[IC] Over the Hill ~ ClosetMonster x PopeAlessandros

[PopeAlessandros]

Harsh panting splits the still night air. Large eyes gleam in the moonlight as a dark figure races low across the ground. In the distance the sound of angry voices echo through the hills, muffled only by the low hanging fog snaking through the gullies and valleys of the hill covered land. Tears of pain and humiliation drip down Chall's cheeks as he hurries away from the voices, one hand clenched over his shoulder. Blood seeps out from beneath his hand and between his fingers and he curses silently as he feels the warmth of the red liquid dripping down his wrist. Trying to calm his breath he rests briefly against a hill. His breath comers out in short gasps and his mind flares angrily as his ears catch the harsh voices still yelling insults and vulgar inquiries as they search for him.

A few weeks ago when his master, the court mage for the king of the small peaceful country he's now gallivanting all over, told him what the king wanted of him, Chall had almost tried to beg off. It wasn't that he wanted to disobey his master or the king, but it was no secret that he carried no real love for most people. The people didn't really have any love for him either. It had been a full generation since slavery was abolished in the closest large kingdom, and Suriel had been slave free for several. However, the animosity between races was far from gone, and with Chall's nature of strike first and risk needed to apologize later, he wasn't exactly the best being for the job. As a half breed, he had enemies on both side of the slave war history. Unfortunately, he was the only one qualified who could leave the palace, the only other would be his master, but Master Hadok had to stay by the kings side until things were settled.

Chall had overheard that there were rumors of war between the two kingdoms bordering Suriel when his master had been called in to council the king. Not wanting his dear little brother do be anywhere near such thing, after a slight hesitation, Chall had accepted the mission of finding out what he can from the land about the war. The only good part about his job is he didn't actually have to talk to anyone to get the information he needed. He just needed to commune with the energies and spirits of the land itself, following the lay-lines across the land to learn as much as he can. Call is good at that, and the first couple weeks went by fairly peaceably. However, all good things must come to an end.

Finally getting his breathing under control, Chall dares a peek at his shoulder under his hand and a sharp gasps escapes him as the movement sends a jolt through his system. 'The damn bleeding won't stop. That bastard!' Covering the wound again his teeth clench in pain as he clamps down hard.

Well over an hour ago he'd stumbled across a group of humans camped out in the hills. He'd been far to tired to pay too much attention to the sounds around him, he was just looking for a place to settle down for the night. At first they'd seemed almost civil, if a bit drunk. They'd offered him a place by the fire, but just as he turned them down and began to turn to walk away, the fire had flared and they spotted his feet peeking out from beneath his robes. The distinctive black cat fur and hooked claws gleamed in the firelight and it was like a small explosion.

The men and woman began jeering, a few coming to their feet in a flash. Caught off guard Chall had no chance to defend himself when one of them said something about half-breed steak and whipped a throwing knife through the air. The blade sunk deep and Chall had just enough time to cry out before he had to run for his life as the sight of blood seemed to rile the rest of the group up and they launched themselves at him. After a few minutes of running he managed to remove the knife, but his blood trail would lead them right to him. Using the blood already on his hand he made a quick pact with the water and air, conjuring up the mist to mask his passage through the hills.

Chall's heart begins to race as the voices come closer to his resting place. The small of the grass, damp from the mist, seems to be over powered by the blood pooling beneath him and Chall drags himself to his feet and begins fleeing once again. The sound of animals in the distance makes him pause for a moment and after a second of indecision he draws upon the surrounding tranquility to cloak himself in a veil of peaceful feelings. It does nothing to calm his own hammering heart, but he prays it will be enough not to startle what sounds like a heard of animals making use of the early morning dew covered grass. He follows the sound of the herd and after a minute of pain hampered jogging, the first few sheep come into view. Slowing he makes sure the cloak is still in place and moves into the middle of the herd. Finding a fairly packed little group he settles down in the middle, leaning against one that rests on the ground while munching on a mouthful of grass. The cloak makes him seem nearly invisible to the sheep, and they continue grazing. His breath begins to slow as the voices seem further and further away, until at last even his sharp hearing can n longer detect their voices. Heaving a sigh of relief, he doesn't even notice that the sun is rising slowly over a hill, or that his consciousness is slipping further and further out of his grasp, until at last he falls into an exhausted asleep.

[ClosetMonster]

“Flit! Heyoh Flit!,” a boy's voice calls out and the sheep stamp in nervousness a moment and settle right after. A series of quick, sharp whistles and high pitched calls, the dog responds as easily as breathing, its eyes fixed on the sheep while its ears flick at every call of its master.

The sheep move slowly, pressing in closely to one another, silent and with noses in the air as they try for indirect eye contact with the predator in their midst. From within the group, a bell sounds.

“There it be, Gran, go on!” the call and the sheep scatter, split down the middle. Gran, a large brown dog with blue eyes stops, turns and gives a single bark. Without a sign of being told, a slighter, pure black dog is in the midst of the sheep, driving them opposite of the shape inert on the ground. The bark being the only sound given, it is surprising how, in the resultant silence, the flock is moved and the dogs involved so quickly. Strange it is too, to anyone not of the sheep business, how the slender boy leaps the rock and heather, his small bow drawn immediately and his keen eyes, not unlike that of his dogs, takes in all about them.

The brown dog lays in the heather and pants, his blue eyes watching the boy come in close. When the boy is at his side, he reaches out and with a cursory pat, turns his attention onto that which the dog is beside.

Like his kin, the boy is quiet in regard and does not speak his thoughts aloud. Instead, he makes a click of the tongue to which both dogs come to his side. “Flit, get Annie,” he orders, then makes a finger motion to which Gran, the larger dog, slips from his side like a hawk from a man's wrist, diving into the sheep and driving them.

The boy settles the sheep within eye distance of the silent figure. Both he and Gran keep alternate care of the sheep and the man on the ground. The sun slips into the sky and the boy, when no further movement comes from the sleeper, takes out a penny whistle. Sheep and dog all relax some as the first of a series of comfortably common reels pipes out. If there is to be music, then there is nothing to fear.

It is an hour before Flit is back. Annie and her master were likely on the other end of their pastures, while the boy, a Harcourt Mace, is mostly between both, having intended to take his flocks to the far end of his family's pasture and work their way back in over the course of the day. The black dog hops up the slight rise and settles down comfortably at his master's feet, his tongue twice as long as usual, lolling out in a long pink portrayal of a good run. The boy says nothing to the dog, because as the dog is with him, then his job has been done. It is a marker of trust often seen between shepherd and dog, something he has learned from his neighbor and the only other shepherd in the area.

Oh, to be sure, there are others who keep sheep, Harcourt argues during those times he speaks. But to be a shepherd, one must be more like Wren than like Jacob who pens his animals and then lets them out into a larger enclosure. It is the reason Jacob's wool hasn't the same softness as Wren's does. It is the reason, his father argues, that Jacob is married and has children for his father to dote on.

Harcourt has no argument for this, as he does not know why exactly Wren hasn't any children to offer his mother. But the Widow does not seem overly concerned with her lack of grandchildren. In fact, she seems happy enough with her son as he is and it seems somewhat unfair that Harcourt's father would be so intent on such a thing.

Still, despite Jacob being easier to find, as he is often in his workshop or barn, Harcourt intends to involve Wren and so it is that a moment after Flit has settled, that the black and white mask of Annie comes over the rise and trotting soon behind, in his ground eating lope which means concern, is the large, bird nest haired man.

Wren says nothing, but his keen gaze goes over the sheep and the boy who jerks a chin toward the dip and the huddled shape on the ground. Despite it being obviously hurt, the man draws his blade and kneels down at the side of the creature. He shows no sign of hesitancy, nor does Annie, who sits at his side. She has none other to care for but the man, these are not her sheep, nor is the boy hers – only the man falls within her purview.

Rolling the figure over, Wren lets his gaze sweep the figure, his broad, callused hands smoothing over sides, checking for pulse (there, but weak), temperature (high), and that all limbs are intact (fully, but for the injury to the shoulder which weeps blood still). The scent of blood makes Annie sneeze and she rubs her muzzle with her forepaw, then stands and asks her master with a low, slow half arc of the tail if he is going to take this lamb for shelter or not.

Chuckling, Wren rubs a broad palm across her domed forehead as he stands. “Harcourt,” the man calls in a low tone.

“Aye, Wren,” Harcourt is at his side as eagerly as Annie had been. The boy is easily half the size of the man and he looks up with the same longing and adoration as the dogs.

“Go to yer Da. I'll have Annie watch your flock. Go'n tell yer Da, we need Marge at my cottage. And Harcourt,” he adds when the boy is a few steps already on his way, “no need to tell the entire village, is there.”

“No ser,” Harcourt bobs his head and then as fleet as Flit, he is gone over the ridge which separates the band of pasture land from the rest of his family's farm.

Wren leaves the man on the ground and with a nod to his dog, walks the flock. Annie shakes herself and while she seems to not notice the sheep at all, he ensures she has them, each one, in her sights before he jerks his chin. “Go to,” he orders. “Until Harcourt comes back, luv.”

With the sheep under the watchful eye of Annie, Flit, and Gran, Wren returns to the man on the stoney ground. He gathers the man up easily, being not much more than a lamb, yes, and beings the trek back to the cottage.

Wren's cottage isn't as far from where Harcourt had his flock and as he makes his way to the front door, he can hear the his own flock, being brought in quite handily by Baxter who, despite his only two years of age, is seeming more and more like his mother, Delta who has a way about her Old Man Jones swears is just this shy of being human. Having had four from the same line, Wren can attest to it and the superb intelligence of the dogs.

Still, Baxter cannot undo latches and the sheep crowd around the yard gate. Wren hasn't time to tend to them and so leaves them to the dog and instead enters into his home with his burden.

The front door leads directly into a small open room with a large sitting lounge and a stone fireplace beside which a rocking chair is occupied by a small, black cat. The shepherd carefully deposits his burden onto the lounge then goes to the kitchen to get water and a cloth. Returning with both, he sets all beside the lounge and leaving the man there, goes to let the sheep into the yard. It would be some time yet for Marge, the local healer, to make her way to his home. In that time, he managed to put up sheep and then allowed Baxter into the house where the dog settles immediately before the rocker and sat, one eye on the cat beside him.

Wren ignores the interplay between dog and cat, and instead, focuses entirely on the inert man on his lounge. The man is slender, small, both of which Wren had noted easily when he'd carried the man back, just a little lighter than a broken ewe. Granted, Wren had not had to carry a ewe quite as far all that often, only when they fell and broke a leg or when, once, an older ewe had died in the middle of the pasture. Generally, he kept the elders in the stone corral and there, was able to move them via his sledge.

This one, though, was slight as a teenager, with glossy black hair and pale skin, too pale to be a man of the country. But why would he have been in the midst of a pasture as he was, so far from the nearest busy town? Wren settles into a small, three legged stool and begins to use the cloth and bowl of water he'd gotten to wash the man's face.

Some time later, there is a scratch at the door. Wren sets aside the bowl which he'd since ceased to use, and lets Annie back in. Harcourt had no doubt found Marge and then returned to his flock. Wren uses Annie's entrance as reason to put the kettle on. Marge would expect it. Manners are important to her.

Marge comes in soon after Annie, though she does little asking to enter, instead she raps on the door frame and lets herself in. Wren has the kettle fully heated and cups of tea set to steep. He gives her a quick nod as the large woman instantly goes to the wounded man. “Any injuries beside the shoulder?” she asks as she lets her hands do the same that Wren's had. She trusts Wren's judgment, but it is she who has the healing lore to do more than make a simple poultice. She leans over and sniffs at the water and makes a grunt. He has put in lavender and comfrey and she approves, he can see.

“None that I could find,” he says, then watches as she mutters to herself and lays her hands on the man's shoulder.

It isn't anything flashy, this hedge healing. Wren has traveled, has been to many a country before he chose to return home and settle into herding sheep. There are courts he has seen where magic flared gold and blue, left baubles of red in one's retinas. He has seen blood rise and men scream in pain as their skin was painted with pain. It is a magic which Wren has no taste for, the higher arts. Rather, he approves and even covets to some extent, the art which Marge shows. It works with the world around them, not pressing her will upon it, but asking rather politely. And because of this, when she leans back, Marge looks as pink-cheeked as ever and the man on the lounge, just as pale and injured.

“That'll do,” she says, standing. “He'll heal. There was a bit of infection starting but I've teased it out. The hole's best if it closes on its own. Poultice are good.” She looks at him and smiles. “And you, you probably didn't even notice what he is, did you?” At his blank look, she laughs. “Of course not. You're a blind man for all that you seen, Wren Autenberry. Poor creature's been mauled. I've half a mind to go over to Harveston and give them a piece of their own medicine. But you'll keep an eye out. If any of them boys or girls manage to come onto your land, I've no doubt they'll regret it.”

Wren tilts his head in concern. Harveston, he's no issues with, other than it is a different sort of place, but not a bad one. There are some old fashioned ideas which Old Man Jones and Mother Autenberry never allowed to take root in Skyefell. But old fashioned ideas are safe to have out in the middle of nowhere.

“Are they coming, Marge?” he asks, because her words mean something.

“I'm sure they will,” she nods. “They'll be hunting this one, they will.” She gestures to the man on the lounge. But instead of answering his questions, she gives him a quick, business nod and mutters something along the lines of “best check in on Jasper's wife. You'll be making a blanket, won't you?” as she leaves.

Wren, confused and worried for his charge, goes about the process of setting a poultice in the warmth of the fire, setting it to the man's shoulder. Then as the man sleeps off the magic Marge had set on him, Wren begins dinner and tending sheep, much of which is done out of doors. He keeps close to the house, however, and does his work while leaving both Annie and Baxter to guard his home. None will enter without his say-so, even the ill-informed of nearby Harveston.

[PopeAlessandros]

A fog seems to cloud his mind as Chall struggles to wake himself. Something feels very off. His mind reels, recalling the chase and the conclusion, making him panic even further at the softness of whatever he's resting on. 'Grass and stone. A field. I was with. . .with some sheep. It's too warm, too soft. I've been moved. Where? Who?' A low growl rumbles out from between his slightly parted lips as each thought runs ever so slowly across his mind. His usual sharp intuition and understandings being tampered with upsets him almost more than the thought of being moved in his sleep by persons unknown. A fur covered ear snaps to the side at the sound of a crackling fire and the young mage draws in several deep breaths. Using what little power he can pull from the nearby element he fights through the fog and drags his eyes open.

The first thing his mind comes to note is that he's in some building made of wood. Having grown up in a castle for the most part he feels a strange bemusement at the thought of resting in a wooden structure. His eyes trail slowly from the roof to the source of the flickering light casting odd shadows across the room. The fireplace, almost near enough for him to reach out and touch, radiates a comforting warmth. Despite his still near panic at the situation Chall takes the fire as a good sign. He can use it should he need to fight. If perhaps those people had caught him and brought him here to 'Have a little fun with him' in the comfort of their own home.

A strange smell makes his nose twitch and even as he turns to find it's source he recognizes the scent of healing herbs. Finding the cloth laying upon his wounded shoulder, the source of the smell, his mind fills with an entirely new set of ideas on where he is. But before he can do little more than gain a flickering hope that perhaps he's managed to be taken into a less than hostile environment, his heckles rise as he catches sight of movement out of the corner of his eye. The fur running down his back becomes stiff despite being pressed firmly against the soft surface he's laying on and another growl escapes his throat, but this time fare more hostile in nature.

His growl is answered by another growl and without warning the adrenalin fired through his body at the sound snaps Chall's mind into hyper focus. In an instant Chall is on his feet, crouching on the lounge with both clawed hands dug into it's surface. His eyes seek out the source of the answering growl and as his eyes land on the hulking shape Chall backs up at a crouch away from the noise. Reaching the edge of the lounge he stares down the large dog looking in his direction. 'Oh great. A dog big enough to have me for lunch, just what I needed today. I know it's stupid and trite, but it has to be the feline blood in me that makes it so I have such a hard time getting along with the beasts' Slowly Chall realizes that the dog is laying down, it's growls subsiding now that he himself is silent. He realizes, too, that there are three sets of eyes watching him from the fireside.

As his heart rate slows Chall allows himself to look around the area, making note of how small and quaint it is. 'Well, unless I'm in a servant's hut, there's no way it was those ruffians who've taken me. From their dress they had to be from a rich family, or at least work for one. This is little more than a hovel' Chall chides himself a bit, shaking his head at his own ungrateful assessment of his rescuers home. It is then that his shoulder decides to remind him just how hurt he is. With a wave of dizziness a shock of pain races from his shoulder across his chest and down to his stomach. With a moan he falls off the lounge on to his unhurt shoulder. One of the dogs rises at the sudden movement and Chall does his best to play dead while the feeling of dizziness keeps him from getting to his feet.

The beast lay back down beside the chair where a large cat lay, one eye open to keep an eye on the intruder. As the dog turns to lay down Chall makes note that it seems to be well cared for. The king has several of the creatures. More than once Chall has been forced to sit and listen to the kennel master talk to the court mage about the dogs and how they should be treated to stay healthy and happy. Three sets of ears perk up as Chall starts talking to himself. “Yeah, who knew it would be useful in the future for me right? I mean, if whoever lives here is poor enough to live in such a small place, but takes good care of his pets, then that must mean he or she are not of the cruel type, one would suppose.” He slowly pushes himself to his knees with his good arm, keeping the other tucked against his stomach so that movement in his shoulder is minimal. Another wave makes him fall back against the lounge. He takes several deep breaths and examines the now exposed wound. Despite the crud left behind from the poultice Chall is able to assess that the wound has had more than rudimentary field treatment.

“Well, that would explain the sludge I had to dig through just to wake up. Hedge magic. It leave the subject drowsy.” He looks over at the dogs and cat, raising an eyebrow. “Most likely an old practitioner, rather skilled to have healed it as such, just not very powerful.” The dogs gaze back at him with vague interest while the cat turns away with a yawn. Shaking his head Chall looks about the room once again. Spotting his torn blood soaked robe on the end of the lounge he tries to shift enough to reach it, feeling a little exposed without it. However another bout of pain makes him fall back with a faint yelp. He lets out a long whine, more of frustration than pain.

With a suddenness that startles the cat awake and brings the dogs to their feet Chall starts cursing his luck rather loudly. “This is so stupid! Mother brings us to live in a country where we'll be accepted, gets a job in the palace, helps me become apprentice to the court mage himself, and still I end up at the wrong end of a dagger chucked by a close minded fool while out on a mission to help save his worthless hide from a war that I personalty think should happen just so those moronic humans will get it through their thick skulls that just because we look different doesn't mean we can't take them down a peg!” Breathing hard he glares over at the alert animals. “Don't even think about it furballs. I'll have you for lunch if you come any closer. I'm not in the mood for your kind tod- Ah!” His last declaration is cut off by a cry of pain and his hand snaps up to hold his throbbing shoulder.

[ClosetMonster]

The dogs, copies of one another in black and white, watch him as he flounders about. The larger one, a male with a large white front, growls again, his ears going flat against his skull. The smaller dog turns her head and touches noses with him. The cat, however, remains aloof and unflappable, untouched by the tantrum made by the cat smelling human. She could care less, really – her spot is secured.

As he struggles against the pain, the attention of first the smaller and then the larger dog both go intensely toward the door. Ears up, they remain laying down, but the male licks his lips and the female brushes the floor slightly with a gentle wag of the tail which silences for her to tilt her head and cock an ear toward the door.

With a clump, the door opens. Wren has a feed bag over his back and he grunts as he swings inside, letting the door close behind him. He heaves the bag off of his shoulder, setting it to the floor, then gives a low, “Hup, Annie.”

The smaller dog is up and at his side, her body curled around his leg as she tries to be near and yet to be tucked into herself as well, her ears flat and her head down in a show of submission as she bares her teeth at him.

He is a large man, filling the door quite easily. His broad shoulders are covered in a thickly woven, well worn woolen cloak and he brings with him the smell of lanolin and the world outside. He bends and places one large hand on the dog's head, then stands and undoes the clasp on his cloak, looking across to where his guest is now leaning heavily on the lounge.

“You're awake,” he says calmly as he turns and hangs up the cloak on a wooden peg by the door. “I expect you'd like some willow bark tea or some such.” He turns his dark eyes on the man there, considering him for a moment before he walks from the door toward the other side of the long room. There, a rudimentary table sits with three chairs at it, each chair showing signs of a different carver. Upon the table is a spray of dried herb in a clay bowl and along the wall, a heavy, mahogany side table sets, far more fine than anything else in the cottage. This he opens and pulls out a long box which he sets atop the side table and opens, drawing out a vial and a linen pouch. Setting these to the side, he reaches back into the side table and returns to his work with a large, rough tea pot into which he pours some few drops from the vial and adds the contents of the linen pouch.

When he has everything in the cup, he returns the pouch and closes the box, then puts the box back into the side table. All of the actions are unhurried and he does not look at his guest once during the time, though the animals are all very much fixed on him.

With a breath of thought, pursed through his lips, the man slips beyond the eye of his guest into a side room which, had Chall been able to see, is in truth the kitchen and pantry, and is back in moments with a dipperful of water in a kettle which he walks into the main room with and sets on a hook and swings out over the fire. Then he drops to one knee and refeeds the fire, blowing on it until it is recovered.

Only when all of this is done does he twist at the waist, one hand on his knee, the other on the larger dog's side, and look at his guest. He is all hair, this man. He has a beard about his face and his hair is a mass about his head, curls and waves tousled about one another. His eyes are dark and in the shadow of the house, seem almost black. His skin, too, is dark with weather and he does not smile, but regards Chall with the same patience as the smaller dog. Under his hand, the larger dog presses a nose to his master's thigh.

“Are you feeling better? Marge did a little witchery, none to be overly concerned with, on your arm. She felt it was best to not tempt fate with such a deep wound. They can be deceptive. Give it a couple of days and you'll be right as rain.” he stands then but does not approach, not yet sure of what manner of needs his guest will have. A knife wound could mean a great many things.

[PopeAlessandros]

His breath hisses out between his teeth as he tries to hold back his cries of pain. 'Dammit, if I hadn't knocked that thing off my shoulder. . . .From it's smell it was helping with the pain a bit. Maybe I can get anther one, suggest some stuff to, what are they looking at?' Distracted from his musings Chall's breath comes out slower and slower as he tries to listen for whatever caught the animal's attentions. His ears snap out, shifting up and down as he cranes his head towards where they are focusing. 'That's the door' His shoulder throbs again but he keeps his breathing even as he catches the sound of approaching footsteps. His body involuntarily tenses as the door swings in, his jaw locking as he spots how large the person entering it. 'That guy is huge. He could use me for a lean post' He swallows hard, unsure of how much control he'd have over his magic should this giant prove hostile.

He remains still as the dog rises to greet him, the only part of his body moving the occasional twitch of one ear or the other. 'He smells of the outdoors. Much fresher smells than the ones hanging on the city folk' He takes a slow deep breath, using the clear scents to calm his nerves a bit. His whole body filches a bit when the man looks to him and speaks. Despite the assertion, Chall's tongue refuses to un-fuse from the roof of his mouth. 'He seems peaceable enough, and willow bark tea would help with the pain' His mind wanders a bit at the idea as he wonders if he'd have some sugar to make the drink more palpable.

The telltale sound of a glass vial on wood perks his ears up, drawing his eyes back into focus. His eyes trail over the other man's back. 'His clothes are very common, not extravagance what soever. He's not with those who attacked me. They didn't seem to be the type who would associate closely with “Common folk”. At least I think so' Chall curses silently to himself as his mind wavers from the growing ache in his arm. His eyes shift to the animals and he feels his fur begin to rise under their unwavering gazes. He glances up for only a moment when the man vanishes from sight before his focus goes back to the largest animal. In a very quiet voice the large male in the other room would be unable to hear he hisses, “Listen woofs, I don't need any trouble, so stop looking at me like that. I mean it! I will sick some sprites on you if you lay a paw on me."

The dogs seem to almost scowl at his threat but he has no time to think on it as the man returns. His feels his fur rising higher and higher as the man approaches, and without thinking he backs up a few inches, just enough so that if he needs to he can duck behind the side of the lounge. He keeps a raptor like focus on the man's movements as he prepares the kettle and stokes the fire. When it flares to life proper Chall takes in the man's features more carefully. Of all the things he got from his mother's side of the family, the night vision isn't one of them. 'He's like a big shaggy bear. He's almost furrier than I am! He seems relaxed too so either he's over confident or he's just a calm kinda guy. I pray for the second' He almost chides himself for thinking of praying but before he can the man turns to him.

His whole body tenses, making him wince as the action pulls the muscles around his wound pull on the damaged muscle and flesh. His deep voice is warm and calm, causing Chall's fur to settle. His listens carefully and nods slightly as the man confirms that magic was indeed used on him. Despite his vote of confidence in healing quickly, Chall decides to test his boundaries a bit. As the man stands up his follows his movements with narrowed eyes. Careful to keep his tone respectful, or at the lest not arrogant he asks, “While I thank this, Marge, for her help, if I could have access to a few things, I should be able to be healed morning after next without any lasting damage.” Glancing at his wound he adds, “I can tell from the pain that there's some nerve damage, and if I don't deal with it My arm won't heal at full strength.” His gaze trails back up to the large man's face. “It's just some basic local herbs. . . . .And a body of water somewhere where it's fresh, unspoiled.” He pauses, his eyes still looking up into the man's deep brown eyes.

[ClosetMonster]

The shepherd nods. “I have both if you tell me what it is you need,” he says calmly. A mage, then. Or some magic user. Wren clears his throat, then nods to the dogs. “Baxter, outside. Annie, stay.” The larger black and white shakes himself then slips from the room and around the corner. From there, the sound of a latch being thrown and then a door opening before closing.

“The water will be ready for your tea if you've a need of it. Otherwise, there is clean water from the pump in the kitchen around there and I've most of the local herbs, dried and in tinctures. If you've need of something I do not have, then I will get Marge to give it to you.” He considers a moment, then adds, “You say you'd like a body of water and there is that, on the other side of town. If the well water is not sufficient, that is.”

He scratches his nose, then lifts a brow toward the magical man. Then, because there is little he can do immediately, Wren takes a step to the side where he settles into a small, horsehair chair. With a grunt, the weaver leans over and begins to undo his boots. The evening will happen with or without a guest.

The process of removing his winter gear is calmly done. The shepherd first undoes laces, then pulls boots off. These, he sets beside the fire, combating the damp of a day's work before settling back and undoing arm braces of wool and leather. He begins to lay out various clothing items on a rack to the other side of himself. His cloak, hung on the hook by the wall, will dry in the warmth, but not so the overtunic, the kilt, his woolen socks. All is woven well, tight and finer than the usual coarse fare of the peasantry. But then, it is Wren's work and he has traveled a great deal, woven for many a year.

He lays all of his things out, stripped down to a pair of linen breeches and a light tunic of lawn. With a cough, Annie curled by the hearth and ignoring him now that the usual systematic settling in has been done, Wren leans forward and gives his guest a close look.

“I've no need to ask questions if they'll bring trouble. But there'll be curiosity. This town has little involvement with Kirin folk. Not that they're against them, mind, but you'll seem alien to them, even as human as you are.” Wren curled his large forearms across his knees, hands at opposite elbows. “If you'll be here long enough to heal, you might want to tell me what you'd like me to say, to stave off questions.”

[PopeAlessandros]

'I guess he's a good enough man' Chall muses as the man offers him aid readily. It's an unusual feeling for the young mage so instead of replying right away he watches as the man orders the dog out of the room then sets about removing his outdoor wear. His ears snap to and fro. 'I swear I just heard a dog open and close a door. These mutts seem kinda smarter than I'm use to' Moving slowly Chall shifts inch by inch towards the fireplace. Staring at the cat in the only chair near the fire for a full minute he ends up sighing deeply and instead puts a hand on the edge of the well of the fireplace. Pushing hard with his good arm he manages to take a seat on the lip of the well, his back far enough away to be warmed without burning.

His tail slips carefully over his left leg to dangle between his thighs. It twitches slightly with each noise the man sitting across from him makes. The fur along his back flexes slightly when the remaining dog comes to lay down near the heat source only a foot away from his furry toes. He flexes his claws a bit, both on his hands and feet, willing himself to relax. 'It's peaceful enough here, I should be able to recover and be one my way very soon' He glances back up at the man and resists the urge to move back away from him as he leans in. A low growl starts up in the back of his throat as he talks about the other villagers and how they will view him. The sound once again draws the dog's attention, causing her to raise her head and answer in kind, but Chall is too deep into his thoughts to notice.

'Oh great, even if this man seems to not care, I'm apparently in the same old backwater type village that made my mother an only parent and left me without a father. What would I like him to say? What a joke! There's no reasoning with fools that think I'm an oddity and not just another free thinking being that deserves to live his life like any of them!' His anger is apparent on his face, his growl moving deeper into his chest the more he rages inside about ignorant fools. 'What should they be told? They should be told to go jump into the riverrr and delve it's depths until they find the lost city of Jein Rii, the moronic fools froracistit mothers and fathers!' It at last registers that the dog, now on it's feet, is growling at him and Chall startles slightly. The growl dies instantly and he gives the beast a wary look.

His whole body jumps again as a whistle sounds out behind him, but it only takes a moment to figure out that it's the kettle signaling that the water is ready. Without hesitation he calls out to the fire and wraps it around his hand to keep it safe as he reaches over to the swinging hook through the flames to move the kettle from above the heat. Settling the fire back into the hearth carefully he turns back to the man and lets out a sigh. The dog returns to laying by the hearth, but keeps an eye on the invader. Looking up into the man's eyes he says in controlled tones, “My mission is my own, but if you must tell them something to keep the peace, just tell them I am the apprentice of the king's mage on a mission from the king himself. I can not say more than that.” His ears twitch slightly up and down and he can not help but add, “And I seem human because my father was human. A lot of good it did him. . .”

He drops his gaze and chews his bottom lip for a few seconds. 'He doesn't need to hear my life story. No one does. Not like anyone would really care. No one really cares in this world like they think they do. This man is most likely only helping because it's easier than dumping me off on someone else.' Chiding his own dark thoughts on the man who has been nothing but understanding and kind Chall looks back up at him. “As for the body of water, I need the body of water itself. The magic requires me calling on the nature or the water and surrounding life. Water in a cup is disconnected from nature.” He waves his good hand dismissively. “I should be able to make it on my own if you are to busy, but I should try to go there as soon as possible.”

[ClosetMonster]

Wren sighs as Annie responds strangely to their guest. Her aggression with her alpha so near her is a sign which he cannot ignore. He reaches out and grabs her by the scruff of the neck. She goes limp immediately and rolls to her side at his feet.

As the dog settles once more, Wren runs his hand over his chin and eyes, then leans back. “King's mage's apprentice is good enough,” he accepts quietly, careful not to allow his concern to show on his face. There is a tension to this one he would rather not have so near to himself, let alone his farm and his town. Perhaps it is not the guest in particular which the dogs do not like for neither Annie nor Baxter were consistently aggressive. Rather, they seemed to be upsetted by some danger the stranger gave off when he, too, was upset. Therefore, the stranger himself isn't so much an issue as what he can do when bothered himself?

But then, wouldn't that be a tidy bundle? A mage's apprentice would have magic, which Annie and Baxter both have not had good experience with. Perhaps the mage, when angered or ruffled, lets off some magical charge. Wren would ask Marge regarding this to test his theory. Truthfully, in his own times with those who made magic, he couldn't say any moment was so certain, so clearly cut. No – in fact, to insert magic into any being, to dabble in changing the natural order of things was, as far as he'd seen, a perversion which only spelled disaster, despite what good it might do in the short-term.

Magic or not, mage or apprentice, the Kirin is in need of aid for a time, if it be only a day or two. Wren accepts the lecture and the way the mage almost speaks down his nose to him with aplomb. It is no different from others much like him. Neither the Kirin nor the half blood status of this one are going to give him any more humility. Magic in and of itself creates a sense of being more than the usual. Generally, Wren finds such personality mannerisms amusing, much like how the Mayor thinks of himself as greater than Mr. Thatcher who is their town's tanner, despite his name. But with the magic being the source, he itches to rid himself of the annoyance.

“In the morning, then,” he says calmly, keeping his own heartbeat and worry quiet. “I will take you to the fishing pond which the children visit. But first you must rest. If you would care to, there is a bed?” He stood then, large and dark with the fire back lighting his heavy form. Gesturing toward the opposite side of the cabin to where a small cut in the wall reveals an alcove through which there are two doors, “there is a bedroom with a made bed and quiet, well suited for healing. I will get heating stones and warm the blankets for you.”

[PopeAlessandros]

Chall sits quietly, tensing only slightly when the large man stands. He feels a faint flicker at the thought of a comfortable bed after his less than restful night on the hard ground in a flock of sheep. 'The warmth will do me some good. I just hope I don't tear open the wound again on my way back there' Rolling his good shoulder the mage's attention is caught once again by the teapot. To the side his tail twitches appreciatively as he reaches out for the cup his host had set out for him earlier before grabbing the tea off the hook.'This smells wonderful. I only get the really harsh strong stuff at the castle, this is much lighter and delicately fragrant. Despite the inevitable bitter taste, I find myself really craving this' Chuckling to himself he keeps an eye on the large man as he moves about the small home.

'He's rather calm. I like that. Now, if only his mutts would stop having the urge to eat me, we'll be good' His brows furrow slightly, ears flipping here and there before settling on the large female. 'I wonder what keeps crawling up their craws anyways. It's not like I'm being threatening. Cheesh, they keep getting all uppity when I'm lost in thought. Not all that dangerous when I'm thinking, now am I?' He continues grumbling to himself as he pours himself a cup of the willow bark tea and takes the first sip. The sharp feeling on his tongue last only a moment before soothing out into a rather dry feeling, but it's enough to interrupt his line of thought. He hums lightly, willing the tea to work quickly so he can sleep.

The dog is just barely in reach, but now that she's alone Chall feels a little calmer about the large beast's presence, so with care he reaches out a clawed foot and scratches her back gently. He large head turns to look at him and he stills. A moment of silent understanding seems to pass between them and after a few seconds she rolls slightly on to her side so he can scratch her ribs. Her fur feels smooth but coarse beneath his toes, definitely the fur of an outdoor dog. The feeling relaxes him, almost reminding him if his brother's unkempt mane of fur. “You're a fickle little thing, aren't you girl?” Her head turns at his voice but flops back down as he flexes his toes and hits a particularly good spot. Rolling his eyes he takes another sip of tea, a faint groan escaping his lips as the warmth from the fire finally reaches the point where he has to move away.

The dog lets out a noise as he retracts his foot and slides down to the floor in front of the hearth. After a moment she stands and wanders of to the head of the house. Rolling his eyes again his gaze shifts down into the murky depths of his cup and he can feel his mind slipping. 'The old woman's, Marge I think he called her, spell is still dragging at me. I hope it clears up soon. If any villagers come by with less than friendly, or at least civil, intentions I need to have complete control here' He remains silent for several minutes, his mind drifting from random thought to nonspecific musing until at lats he realizes he really needs to get some real sleep. His eyes come into focus and he realizes that the fire is a little dimmer than it was before. With a sigh he downs the rest of the tea, and he smiles as he can feel that the pain in his shoulder is slightly less.

Murmuring a “Thank you.” to his host Chall climbs carefully to his feet and stalks carefully to the open door in the little alcove. Spotting a very humble bed a relived smile finds it's way to his lips. He utters another thank you, unsure if the man is close enough to hear him, but at this point he really doesn't care. His steps are a little uneven, but he manages to make it on tot he bed without falling over. 'Ah, sweet sleep, may you find me well in the morning' Pushing the covers aside he curls up, a faint cry coming from him as the position stretches his shoulder. He lets out a little whimper, shifting until the pain fades, and without bothering to cover up he is overcome by the combination of the leftover magic and his own complete exhaustion.

[ClosetMonster]

His guest gone to bed without the promised stones, still Wren does his best to follow through on his promise. He sets stones, half bricks, really, from his fire into a metal bedpan and then wraps this in a thick cloth. At the hearth, Annie sets her nose to tail as if she were sleeping, though her eyes glitter in the firelight while she watches her master as he goes about his business. The main room of his small home crackles with warmth and calm now that his guest has left it and Wren takes a breath which he lets out over his tongue, calming himself.

Wren leaves the cloth to warm and goes to the sidetable which he opens and removes one platter and table setting. These, he sets atop the sidetable and leaves as he dives back inside and withdraws a moment after with a heavy rye bread and salted meat in a small loaf. With his food out upon the top of the sidetable and without time to make it into a proper meal, he contents himself with opening the trapdoor which leads to the rope hung platform under his home, a miniature root cellar. This, he draws up and takes butter from the box he sets upon the floor. Making do with bread and butter and meat is not his usual, but the morning will prove to have problems aplenty for him to deal with and he does not look forward to meeting it without proper rest.

Prior to settling into his meal, Wren goes to the fireside and tests the cloth wrapped bedwarmer. Content it is warm but not overly hot, he lifts it and walks into the back bedroom. He sets the bedwarmer upon the bedside chair and looks at the young man asleep on the coverlet. He is young, Wren realizes, and looks particularly so when he is in an exhausted sleep.

Heaving a great sigh, the shepherd plucks a woven blanket from the chair, neither of which are not in full abundance in his home. Settling the warming pan beside the mage, he spreads the thick blanket out over the boy, then exits the room and closes the door so that his own evening activities will not waken Chall.

Morning bursts into life through a deeply inset window. Sunshine curls contendedly on the sill and sprawls with lazy decisiveness across the wooden floor and the foot of the mage's bed. The shepherd is already at his chores many hours before and he stumps into the house with Baxter at his heels and Annie watching the flock's gate. He cleans his night's dishes and begins breakfast – a pan of mutton and eggs as well as parsnips sliced into pale moons and onions. The sizzle from the far kitchen keeps Baxter's attention and the dog's tail thumps in rythmic hope upon the floor.

Wren sings softly to himself, a comfortable baritone rolling his r's in the traditional manner as he sings first one weaving song and settles into the next – his collection a formidable one.

There are two settings upon the table with bread set and sliced, covered in a tea towel, as well as chilled butter in a dish and covered by a plate. Milk rests in a small pitcher and pepper beside it. Outside, a plough horse blows her breath through her nostrils and stamps the yard dust as she waits, tied to a small tree which grows just beyond the front door.

All is prepared and Wren feels better for having organized it so. Now he needs only for his guest to waken.

[PopeAlessandros]

'~The sun shines bright through the halls, flooding the cold stone with it's warming rays. Chall lets out a long sigh, the day never ending. Through the small window of his cluttered room the sound of laughter come unbidden. His rises, layers of dust falling from the old tomb in his fingers. Blinded by the light he closes his eyes as he approaches the window. When at last he reaches, his feet unhindered by the clutter, his body moving of it's own accord around the mess. His eyes open and he looks down upon the outer courtyard. There, running playfully with a pack of children at his heels is his brother. A smile threatens to pull his lips tight, but Chall is too busy. He must finish this text before the next meeting with his master. His eyes return to the dust old room.

~~~

Blazing overhead, the heat of the sun warms him thoroughly as he walks across the grounds. Laughter comes from somewhere out of sight. He continues on, his eyes on the grassy floor beneath him. He has no time, he must get where he's going. Passing into the stone hall his brows furrow in confusion. There is still grass beneath his feet. Soft and plush, it continues on in both directions. The smell is far too fresh, something is. . .There, his eyes snap up as the laughter once again reaches his ears. The hall ends not ten feet ahead, opening into a great hall. But something is wrong, the hall if filled with flowers, trees, his brother hanging from one of the lower branches. His laughter sounds far away, his smile blurry. Chall is frozen he can not move. He longs to move on, to do what he needs to, however the sight holds him fast. He can't. . . .~

_*_*_*_*_*_*_

With a gasp Chall awakens, the sound of his harsh breathing all he can hear. His eyes dart about the room, but just as he begins to panic at the unfamiliar surrounding his memory comes back to him and his tense muscles relax. The dream fades quickly as he recalls the recent events and with a sigh his tail comes up and brushes his damp cheek. 'That's right, I am staying with a stranger. . . .His name. . .' He pauses for a moment then smiles faintly as he realizes they never exchanged names. The sound of singing from behind the door causes him to glance at it, tilting his head to the side. However the habit of humans singing to themselves is one he's grown accustom too and he soon loses interest. The chirping of birds and various other animal noises draw his attention to the small window off to the side of the bed. The throbbing pain in his shoulder pulls a groan out of him as he scoots carefully out of bed towards the window. Before standing though he notices that there is a lump under the blanket.

'What the?' Turning so he can use his good arm he shifts the blanket aside. The bundle of cloth confuses him for a few seconds, then he recalls what the man had said about heating stones. 'He really is a kind man. And quiet. I didn't even notice him bring them in. . . .' His faint smile makes an appearance once again for a few seconds, then the pain in his arm makes him wince. Shuffling slowly to the window he undoes the latch and lets it swing open. His eyes remain sharp as he surveys the area for any living thing that may take interest is him. The window looks towards the town, far in the distance down a tall hill. The hill itself is occupied by a few small hens, some flowers, and a butterfly riding the faint morning breeze.

Chall takes in the signs of life with a gentle feeling in his chest, the sight of it all relaxing him further. 'It is nice here. I hope to be moving on soon, but this is not a bad place to be for a while' Bringing up his right hand he pierces the pad of his index finger with a fang. Making sure there's enough blood on his finger, he drops his hand down to the sill and closes his eyes. He calls to the wind, his finger on the outside of the sill drawing a simple sigl, and with a sharp breath he finishes his spell. Opening his eyes once more he brings his finger to his mouth and licks away the excess blood. 'Now if anyone approaches, the wind will let me know. Well, as long as I have access to it' Looking over his shoulder he tilts his head with a contemplative look on his face. 'I wonder if he would mind me leaving this open. . . .'

After a few deep breaths of fresh air Chall pulls the window mostly closed and turns towards the door. Moving carefully around the small room, dodging the sparse furnishings, he slips out into the small alcove, leaving the door open a few inches. The smell of food reaches him and he inhales the scent deeply. 'Ah, food. . .' His stomach turns over, giving out an audible gurgling sound. The cat from the night before pauses in it's trek across the living area at the sound and looks to Chall with a curious flick of the tail. The young mage responds in kind and after a moment the feline continues her stroll. 'It doesn't know what to make of me yet. I wonder how old it is. . . .' With nearly silent footfalls Chall makes his way gingerly into the living area, his nose pulling his attention to the food laidened table. His ears twitch as the sound of the man's singing now reaches them unhindered by doors and walls.

In the warm light of day the interior of the small building is far more inviting and he can feel himself smiling lightly as he catches the older male's eye. His ears snap around to the sound of a large beast outside the door but after a few seconds he deems it non-threatening. 'Sounds like a horse, or a cow. Though why it is so close to the residence, I would not begin to guess' His smile fades slightly as he looks once more to the food and his stomach growls once again. A faint flush finds it's way to his cheeks and his tail lashes back and forth in embarrassment. 'Though it is no wonder. I am use to full meals at the palace, the past few weeks have been less than satisfactory as far as meals go, and last night all I had was some herbal tea for supper' His eyes rove over the two place settings and he looks once more to his host, the flush still tinging his cheeks. “I would not wish to assume anything, but my I inquire as to if one of those places set for me?” His tail stills as he speaks, pressed gently against the floor and stiff as he waits for a response.

[ClosetMonster]

The tall man looks up as his guest enters into the small main room of his cottage. He is tall, slender, like a whipcord. Entering into the side room where the dining table sits, Chall has to duck his head underneath the lintel between. Even doing so, he looks proud and sure of his place. He no doubt has a certainty of his own abilities, or it is merely an act of having been in court, Wren is sure. The mage looks delicate, almost feminine, though that could be the feline in him. But, even the cat who has chosen to precede his human-like kin in order to twine about Wren's ankles, looks as if she could dance with the fae on summer evenings. It is a farce, Wren knows. The female has chased off more than her share of toms as well as having given the rodent population of the farm a rendering. She is more than she seems, a killing machine.

Like mages, who look helpless. More than they seem, despite the flash of light. Wren has seen, first hand, the horrors their magics can call down.

The shepherd huffs through his nostrils in both uncertainty and amusement that the mage should consider having to ask about the place settings. “Of course,” he says slow and easy. There is hunger writ all about the young man's self. It is kind, that the boy chooses to ask, when he could simply take. There is a modicum of real manners, at the very least. “Please,” Wren beckons toward the table, “sit and eat. We have a short journey, but I suspect you've a long enough one ahead. I've made up a knap sack for your trip.” He turns to the side table and pulls from the top, a small sack with that very intent. Food stuffs, a half circle of cheese and two loaves of bread wrapped in linen, along with a bottle of warm cider, and it is something, enough if used with care, to get the mage to the next town.

He sets the satchel to the side of the sidetable's top, then goes to the kitchen where he calls Baxter to his side and leaves the dog with the leftover mutton bone. The cast iron pan is plucked from the fire with a thickly woven wool pad and set upon the table with serving spoon set cock-eyed in the eggs.

Wren sits himself across from the mage. Not standing on ceremony, he makes himself up a plate, dropping some of the mutton to the floor where Baxter has settled with his bone. Annie will have food enough, Wren does not worry overmuch. The boy, Harcourt Mace, no doubt will find her with the sheep and give her part of his afternoon meal.

He eats quickly, a man who has not taken time to digest a meal, nor do more than manage his needs so that his duties can be gotten to, and very intent on getting them into the farm yard and across town, sooner rather than later. As he eats, however, he takes another look at the young man and feels sure that both the sleep and Marge's more slow acting, nature inclined magics have done more good for the mage over the night. It no doubt would take a few more days if the man were patient to let her magic work, but that was not the way of his kind, Wren knew. The quickness of a thing was its measure in the more flash and glitter of the courts. He chuffed again, almost like a dog, and finished up his plate, ensuring the man had his fill before he cleaned out the rest of the pan. He did not try and talk to the man, there was no reason to do so. They would part ways in time for Wren to catch back up with his herd on their way to watering at high noon. He had a desire to make it to that place in time to catch them again.

“When you've finished,” he says almost a moment after he's begun, having eaten all there was to do, “I'll take you to the pool.” He stands and gathers up the platters not still in use, then goes to do the washing up as his guest continues to eat. Baxter, under the table, thumps his tail in delight as his master stands, but does not leave the bone. Instead, the good-natured dog returns to his meal, cracking through the walls to get to the marrow.

[PopeAlessandros]

Once bidden Chall smiles softly, his tail beginning a rhythmic swaying back and forth at the prospect of a proper meal. He walks to the table slowly, his stiff shoulder keeping his movements likewise stiff in an effort not to jostle it. The warmth of the room, he surmises, is not just from the rising sun, but from also the cooking of the meal they are about to partake in. His tail curls up curiously as his nose goes to work, sniffing out the various scents already on the table. 'Milk, bread, butter' He wrinkles his nose slightly. 'Pepper. My brother would be sneezing up a storm by now. He has a much more sensitive nose than I' Thoughts of his brother make Chall's ears droop a bit, but with a sigh he settles into one of the seats carefully. The cat moves past his legs and Chall lets his tail curls around her once before she wanders off and the appendage goes back to swaying happily.

Looking up to his host he nods, then looks to the bag the man has made up for him. His tail settles for a moment then the tip begins twitching slightly. 'This feels strange. I've never had someone be this accommodating before, save for when they want something in return' He looks back up as the man exits the room. 'However there is little to nothing I can offer the man unless he is looking for me to perform a spell of some sort. However' He looks around at the humble surroundings. 'He does not seem that type. Unless it's something very important, or something he can not do alone, I do not see this man wanting for anything' Chall may have never been like the tall man, but he has seen a few since leaving his home in the palace.

Even in the palace, certain servants seem so content with their positions, like the stable master and the head chef, that Chall often would wonder if his wanting more was something keeping him from being happy. However his thought soon would turn, the next time he would hear the derisive laughter or backhanded complement of a particularly outspoken servant who hates his kind. The large pot being plopped on the table snaps him out of his thoughts, his tail poofing out a bit in fright, the hair long his back stiffening as well. However the smell of the simple fare is enough to calm him down quickly. He watches his host serve himself up first, thinking it only polite to let him do so in peace, before Chall carefully scoops up some on to his own platter.

He eyes the beast on the ground getting bust with both the bone and the dropped scraps of food and shudders slightly. 'At least there are not ten of them fighting over it. I can never understand the king when he does fool things like that. It gets so noisy, and the poor things end up biting one another as often as not' Rolling his eyes he picks up a slice of bread, however he pauses with it in mid air as he watches the man before him eat. 'His mouth is huge. . . .It's like watching a slow motion tornado as it sucks up everything at the base of the funnel' Chall is truly fascinated by the show, but he soon realizes he is being rude and turns his attention to his own meal. Buttering the bread he piles on some mutton and eggs before folding it over and biting into the mass.

His teeth slice through the mass cleanly and efficiently, leaving little mess on his lips. While a little more delicate a eater, Chall does not lack for speed when it comes to keeping himself fed. 'This is some hearty stuff and will help greatly. I need as much energy as I can get, and this will most certainly do' He looks up to see Wren motioning silently if he wants any more. Checking his plate he takes out one more scoop to add to the pile already there before motioning that he has enough. Again, the man works his way through the food at an astounding rate and Chall has to remind himself not to stare. The man beast has no idea that his speed rivals the human's, having never having thought about it nor watched himself eat. About the same time Wren finishes, Chall cleans the last bit from his platter and sits back in the chair.

Plucking up one more piece of bread, being one of his favorite things to eat, and this kind suiting his palate, he begins munching on it slowly as the man begins talking. He nods silently, looking to his still slightly juicy platter. Using his bead he sops it all up, the flavors mixing together pleasantly on his tongue as he shoves the last bit behind his teeth before they snap shut happily. 'It's amazing what a good meal can do for the body. I am still in pain, but the sedated feeling of a full stomach is making my skin hum pleasantly' A crack from under the table makes him jump, whimpering as the sudden movement causes his shoulder to throb painfully. He growls slightly, looking down at the culprit behind the noise. However the dog just looks up at him for a moment then goes back to enjoying it's prize. “No consideration for my fraying nerves, huh pooch?” His voice is low but the man could most likely hear him even over the sound of him doing dishes.

Pushing himself up carefully, he lets out a sigh, holding the chair to help him keep his balance. 'I really hope this isn't going to be too long of a trip. Even with the food, I'm feeling a bit light headed from this fool wound. The pain is now more annoying than anything, but the less time I have to spend in any one location, the better. The last thing I need is for the people in this town to find out I'm here and get curious, or worse, upset' His ears twitch as once more he hears a large beast outside the door, but her rolls his eyes, not bothering with trying to figure out what a large farm animal is doing so close to the house. Leaning to the side he manages to spot the corner of the house's other humanoid occupant through a little doorway.

Raising his voice a little, only so he knows the human can hear him Chall calls out, “You said you have some herbs I could use. I don't need much, just some mugan root, some juren nettles, and some slatith if you've got it. Oh, and something to put it in once I've mixed it. I've got the rest of what I need here, but I ran out of powder leathers some time ago.” On the trip, due to Chall's lack of hunting skills, he has indeed needed to mix many supplements to keep his health up, leading to his own personal potion and powders supplies to run a little low far sooner than he'd hoped. His head tilts to the side, making his leaning look more like a hanging than a lean, but he once again recalls that they have as of yet to exchange names.

'Though it is only a short time we are to be together, I believe this man deserves the courtesy' Once Wren comes back into the room Chall straitens up and coughs lightly. “You must forgive the lateness of this, my display the night prior not my best form one could say, but I would like now to properly introduce myself.” He knows he's being a little over the top for a common man, but his court upbringing is kicking in over his natural urges as the pain once again threatens to make him into an ornery little brat. “I am Chall, son of mother Maruta, apprentice mage in the high court of King Hammon, third of that name.” He bows slightly, biting his lip as the motion pulls at his shoulder and comes back up quickly, hand going to the wound with a pathetic noise finding it's way out of his throat. He flushes at the noise but looks to his host to see if he will to the honor of returning the introduction.

[ClosetMonster]

Wren gives a grunt of acknowledgment while dipping the morning dishes into a basin of rinsing water than placing each dish into the drain pan. The cast iron is wiped clean and set back over the still hot hob. Food already put away but for the little on the table, the shepherd muses as to his guest and the man's imperious nature. It isn't that the man is so sure of his place that all others haven't their own places. No – at the very least, this mage's apprentice hasn't pulled on the airs of a true court mage just yet – looking down their noses at the rest of the world as if only their magic was of any use. Instead, it is a simply view of the world about him that the boy seems to carry about him. This was not his world and he was, almost understandably so – considering the state they'd discovered him in, wary of interacting with a world where he did not fit in.

Well, best to get the boy back to his courts and his comforts and out of Wren's kitchen. That was all it will take. Wren kneels to draw out his heavy herbal box from under the kitchen cupboard and takes it to the mage. It is a box of rowan lined with cedar, created to keep the faint properties of herbs dry and active, with a tooled top intricately scrolled along the edges and oiled with linseed until it gleamed like moonlit wheat. To the untrained eye, it is a art piece. To one who had been in the courts, there is a chance that the mage would recognize the marks of the House of Madrigal, a royal house of Urr.

Then again, Wren isn't sure the boy is well traveled enough. Urr being a twice removed country to the north, its political influence on their home courts is negligible to the point of nonexistence. A significant mountain range between Urr and their nearest neighbor, as well as poor weather, makes Urr the land of mystery to most, as far removed from their king as the other side of the world might be. Still, now and again, Wren has heard tales of Urr, knowing most are aware of the magical differences; working with winds and the pockets of wild fae as opposed to the more civilized interior countries working with the ley lines and the land beneath their feet – tramping it down and bending it to their will. Had he thought to mention that the box is a rarity from the House of Madrigal, he has no doubt the boy would know the name, but outside of that, he risks little in setting it on the table between them both. It is, overarchingly, a well created box of wood in which one can keep herbs.

It is also very much the cause of Wren's quiet, innate disgust of his own country's mages and courts. But what else was he to expect them to be, really? His own countrymen were spoiled, indolent. Urr's nobility had rough calluses on their palms and all were more peasant in appearance than royal. There was little room for anything outside of hard work in a land where the lack of a pair of hands could mean one less mouth to feed come the hard-won spring. Life was precious, magic more so, and nothing came easily. It is a life Wren has a great appreciation for and one he lives now that he has resettled in the town of his father.

He pauses with his hands about the edges and looks at the young man sitting at his table, giving introductions of himself like any highborn brat might well do. His dark eyes meet bright, pained green and takes a moment to assess the other. Chall has attempted niceties while injured, and the stupidity of it in a shepherd's home does little to impress the tall man. But it is a gesture and it is kind, innocent even, of the boy. It does soften an edge in Wren and he gives a half smile, then nods slowly without playing the same airs back at the young apprentice. It is Wren's home the boy has graced with his grand self, not the other way around.

“Wren,” he gives with little pomp or circumstance. “Autenberry. First of that name and of no court, nor none of that. Now take as you'd like and we'll go.” He returns his attention back to the box between them. Knowing the Kirin-man's name and place will be of little good to him come an hour's time, provided the waters work for him.

The top is easily lifted, despite it being fitted, and he sets it to the side, then leaves the mage to take as he wishes. Inside, along the edges, herbs, wrapped in soft lamb's skin or felted rags, fit into each compartment. The herbs circle the center where an array of vials filled with tinctures of this or that, all labeled in neat, tiny script along the sides. And in the very center, a locked box with no key in visible sight thrums with a low, hedge-witch magic and completes the entire ensemble, keeping all the innards fresh and viable long past the date of picking.

He has two of the boxes, though the second has the more precious herbs from far away lands and Wren is not interested in sharing that with this mage, no matter what the reason. Even to rid himself of the boy.

Wren clears the table and puts out a small pocket of felted lamb's wool as a carry for the herbs Chall chooses, then climbs to the attic and pulls down a thick blanket he's had stored for some time. It is tightly woven and will keep the boy dry if he chooses to not do so with magic. It isn't as important to Wren that he'd feel poorly if the mage chose to throw it out upon arriving home, either, having been one of the first blankets he'd begun and without the perfect edge which the weaver was accustomed to offering his town and the neighboring communities. Still, it was warm and thick and dry enough to be light until rain came.

He dusted off the blanket outside of the cottage, then returned to where Chall had set aside what he needed. It was good to see Chall wasn't overly grabby over the various herbs, taking on what he needs, and Wren nods in approval as he sets down the blanket and ties it to the food satchel which he then hefts and jerks his head toward the door.

“Away, if y'don't mind,” he then adds, “Baxter, come on then.” At his master's command, Baxter leaves behind his bone as if it were nothing and is quick to the side of the large man, hindquarters bumping against Wren's shin and his doggy face looking up in adoration at the man above him. “Sooner started is sooner finished,” Wren intones and humps out of the cottage, making his way to the large draft waiting for them. A quick ride to the pond and then he'll be washed clean of this boy and back to his life once more. It will be a relief, he decides, as he hadn't made plans at all to have anyone come in and stir up his life so. Not that he minds company now and again, but this mage's apprentice is not the kind of company he generally keeps.

[PopeAlessandros]

Chall is careful to keep his eyes on the man, even as he longs to simply go about his herb search through the fine looking box set on the table beside him. He has the feeling that all his grace and refined civility are lost on the simply looking man, however he remains as polite as he can be, as he was taught from a young age, and does his best to repress the expectation laid in him by years at court to insist same in return. 'He has not been rude, and more than welcoming if I do say so. Not many would take in an obviously unusual boy, let alone keep him around when he has appeared hostile more than once against various things. Not to mention spoken to his animals in a less than courteous manner when he himself seems to have some sort of close relationship with them'

The youth blinks at the sudden and unexpected smile, the sight of which causes his ears to fall and then rise again in curiosity. His stiff tail relaxes ever so slightly, wriggling back and forth with a faint twitching motion at the end. Chall is well aware that one of his kind trying to hide their emotions is like a dog trying not to drool when delicious meat is being prepared before it, however he almost chides himself over the unconscious actions before remembering there really is no need to suppress them right now. 'It is only one human, and he has already accepted me, as much as I have seen any accept my kind, and he is neither a royal or a noble, from what I have seen, so it really does not matter' His tail, which had gone stiff as soon as he noticed it moving, once more goes back to swaying and Chall turns his attention back to the man, who at last returns the courtesy of stating his name.

Despite being short and a bit curt in his reply, Chall can hear nothing to indicate he is upset or otherwise in bad temper, so he concludes the man is naturally of little words. He's met a few like that over the years at court, thought he must admit, very few. He nods back polity and at last turns his full attention to the box. His fingers long for a moment, to snake out and run across the pattern atop the lid, his sense of touch essential to him when it comes to admiring beauty such as what he sees there, however the man, Wren, not a moment later removes the top and sets it aside before he can do so. The assault of smells comfort him greatly, the familiar scents of herbs and roots making him feel almost at home for a brief instant. He lets out a long sigh, moving to the side of the table as the man steps back and runs his hand over the stash, taking in the faint energy coming off the small central box, before carefully taking out only as much as he will need of the dried plants that he desires.

Setting them aside o the provided cloth he glances over his shoulder to make sure that Wren is still out of the room before reaching out to stroke the lid of the box. The mostly smooth surface with the subtle textures and carved indentation cause a ripple to travel up his spine and he smiles faintly. 'Lovely. . .' Hearing the man returning he moves once more to the side so he will have free access to the box and he quickly wraps up the selected ingredients. He notes that, while dried, the plants seem to be rather lively and he looks to the small box giving off bits of magic. 'Must be what keeps it all fresh. I know of such magic, however I have never had a teacher for it. I am sorely lacking in many fields of magic. . .' His ears droop slightly, but then Wren is back in sight and the come back to attention. Watching him walk past he scoots forward a bit to look out the door after him before shuffling back to stand beside the table.

Most of the time when he visited other places, other people's homes, he'd always had his master with him, or someone or more import that the head of the house would pat attention to. Being the only one to interact with the master of a house leaves Chall a bit on edge as to just how to act. Once more the man comes back into sight and he waits patiently, the small handful of ingredients clutched in one hand. He follows the man's movements and a part of him drops ever so slightly when he sees Wren pick up the bag. 'Oh, I see, he wants me out of here today. Well, I guess I should not have expected more. Humans can only tolerate the strangeness in this world as long as it is convenient for them I suppose, and keeping me around for another day would be nothing if not inconvenient. . .'

He continues muttering inside his mind as the man speaks, nodding faintly before traveling over to where his blood soaked robe is with careful, pained steps. His thanks the spirits that the man leaves before he can watch the pathetic display of Chall trying to get his robe on without injuring his arm further. It take well over a minute, the faint grunts and whines stifled as well as he can manage, and his tail helping wherever possible, however his pride still takes a hit at how pathetic the whole ordeal is. When at last he has the thing on he grimaces at the blood stain but quickly picks up the bundle and slips it away into a pocket on the inside of the robe. He checks to make sure the rest of the herbs and the like are still in place before making his way to the front door. He pauses for a moment, his ears going down as his eyes adjust to the significantly brighter outdoor world.

As soon as he can see properly he looks about the grounds and smiles faintly at the earth feeling coming off of the very ground around them. Despite the animal traffic and the like having reduced the area directly around him to packed dirt, he can still feel a lot of nature's energy around the area and he takes a moment to let it flow through him. The smells on the wind, while some not all that pleasant with the amount of animals in the area, revitalize him none the less and his smile stays in place as he looks to where the man stands beside the large beast. His smile stays in place even as he eyes the animal a little warily. He's ridden horses before, with some success, however it is not his favorite way to travel. Letting out a faint sound he moves in a little closer, motioning for the man to mount it first. Once he is in place Chall moves in close and crouches low before springing lightly on to the beast's rump. It almost seems to not notice the sudden added weight and Chall takes a moment to relax his shoulder before slipping in behind the man and taking hold of his waist with his good arm. His legs slide down to either side of the horse and he can feel his bones shift at the shear breadth of the creature between them. 'Definitely not a riding horse. . .'

[ClosetMonster]

As the man behind him settles lightly, Wren things uncharitably for a moment that Marge's magic has worked better than the mage had thought. It only served the man right to be shown up by a basic hedge witch.

But then, there is a moment and Chall tenderly slips only one arm around Wren's waist. Wren can feel the tension radiating from the young man's body and he winces in sympathy. No – Marge would have advised Chall to stay in bed longer. It is the mage's stubbornness and certainty that he is right that has put him into this painful position.

Like that, the sympathy is gone. Nevertheless, Wren nudges their ride forward gently and does not ask for a trot which would unnecessarily harm the man behind him.

Chall is warm against his back, despite trying to keep himself with some space between them. He's almost as warm as a child and Wren begins to wonder if the high metabolism that indicates is from Chall's non-human side. Wren knows little of the cat-like people as they are, for good reason, shy of humans. He hadn't ever been in a position either to get a proper introduction either and he's always thought it would be fun on his next journey out into the world. If he ever gets back out into the world.

He has settled in nicely, actually and he feels he's bedded the wanderlust to a greater extent. He's spent fifteen years away from home and seen a great many wonders. It is nice to be home.

The dobbin under them is very much like being at sea. Heavy shoulders and hips roll opposite of one another and Wren can feel Chall hold onto him, obviously unaccustomed to either riding dray horses, riding bareback, or riding in general. Wren doesn't feel as if he needs to ask, however, and instead, he merely sets the dobbin's head toward the town.

Chall's presence has already been talked of so none are neither overly surprised to see him atop the horse nor with Wren. A few folk pause in their duties in the village to wave to Wren, call a greeting, and eye Chall with interest. But none stop them and in a matter of a few moments, they are through and on their way beyond.

It is a long ride and Wren does not speak. He suspects Chall is in too much pain to want to converse, or he's preparing for the spells he'll need. Wren considers what he'll ask Marge to do when Chall is done magicking the pond. It seemed almost wrong to give the waters to the mage, but Chall hadn't stated that the waters would be destroyed, as many mages were given to do. It was almost a source of pride that they would have to declare destruction of whatever natural phenomenon they were poisoning with their work. Either Chall was too young to have that kind of pride, or what he intended to do, he felt was menial and innocuous.

Still, Wren considered talking to Marge to see if she could ensure it truly was before the day was out. Children were wont to jump in the waters on particularly hot days.

The pond hadn't a name. It was a fishing hole or a swimming hole, dependent on what it was needed. A watering spot if one had livestock, a trysting spot if one were going at night. Wren did not name it either and when he pulled the horse up at the edge of it, under a spread of elm, he cleared his throat and glanced back at the slender man behind him.

“That enough?” he asked shortly.

[PopeAlessandros]

As the horse rolls into motion the kirin grips his host a little tighter. Being positioned behind the man Chall's body more thoroughly feels the effects of the shifting of the beast's back legs and once more the youth is reminded just why he has little skill on a horse. 'They way their bodies move, so different from my own. Riding in a carriage is easier, because then my mind only registers the movements, but on the animal itself I can fell all the motions, all the jolts and muscle shifts. It's disconcerting to a pert of my mind. . .Most likely the kirin half. . .' He sighs softly, enjoying the countryside while it lasts, the various wild animals grown use to living so close to a human settlement scurrying and climbing this way and that, a few stopping to look at Chall as he passes. He looks back at them, when he catches them starring, only looking away when a particular shift of the animal beneath him jostles his wounded shoulder. At these he growls way down deep in his chest, but otherwise pays them no mind, knowing that neither horse nor handler are to blame. Instead he tries to occupy his time with the nature around him.

His magic, unlike most human magic, even his master's, relies heavily on his innate connection to nature. Animals, though not conscious of it, can feel that connection and as such, react differently to Chall than they would just a regular half kirin. When they finally pull into town, Chall has to refrain from hiding his face against his soon-to-be ex-host's back and his shoulder pain fades to the back of his mind. On a normal day in the castle town, when forced out into public, Chall has no problem walking proud. As the mage's apprentice he has garnered no small amount of respect, and everyone knows that messing with him is a very bad idea. . .Also, everyone recognizes him. 'However, even if word has come to town about me, there is no guarantee that those who attacked me aren't here. . .Or if they decide to take another crack at me that anyone would do anything about it. I can't just wantonly use my magic in town, too many people not involved may get hurt. Elemental magic cam be very unpredictable when used in a grand a scale as fighting back against a gang of men. . .'

He tries to sit up a little, to not look as timid as he is feeling, however a few of the more interested stares drive him to look away, fidgeting with his robe as if he's looking for something. His keen ears pick up a little of the chatter going on around them, and he can not help but let out a faint sigh of relief as he doesn't hear anything that sounds like plotting. Well, plotting concerning him anyways. 'Someone has a birthday coming up. Sounds like a fun surprise for whomever they are talking about. . . Chall muses silently, his tail swishing back and forth at the thought. Then just like that, they are through town and once more the young man feels his body relax a bit, and his pain return. The ride after the town is long and silent. Unsure of what to say to the large bear of a man seated before him, and needed to become more acquainted with the land before he uses it, Chall instead focuses on the world around him and keeps his magic flexing and contracting, letting it all get to know him better.

'It really is nice and peaceful around here. I can feel that the land is well cared for, and the animals are content. . .The air is far cleaner than in the city, and the people have not polluted it all too much' He lets out a sigh. 'It is nice here, however despite the comfort all this brings, a part of me still longs for home. . .For my brother. . .I pray he is well. . .'

When at last they reach the body of water Chall smiles, the feeling of a well loved pond enough to send happy trickles of magic through his system. He nods silently, his warm smile still in place as he slides off the horse. 'This place is well used, much life comes through here. It is tended, and cared for. Not only by the humans, but by water folk. This is a very good spot “Thank you.” he murmurs softly, not wanting to just walk off rudely without a word. Walking slowly up to the very edge he begins speaking softly, drawing out the herbs he will need when he exits and setting them aside on the bank before slowly, and unashamedly, slipping out of his clothing. For the magic to work properly, there needs to be nothing between himself, and the element he is entreating. His clothes fall into a heap as he begins chanting softly. The chant is short, a few simple words of placation to the spirits guarding the pond, before he steps in. Normally nature magic requires few to no words to work it, however when dealing directly with a request to any particular element, a few words of respect are standard.

As he walks in deeper, a slight turbulence takes place across the entire surface of the pod, the light splashing almost like it is shivering. The cool water against his flesh draws a sigh from the kirin, relaxing him even further. He knows humans are often particular about nudity so he stays facing away from Wren until at least what they call “Privates” are covered by the pond water. He turns, his eyes aglow with the magic gathering about him, and looks to the man with his warm smile making a reappearance. 'I do not know why, but I get the impression that he does not like magic all that much, despite being friends with a magic user. . .Perhaps if he sees some beautiful magic, he will change his mind. . .' Chall does not know why such a thing matters to him, not really caring what the man thinks since he has already decided to kick him out after only one night's rest, however he can not help the feeling of per the man seeing such a thing, important. Occasionally across the dancing water, a bit of the liquid seems to lift of the surface, and then skip around like a skipping stone across it before falling once more beneath the surface.

With a sigh he crouches, settling his normally raised heels on the mucky, by pond weed and such, bottom of the pond, and with a few slow arm movements he draws the water in to his wound, still just above the surface of the water. The magic is subtle, the jumping surface of the pond the only truly noticeable part of the spell save for Chall's glowing eyes, however as the water wraps around his shoulder, sliding in to repair rather than just heal his damaged muscles, his eyes fall closed, his head snapping back at the sudden cold sensation inside his body. The pond takes out it's own payment for the service in the form of a good portion of his magic which he can recover in a day or two, before leaving him entirely, his shoulder much better than it was before. The depth and viciousness of the wound keeps it from being heal all at once, but it is enough for him to move it without whimpering.

'Unfortunately, I see not being able to move far from this spot until I both finish healing, and regain my magic. The spirits in this pond are not use to being used, and the amount they took reflects that' He sighs softly, looking back to the man once more, his eyes normal. 'I guess it means going back to living outside. I am grateful for the day in a bed he gave me, I should not feel so disappointed. . .' The shivers on the surface are replaces with just the ripples that Chall himself creates as he begins walking out of the pond. The water, if anything, looks better than when he entered it, the insect life above it almost doubling and the fish coming up to feed contentedly. They are few, and very small, most likely brought by the spirits long ago for fun.

Stepping out Chall turns to the side a bit, to be polite should Wren be one of the humans ashamed of such things, and takes a seat by the herbs he set aside before the trip into the waters. He hums softly as he prepares the ingredients, the mixture of which with work as a supplement to the pond's healing and keep him from tearing open the newly repaired muscle. The grass beneath him feels naturally damp and as the trees above rustle in the breeze he shifts at the blades tickle his backside. The silence having gone on long enough, and the kirin being in a much better mood than he was before, Chall speaks up loud enough for the man to hear as he works. “This place is very nice. Well used, and unspoiled. Those who use it do so with respect, whether they know it or not, and the spirits are pleased. . .”

[ClosetMonster]

As the Kirin stepped into the water, Wren turned the draft underneath him back toward the road. Behind him, he imagined he could sense the wrongness of it all in much the same way he had in the courts all those years ago. His shoulders hunched defensively and the mare dropped her head with a soft snort, shaking her great head to relax her rider. It did little good, however as the man spurred her into a shambling trot toward town.

Therefore, it was not Wren at the water's edge who watched Chall exit the water, but at first glance it may have been. They were identical in almost every way, down to the clothing they wore. In fact, even in soul, they might have been brothers. This man who stood in the stead of the weaver had fashioned himself a carbon copy of the man who had left almost immediately. It was a pity, really. It would have done Wren good to see courtly magic used so respectfully in his own land.

“They are,” the man intones, his voice the same as the large shepherd's had been. It is a deliberate ruse and the man does not think that the kirin, magic drawn from so deep, will notice. Chall iss, the man thinks with a slight tilt of his head, but a child yet and has much to learn of the ways of the spirits which preside over the wilder places in the world.

Had Chall been less of a gentleman, less apt to try and make his watcher feel comfortable, he might then have looked more directly upon the man when the last of the farce settled upon his broad shoulders. He may have seen the shimmer of antlers or perhaps he might have noted the faint, green aura which faded from view. But he is young still and trusting of places which are, in essence, innocence. He has not learned how long forgotten places might leap at the turned doe's back, hungry in that wild innocence. He has not learned yet to keep watch in all directions, for when in the open field does a mouse think to worry about the skies until a shadow has passed over his trembling body?

This Wren who is not, takes some steps down to where the half kirin is working on his ingredient mixture. Even the mixture smells good to the pond and the wild and the man grunts in approval. He stands over Chall and turns his attention to the pond beyond. It humms in happiness, glad for the additional magics it leeched from Chall, not quite full as it had been ages past, when the ancients gave as a lover to his lady, but pleased nevertheless. The hum resounds inside of him and he does not move to it, does not brush fingers over it, does not yet immerse himself in the life which thrums under the surface of the water.

Folding his arms over his chest, he considers giving a warning to the fledgling mage. There had been, in the ages past, a time when he might have done so even. Then, magic in the land and magic in man bound themselves together and together, were greater than any of the more tame magics of the world. During those days, the half kirin would have been honored for existing – a blend of one and another. The blend would have given him the promise to be one of the greats and he would have been raised to know it. Now, however, there is no such sense to this child and what promise there is, will no doubt be beaten into submission by the court mages of these emasculated southern lands. Prosperity, it seemed, led to stagnation. Unlike those lands to the far north and those in the deserts to the east, where life was more tenuous and magic honored, this boy's countrymen were fat and lazy, like indolent lapdogs in sunshine. They ate, they shat, and slept. It was all they were good at.

The man shares much of Wren's thoughts on his lands, which may be a good reason to take on the shepherd's form and spirit. With a smirk, he leans down to look at the ingredients, then brushes his fingertips against the nape of the boy's neck, still wet from the pond's touch. “Don't move,” he hisses as his first and third fingers trace from the nape of Chall's neck down his spine and to the the center of his shoulder blades. Magic swirls like a hidden snake under the boy's skin, weakened by the activity of healing, and the man finds the head, presses his thumb to just behind and holds it still. “Whatever you do,” he rumbles, “don't move.”

[PopeAlessandros]

As he settles in to crushing his mixture properly Chall pauses for a moment when the human speaks, for an instant feeling that something is off. His mind snaps to the fact that he did not see the horse when he exited the pond. However after a few long seconds he shrugs and goes back to work. 'Must have wandered off to eat. I can see that man giving his animals such freedoms, and since he has no great love of magic, one could suppose that he would want to get his beast away from it' He lets out a sigh, finishing the mixture, now a fine powder in the bottom of the bowl. Reaching over to the pond he scoops up a small hand full of water and drips it into the mixture. He tenses for a moment at the feeling of the man approaching, however he once more reminds himself of the kindnesses the man has shown and finishes stirring the medicine into a paste.

“There we go. . .” he murmurs, smiling at the smell wafting off the herb paste. The figure of the man looking up behind him does become a little disconcerting, naturally, but at this point Chall has decided that the man is odd in his own way, and will do what he will, as he wills it. 'It is not my place to push anything upon him, my presence having already disrupted his life likely far more than he would care to tolerate. . .For such a kind man, or so he appears, he takes his kindness almost as a burden. . .' Having had very little experience with such kindness, Chall is no great judge of such things. However, he believes his thoughts, and is content in them. He can not claim to be completely free of arrogance, and this is a prime example of it.

Just as he prepares to put the healing mixture in place the sudden shift behind him makes him go stiff. The proximity between the two beings lessens greatly and Chall can not stop his tail from going stiff and poofing out a bit. His heckles rise as suddenly he feels flesh against his own, but not his own, and the hissed words do more to rile him up than settle him. A snarl finds it's way from between his lips, the unusual situation bringing about naught but fear and anger in the young man. He can not feel the magic of the one behind him,all of his prior focus being internal after being so drained. Had he not called it all in, he may very well have sensed that the thing on the shore was not his once host. As it is however, all he can tell is something is touching him, and he doesn't like it.

As the fingers slide lower his snarl deepens, his finger curling into attacking curves. 'What in the moons is this!? How dare he touch me like this. I may be grateful, but I would never permit such contact, with anyone, so sudden and without permission. I do not care what I owe him, I'll. . . I'll. . .' His snarl breaks into a whine, his tense body going from angry, to purely fearful. He manages to not start trembling as the magic, tied in so close with his life, is pinned, suppressed, taken out of his control. 'What, how. . . This is not Wren, he has no such power. I can feel it now, inside me, it is. . .Full, natural. . .This is not Wren. . .Am I so foolish as to let such a thing come so close to me?' His thoughts continue to spiral even as the bring behind him watches how his magic responds to being pinned.

Many court mages would have their magic fight, to flare up and begin attacking anything it can. The anger inherent with natural human fallacy would attack, more often than not, without care of the consequences. However this half kirin's magic settles as he demanded the boy himself to still. 'Interesting. Despite being so drained, the control he exhibits is very intriguing. He may just be what we need. . .' He glances over as a few water sprites, nymphs, peek over the edge of the bank. Chall to glances over at the movement, however being rather familiar with such creatures he does not start at their appearance. In fact, as the slide in closer he relaxes a bit.

'They would not be moving in closer if the thing behind me was in a particularly hostile mood. He must be. . .They must know it' In a very soft and respectful tone he whispers, “If my thanks was not enough, I beg forgiveness and open myself up to whatever is needed of me. . .” He catches his breath as the hold on his magic seems to tighten and he falls silent. The nymphs watch with wide eyes as the spirit continues his assessment silently, his own magic moving about freely inside the lad, so open Chall is to natural magic the act is almost effortless.

At last he says softly, still keeping a firm hold on Chall's magic, “I seek n more from you, your words and sacrifice welcome and more than enough to pay for the aid to you. My act now is for. . . .Different reasons. . .” Chall swallows at this, the tales of the mischief of the spirits long told by his mother, and even more by his master when in his younger training years. True, the magic of man these days have little to nothing to do with them, however his master knew Chall was different, and made sure that even rumors of such things were part of his learning regime from the very beginning.

'Oh great, a spirit, just what I need right now. I need to travel, tapping the lay lines as quickly as possible, and now I have a spirit interested in me or something I can do. If I did not know any better, I would say fate it toying with me. However, I do know better. Fate doesn't give one such as I even the shadow of a thought' He stays still, as he was bidden, the nymphs watching, speaking softly to one another on occasion as thread after thread of magic passes through the young man. He is completely dry, save for the parts touching the wet grass, by the time the spirit is finished and releases him. Chall lets out a long sigh, turning his head ever so slowly to glance at the man at his back.

However he does not seem to quite resemble a man any more. The form of Wren still seems to dace before Chall's eyes, however the clear features of what lay beneath seems to shimmer into view with each gentle breeze. He looks upon the deer like features, the slender limbs, the tall antlers, the aura of magic around the bring now quite clear. The bright colors around his neck and face look beautiful to the young mage and with a sigh he does his best to relax. Without a word the spirit motions that he should finish what he was doing before anything else. The nymphs, three girls and one small male, settle into the shallows on their stomachs and giggle lightly as they watch Chall comply. Even as he begins applying the mixture he can still feel a web of magic, not his won, dancing about inside him. 'This may not have a good affect on my own magic, and I should avoid using it too much until I figure out what he's done to me. . .'

Once the poultice is in place Chall quickly wraps his shoulder in a bit of clean cloth and takes a calming breath before turning to the side to address the spirit. Now facing the nymphs he watches as hey giggle, getting a better look at him now that he is not longer half turned away. He still feels no shame in this, and as such takes no note of their reaction. He is instead fare more interested in the spirit who saw fit to violate his body with it's own, while very pure, near sickening magic. It is not that the magic is bad, however such purity , it clashes with Chall's magic a bit, and he is not use to the clash. While ti may have been easy for the spirit to move it's magic around within the young man, it is not so easy on the other side of that exchange. The spirit nods approvingly at the wrap before giving Chall a faint smile. The half breed is unsure what to make of the expression.

[ClosetMonster]

The brown eyed plough horse almost reaches the town when she stops suddenly and moves her head in a wide half circle to look behind her. Her plate-sized hooves are held to the earth but she is not in a panic. Instead, she flicks her ears toward the call behind her. Atop, however, the weaver reaches for the small knife he keeps to cut twine or twist out a nail. He turns atop her broad back, gazing into the green through which they'd already passed.

What called then? It feels like a tugging at the base of his spine. Not uncomfortable, it is as if a storm were coming. Still, no wind kicks up and there remains a brilliant day in the sky. With a shake of his head, he nudges the mare with his heels. She, however, takes a heavy step backwards, tossing her head in argument. They wrestle a moment, his legs and her stubbornness before she, with a sigh, goes as she is bid.

The sense of storm continues to rise and Wren finds himself looking up at the sky more than once during the ride toward home. The sky, however, remains quiet and blue, with no sign of trouble, though the feeling grows until, as he pauses in town to descend and speak to Marge, he finds himself short of breath and clinging to the mare's crest, his face pressed into her neck.

The mare turns her head and nuzzles his side, then is once again distracted by the path they have left. She whickers, as one might to an approaching horse, but nothing is there but for a child crossing the street to the baker's home.

Marge is in her back garden, her hands deep in her tilled earth. She looks up at him as he crosses her fence line and the lines of her face deepen in sudden concern. Surprisingly spry for her age and size, she is beside him in moment, a hand to his chest. She supports him as easily as she might a newborn calf, a farmer's wife to all. Her heavy hand guides him through her back door and into the small room which is most of her small home. He is laid upon a table and she speaks not a word as she busies herself over her fire. The scent of herbs and animal fat flood the room in minutes, mixing in with the crackle of fire and the distant call of the thatcher outside on the roadway.

“Touched,” she frowns as she comes to his side and taps his chest. The tap feels hollow, his skin too large for his frame, he can sense the knock through his entire bones to his feet. A groan emanates from his chest and he narrows his eyes against the bright light.

“M-marge,” he croaks, then blinks at the brilliant light above her head as she leans over him. There, just there, a dancing light which winks in and out like a distant star, yet so much more bright. His hand reaches out for the light but his hand is batted and then set at his side. Far from him, he can hear her call out a name, so like a name he ought to know, then his arms are bound to his side.

A brush of heat and softness against his cheek presses him deeper into the fit. Wren moans, some hidden furry thing within his soul curling away from the alien presence like the mouse does a storm. The world fades away.

Marge clenches her jaw in concern, going to her pot as the weaver goes still, pale, upon the table of her kitchen. She does not sing over the herbs as is her wont. Rather, she focuses her being on protection. It seems odd that someone so tied to the land might be touched, but then, he had taken in the mage. Perhaps something had happened which offended the rocks and without the mage, there was no one left to focus their ire.

The paste heats and bubbles and the woman does her best to not take too close note of the man who she cannot help until, with a soft exhalation of relief, she grasps the handle and draws the entire pot off the hook and takes it to his side. With a wooden spoon, she draws out the floral and fatty scented paste, dabbing it at his temples, his cheekbones, the hollow of his neck. She works his shirt open before she begins dabbing the paste at his collar bones, his breast bone, just above his navel. His shoes come off and the paste goes over the arch at the top of his foot then behind his ankles. To do more would be not a woman's place and she takes a breath, sets the pot to the ground and goes to work each bit of paste into wherever it had been set. Starting at his temples, she set thumb and middle finger at each point and set to rubbing in circles, each one going widdershins. The man did not respond, but he did not seem to sink further from her. She could do much provided he did not slip away.