Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped. Sarkan was staying in an inn some distance from the capitol of Delumine, and doing his best to stay out of trouble - or what the people of Novus considered trouble. He knew about the patrols, about the meeting King Ipomoea had called, about the unease that crept through the city like a sickness in the blood. He wished he could tell them it was nothing they need worry over. Soon he would be leaving. As soon as spring came, and the winter storms that whipped the open seas into turbulence. As soon as he had a few more goods, a bit more money. As soon as he’d investigated the claims that creatures, half animal and half plant, made the forest their home. In the meantime he’d become a nocturnal thing (easy enough; the nights were long, and between his cloak and his breed he was more or less impervious to Delumine’s cold), a grey ghost among the trees. The snow had mostly melted, and the animals that slept away the winter were starting to stir again. For weeks he’d set no snares, skinned no pelts - only tracked and studied and waited. Now he ambled back as the sky lightened in gradients of purple and gray, listening to the birdsong, his mind wandering the trails he’d spent the night walking. Sarkan didn’t see the unicorn until she spoke, and even then it took him a moment to find the source of the voice - his long stride paused, head high and searching. When he did see her he was almost surprised he’d found her at all, for how well she was colored like the morning. He was as surprised as she to find another so far from road or village, but adjusted his trajectory at once toward her. His only pause (and this just internal) came when he realized she was a unicorn, horn softly luminescent, like a polished seashell. Sarkan did not particularly believe in fate or gods that meddled in mortal’s lives, but he was starting to question his luck in meeting unicorns here. But she was a fascinating thing, delicate as a china sculpture, swan-graceful and sure-footed and well-adorned. Hopefully she would not wind up attacking him. “Good morning,” he returned, and inclined his head, though his bright blue gaze lingered on her curiously. “I thought I was the only one who considered this a fine hour for roving.” @Mesnyi |
