[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.   Sarkan ran an eye down the man across from him and worked to determine how screwed he was. He was irritated that he had neither seen nor heard the dunalino approaching, too absorbed in his work to glance up and listen as often as he ought. Despite the snow and the dark bars of the trees the man shone bright as polished gold. But there was time later to rebuke himself; this moment was more critical. The question was whether this could still be settled amicably. Sarkan was not at all interested in being caught or recognized, which made things distinctly trickier, but he was not much more interested doing away with another of Delumine’s unlucky citizens. They seemed nice enough. As he watched the man’s brow arch above his jewel-green eyes, Sarkan figured he had his answer. “I would say so!” It was not difficult to guide his voice into hearty cheerfulness; it was his general state. The stallion snorted and cocked a hind hoof with a shake of his head, shedding snowflakes. “Me brother and I, we’ve been out trying to find sign of that bastard poacher for a few days now. I found a trampled hollow a ways back, before the snowstorm came up, then didn’t want to drop the trail.” Sarkan huffed a laugh and glanced back down at the man, as if to suggest Lucky thing I didn’t, eh? Really he was weighing him the way he would one of his quarry, waiting for a tell, a hint as to what he would do. A man could be as dangerous as a manticore. It was very quiet in the forest. Sarkan thought he saw a flicker out the corner of his eye, but didn’t dare shift his gaze from the stranger. This could still end in a way that left no tearful women. His thoughts drifted like a hand to his side, the scabbard and the six-inch knife it cradled. “I was just about to destroy this one,” he said, and indicated the snare between them with a broad smile. “Care to help?” @Somnus