal was not a threat to the girl but a companion, and it was unclear to Sarkan that it was anything other than a young arctic wolf, still gangly with puppyhood, and so the Percheron’s interest dulled into something more genial. Still, he didn’t avert his gaze from the animal until the unicorn spoke again. Then his brow furrowed and his blue eyes flicked up, studying the clearing for clues like he would any other patch of wild. But it held its mysteries close, betraying not so much as a track, and nothing in his ears but the whisper of wind. It did not sound like laughter. Maybe the rattle of seeds inside a dry dead pod. Maybe the scrape of vine against vine. Sarkan’s mouth drew a line downward. She still hadn’t turned; he didn’t see the frown that nearly matched his own. Neither did he speak again as they both strained the listen, because the only things he would have said - Sisters? They? were the sort of thing he knew from experience would cede no satisfactory answers. The clouds overhead shifted; the light changed, shadows appearing beneath the vines, shadows at the foot of the ring of conifers. Blue shadows in the bottom of their tracks. A vine leaned toward the unicorn and Sarkan stepped forward, his thoughts touching the handle of his knife they way a hand might brush it, thoughtless, habitual. What she said then was enough to startle him. He did not draw the knife, but unease slipped through him like an oil-slick, mingling with adrenaline. None of the sailors had said faerie. None of them had said it spoke. “I think it means they’re lying to one or both of us.” It was almost a relief to have the unicorn studying him; there was something far more uncanny about her face turned away, bent toward what she claimed were flowers, and what he saw were not. Sarkan stood with a hip cocked, relaxed beneath her carefully measuring gaze, his own marking her as curiously. He tucked his chin to hide his smile when she angled her horn at him. “I’ve never known them to talk at all,” he admitted, then lifted his head to scrutinize the clearing again. The sun was still out, too bright off the snow, making him squint a little. He wondered if “they” spoke more like a parrot or a sphinx. “But I suppose we can hardly expect them to talk like you or I.” He said it musingly, with a shrug of one broad shoulder. When she asked about his scars the smile he wore didn't falter. If anything it broadened; Sarkan generally liked children, and this was far from the first time he'd heard the question. They were far quicker than adults to ask. “A different moment of stupidity for each of them,” he said, and laughed. “This one,” he said, and traced his nose across one that arced over the left side of his chest like a smile, “is from a manticore’s tail. Luckily it was young, and not yet venomous. This one,” he said, and indicated an ugly, deep pucker just above his knee, “is from a stake I blundered into in the dark. Not so exciting.” Especially since he’d sharpened and placed it himself the day before, then blunted his memory with a large amount of ale. That was early, years ago - back when ignorance often overlapped with mistakes. “The important thing is,” he said, glancing up again to meet her eye, “I learned a lesson from them all, and get fewer each year.” Sarkan winked, then straightened, looking over the unicorn girl and her wolf pup and out across the clearing. “Do you consider this place safe?” he asked, letting the question sound like it was more for his benefit than her own, because he knew how any child would respond to what any adult really wanted to know: should you be out here alone? @Aspara  <3 (those friends you haven't seen in a decade who have really let themselves go? heh)