[P] life's more fun with a badge and a gun;

[Sarkan]

Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.   He didn’t notice he was no longer alone until she spoke. Even then he nearly started when he saw her, almost missing her voice over the running of the river and the roar of his blood in his ears, outraged at being plunged in frigid water. As for the blood being carried downstream, dispersing to nothing, he gave it no thought. Sarkan’s first glance was for her - slender woman with a bow over her shoulder, her cloak soaked and sticking to her skin, looking more like someone who needed help than a threat. Good. His gaze then flicked to his knife, his pack, the cloak therein. Untouched; his heart settled back to its customary place as he made for the shore.   “As a witch’s tit,” he answered, and laughed even as his muscles constricted with cold. Temporary discomfort was a common companion in his line of work. It wasn’t until he looked back at the appaloosa that his expression turned measuring, some ground between curiosity and concern. “I could ask you the same thing.” Yet he didn’t; he only stepped onto the bank between the stranger and his belongings and shook himself briskly The air met his skin with no more kindness than the water had. Everything felt sharper, even the sound of the river, even the shape of the clouds, and Sarkan watched vapor stream from her mouth. He wasn’t yet shivering, but the sight of her made him want to. He did not notice her teeth. “I’d take that cloak off, if I were you,” he said. His tone was companionable, a suggestion she could take or leave, though he knew if she left it on it meant sickness at best. Despite his recent unfortunate encounters, Sarkan was not keen to leave another corpse in the woods. It was beginning to get ridiculous, and anyway, she looked like she would be missed. There were a dozen questions ready on his tongue, but to ask them might invite her own; she must be as curious as he was, though at least his little plunge had been intentional. For now he only turned away from those big blue eyes in their bone-china face, though he could feel them lingering on himself. Humming (mostly to keep his teeth from chattering), Sarkan buckled the holster with his knife back onto his foreleg, then pulled his folded cloak from the pack. The thought of handing it to anyone else stung more than the cold, but she seemed more in danger than dangerous, despite the bow. “Here,” he said, turning back, and offered her the bundled fabric. He wore a smile, his thick winter coat and cloud-fluff hair tufted and dripping. Not a threat, said his posture, just a friend. Sarkan figured she needed to be told; there was something funny about the way she was looking at him. To be fair, he had just emerged from a winter river, but evidently so had she. “Dry yourself off. I’m going to get wood for a fire.” @Messalina