[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.   When she answered him she was looking away, and so didn’t see the frown that curved his mouth like a bow. It was just as well, as the reflex was gone in the next moment; but his brow still held a furrow when he glanced at her. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Sarkan himself lived a solitary life, though he rarely thought of it as lonely; why shouldn’t she be as ambivalent about company? But something about the way she’d said the words, a little longingly and distant as a star, pricked him. And made him wonder how badly she wished she was alone now, instead of playing host to a stranger wandered in from the road. But he is smart enough not to press her, and so silence stretches over them both, until it’s broken by the creak of the door and the trilling of a sparrow. The sound makes the grey pause at the door, ears pricking forward curiously; when he does enter he has to duck a little, and the dusk light bleeds in around him, pooling on the floor. Before he could get a look at the bird, the flash of her green eyes caught him, surprisingly fierce. Sarkan attributed it to the thought of kelpies, and smiled back. All he ventured to say was “Wise of them.” And neither of them added anything more for the next few moments, as he crossed to the table and watched her lift the bottle. The firelight turned her hair to ruby, to garnet, to every autumn leaf; it set her alight as though she were a thing of flame, too. Sarkan remembered the way the leaves had bent toward her, leaves up and open, as though they, too, believed she was light. He was beginning to think she was something more than just a girl. And Sarkan loved to puzzle out the truths of wild things. For the time being, he only leaned back when she kept the glass just beyond his reach. Unhurriedly he unshouldered his pack, set it down on the stone beside him. The bird was watching him, its round black eyes pricked with light from the fireplace; he huffed a soft breath its direction, still smiling, before looking back to the mare. “I appreciate any good trade,” he said, “but how about a name for the story of the vintage, and money for the wine?” The road had been long, and company before a fire was good; Sarkan was in no hurry to go anywhere. “Name’s Daniel. Who's your friend here?” @Red