[P] fragile as a flower

[Sarkan]

Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.   All the world was gray, like the clouds had descended and swallowed them all, and it suited Sarkan just fine. It meant he was better camouflaged than usual, and despite the cold he kept his cloak tucked in his pack. Slowly he eased his way through trunks of beech and birch, papery trunks and dark knots that watched him like eyes. Occasionally a bird cheeped at him, and for a few minutes a crow flew overhead, branch to branch before him, one beady gleaming eye fixed on him. But it only croaked once, glossy feathers thick at its throat, before flying off to harass something more interesting than a horse showing no haste as it passed beneath the bare-branched canopy. Sarkan was not out today to lay snares and set traps. Quite the opposite - the grey was making a last loop around snares he’d set days ago, disassembling them and tucking loops of wire back into his pack. So far they’d all been empty - just as well, as the patrols were winding ever-nearer to where he worked, and he didn’t need so much as a splash of blood to give him away. His mentor had always said a greedy man was a dead one, and it didn’t take a wise man to see the truth in it. Though he did feel a little wistful, thinking of all the wealth Viride still held. He was certain there were potent magics in species yet to be discovered, and if he knew someone on the continent capable of unraveling those mysteries… But he did not. His allies in Delumine were nonexistent, and in Novus they were few. While he could likely live undiscovered in the forest for a while, especially as spring came and the undergrowth bloomed thick to disguise him by sight and scent, Sarkan had never had a problem quitting while he was ahead. And ahead was a loose term, now that there were deaths of more than just dumb animals on his conscience. Unknowingly, he walked a slanted route to Ipomoea, the two of them drawing together at the point of the trap. Sarkan was the first to realize he was no longer alone; the forest had that held-breath hush, and the stallion fell still too, until he could pinpoint the sound of hoof steps in the wet dead leaves. He stood with his head cocked, listening closely, a frown growing heavy on his mouth; whoever it was, they were walking slowly, back and forth, undoubtedly searching. And undoubtedly too close for comfort to his trap. He should have melted away into the forest, dissipating like fog. If whoever it was blundered into his snare, he could just as easily get himself out; it was nothing but a wire loop set to tighten, and telekinesis made it a simple escape. Instead, as the paint meandered into view and straight toward the trap, Sarkan broke the near-silence with a shout. “Ho there, look out!” When he loped forward, abandoning all effort to keep quiet, it was with an expression of deep concern. “There’s a trap just there,” he huffed between breaths, and jerked his muzzle toward what the stallion had no doubt just discovered - but his bright blue eyes never left the other man’s face. @Ipomoea