[P] lady i swear by all flowers

[Sarkan]

Sarkan The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.   “I”m among a lucky audience, then,” he said, and stretched his smile wider. One ear turned to catch the sound of the violin, its notes like the syllables of words just out of reach of hearing; but his eyes lingered on her. The delicate, glowing horn, the spider-silk hair. How breakable she looked - and how she spoke and smiled almost like she was daring him to try. But Sarkan did not peddle in instruments. Rough-hewn wood-raised man though he was he appreciated art like anyone with eyes and ears; and anyway he knew no buyers for such a thing. So he told himself. He was still watching when she turned back to him and now all the dawn-light was caught in her eyes, as it had been captured in the glass violin. And which did it live in, truly? At her question Sarkan only laughed. “My purpose? If I have one I’ve yet to find it.” The Percheron meant it. He was as simple man. Purpose implied being made for something beyond eking out a living. And he did not consider gently scraping scales from immortal golden fish or stalking fledging thunderbirds for their gizzards as his great calling. “Maybe you could tell me,” he said, and took a step nearer. She did not give off the impression of being frightened by him, or anyone, and he wanted a closer look at the instrument. “Is this all you play?”   @Mesnyi