[P] fragile as a flower

[Sarkan]

Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.   There was no way Sarkan could hear the pound of the paint’s heart over the knocking of his own, one that singled relief, or trouble, or anticipation. It felt a little like there was a snare around his lungs, the way they tightened as the stranger only stared and did not turn, and the Percheron realized just whose attention he’d drawn to himself. Maybe some part of him knew it was the Dawn King before he’d called out his warning - maybe that was why he’d shouted at all. Sarkan had of course never met the man who stood frowning before him now, but he’d be a poor tracker not to know the description of the king whose court he was poaching, and who had been ordering patrols increasingly nearer his own paths. The question was what to do about it now.   Sarkan offered no response but a grunt at the king’s first comment, and when their gazes met for a moment he was surprised at the crimson glint in the other’s eye. It gave him a weight belied by the decorative foot-wings and rosy coloring. When the younger man bent to more fully bare the trap the gray shifted, his gaze falling from the pale nape of the man’s stretched neck to the loop of wire that glinted like a silver eye. His mouth pursed at the question. “Best way?” Sarkan looked considering for a moment, then in a single smooth motion drew his knife from its weathered scabbard. For a moment the wire strained against the blade, then gave with a little plink, snapping back so fast it rattled the dead leaves. “That should do it,” he said, and slid the weapon away again. Then he sighed, stretching out his own neck with a little muscle-loosening shake. He glanced back at the paint, unbothered (at least outwardly) by the cool smile that met him. “Must be getting close, right? To catching the guy.” @Ipomoea