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The larger man shrugs, as if this answer puts paid to his thoughts: special Wren may be, she isn't a Guardian as Macaire understands the term. But he doesn't judge or disapprove; it's clear that whatever she is, Warwick believes she's a Guardian. No sense in being angry that what he believes to be truth cain't very well be. "Guardians," and the word rolls off his tongue, somehow twice as long as it should be and yet still perfectly understandable, "are nae a joyous gift, the tales say in Airelund -- they bring ye love, oh-ho, rioght enough, but 'tis duty they bring ye also."

He lets that sit for a beat or two, his gaze sweeping away from Warwick across the peaceful landscape, and though his body is relaxed and his expression calm, there is something watchful in his eyes. Does he expect to see wolves here, in the gentle lands that have seen none for so many years?

"Oi'll lurn ye, if ye've interest fer it." The offer is gentle, almost coaxing: it would do Warwick no harm to learn, even if his 'Guardian' is nothing more than an exceptionally calm, rather clever animal.

"As ye will." Macaire settles back easily enough, taking pity on the clearly uncomfortable lad: it's plain enough Wren isn't no Guardian, leastways not as Macaire knows them, but no sense in pressing the issue. "Offer'll stand as there's ever need for it, and all that aside, she suits ye well, right enough. Tis more'n passing fair, aren't ye lassie?" He gives Wren a more cheerful grin, for he means the words: she is a graceful, lovely thing, even with the bells and the ribbons.

"Wouldnae mind tae hear news of thonder city, neither," Macaire continues, tipping his head in the direction of the road they travel. "Though oi'd guess ye have but old news for it, being as ye travel overmuch, but 'tis better than what I have -- which is none."

"Aye, city folk don't have time for fair smiles nae more, right?" Macaire has a chuckle over this, though it's probably a given that he's had a more settled life than Warwick. But those as live in little hamlets think of themselves as country folk -- quite a difference from a gypsy's roaming life, but different from the crowded city as well. " 'Tis a shame. Them as livin' in cities are more like tae need it, right?" He shakes his head at those serious folk, with a rueful grin that takes all the malice out of the criticism. He's seen the ringing of the little bell to bring Warwick back to a brighter state, and it's come to him that that could work for a fair number of folk.

Macaire himself seems easy enough about it: he investigated the matter to his satisfaction, reasons that Wren isn't but a clever pet, and really that's all there is to it. He doesn't look in the least bothered .. not now, anyway. It'd be fair to say he'll be getting his comeuppance for treating Warwick so cavalierly at some point in the future. Leaning back into his seat, relaxing at the pleasant change of being able to ride rather than walk, he shoots Warwick a wry grin.

"Aye. Havenae had much trouble meself yet, but cain't imagine there won't but be a few words said." He snorts something like a laugh, not really dismissing Warwick's troubles but choosing to take the lighter view of them: it's not as if either of them can stop people from judging based on their looks and origins, so why not chuckle about it? "Oi donnae what 'tis said here, but in me haime ye would have the better reputation then oi have here. Oi'm ainly supposed tae be a barbarian what cain't tell down from oop -- in Airelund, 'tis said gyps be dangerous because yer sae lusty womenfolk 'twill run after ye where ever ye go."

Macaire gives a light chuckle -- don't do to laugh overmuch about someone else's mam, even if they're the ones making the joke -- and continues to wear a wry grin for the fools that fear both Aireland's fierce men and the roving gypsy people. "And what've ye, lad? Do lasses run after ye where'er ye go? Or do yer lovely lady," and he gives a teasing nod towards Wren, "nae permit any others tae come near?" The soldier obviously finds the idea rather amusing, the thought that Wren might take to jealousy if Warwick tried to take a lover -- Guardian or no, she's proved clever enough he wouldn't put it past her! After all, dogs and cats can get jealous, why not does?

Besides, the idea of women running after poor, uncertain Warwick -- poor b*****d, he'd probably keep running!

"Oi'd loike tae think I ken tell down from oop, meself," Macaire continues cheerfully, "but if it were that oi were a fool, t'would be me who were the last tae know, aye? And me mam used tae say me brothers and oi were a roight pack of barbarians, sae there is that."

Macaire very nearly chokes on a whoop of laughter at Wren's disapproving look -- it is so very intelligent that for a moment he cannot doubt that she knows she's being spoken of! The very idea of it sets him straight to laughter, and it'll take time before he can pull himself out of it enough to speak. " .. oh, laddie! Be a difference 'tween what lasses want when they be under the sun as when they be under the stars, roight? They tell they mums 'tis a rich laird they want, on farm and land, but oh! 'Tis the lad with the dark eyes what really trouble 'em, him as got the roight smile or whatnot." He speaks cheerfully of such infidelities, without touching on those harms which led to Warwick's birth .. perhaps deliberately. Again, as with the prejudices against their appearances, he seems to think it better to take a lighter tone, to avoid addressing subjects directly which his companion might find painful.

He will spend the rest of the journey on such trivial things as that -- telling tales about womenfolk who'd gone after handsome drifters, them who'd come to bad ends and them who'd been lucky. He talks about the differences between Sunderland and Aireland, about food and weather, always simple things, steering clear of things that seem to upset Warwick.

And at the end of the road, whenever they reach it, he'll shake Warwick's hand solemnly, the contrary mule now on a lead behind him. "Good it were to meet ye, lad. My thanks."