[P] Call Me When You Get It

[Sarkan]

Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.   Had her face not been in shadow, he might have sooner noticed the frown that bowed the woman’s lips; as it was, he only caught a glimpse of it coupled with the warm gold of her eyes. It was just as well; there were plenty of ill tempers in the Dawn Court these days, though this one, at least, was probably not his doing. Sarkan bent his head toward her, first to catch her words and then to examine the weathered plaque she indicated. Indeed, the markings there were smoother than stream-bottom stones, and even if he’d been better at his letters making them out would be impossible. “I see,” he said, unbothered; of the two mares before him, the statue had held less of his interest, anyway. He glanced up at her mention of the library, and smiled in return when he found her gaze on him. “Blessed morning, Llewelyn,” he answered, the syllables of her name rolling like green hills in his rough accent. This time, his gaze didn’t leave hers as he nodded his whiskered chin over the soft chime of her ornaments. She was just as regal-looking washed in gold as the marble figure, and less daunting - he chose not to regard her comment about not having seen his face before as a sly threat. Sarkan was not given to paranoia, both by nature and by knowing it made you only more likely to slip up and get caught. “My name’s Daniel,” he lied easily, “and I’ve never been to the palace before, and the city itself only rarely. To tell you the truth, it’s all a bit overwhelming.” The grey had lowered his voice as he admitted the last, like someone other than the statue might be listening; then he shrugged a shoulder with a laugh. “I suppose I’m just a simple country sort.” @Llewelyn for the money honey ;)