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"Aye! 'Tis the same," Macaire confirms, though she'd not meant it to be a question; he seems tickled they should both know the silly fellow. Under the street lamps he tips his head to listen to her, with a small shake of his head for admiration to think she's held them all together so long: a solemn rook and a proud young buck, with just herself to protect them! "Do ye go about with a cart, like yon Warwick?" The name rolls heavily off of Macaire's tongue, very nearly turning it into someone else's name altogether: the vowels very nearly disappear, rolled up into the musical tones of the consonants. "Or do yer lad bear ye along?"

He sounds genuinely curious -- there is no judgement, no sense of scorn that she is merely a gypsy, a wandering woman. He simply does not know a great deal about such folk, and having met two in a short period of time, is now curious to learn what they might have in common.

He nods with a touch of sympathy to it and a wry twist to his mouth -- until he met Warwick just outside of the city, he'd walked, too. "Aye," he says, "Times as was oi would pay a good set for sich as mi'laird there, tae ride on, but oi havenae yet seen one as big as meself." He chortles at the thought of a Guardian large enough for him to ride on, as such a beast would loom even over Oberon, just as he looms beside Rajani herself. With that passing thought, he presses onto other topics, more interested in Rajani than her Guardian.

"T'is an apology oi owe ye, as well," he murmurs, with a sheepish tip of his head. "Oi was copying down yer saings, back there in thonder tavern. Not though sich as oi could ever do 'em proper -- but tae go in a book."

Macaire will also allow that particular unsettling topic of conversation to pass -- though a sidelong glance, faintly amused, centers on her the moment she says 'Guardian.' Guardian? Another one who believes the stories are real? But as with Warwick, he does not call her on her strange belief, endearing though it may be. He lets the topic of conversation slide away, eager to think about something other than noncombatant children wishing they were Guardians. It's just .. depressing, is what it is.

"Aye, if ye kin credit it." He chuckles, only too aware himself of the contradiction between his daylight profession and his hobbies. "And do nae disservice to saings of older times. 'Tis history there, right? But .. t'were it .. hm. Second swing after oi came in, aye?" He hooks his arm in hers so that he can reach into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out the battered journal that he had been writing in earlier. Flipping through it with his thumb, he frowns thoughtfully. " .. and the last, right?"

"Had a glimmer oi could tell what tunes be your'n," he confesses to her with a tip of his head and a smile, smoothing his thumb over the page before turning it. The caress is almost loving: he loves the paper the way even a scholar can't, for a scholar must live and breathe his work, and Macaire seeks it only for pleasure. "By them, oi'll be writing your name, right? Ainly oi cain't say t'will bring ye much fame, oi fear." Now he chuckles again, folding the book gently away and tucking it back into his vest. "Dain't know what will happen once 'tis written. Ainly got this mad passion for tae write it, and me brother says, 'Jest ye go and writ it, and once 'tis writ, then ye warry about the next step.' "

He smiles sidelong for her, as if he knows that he's a fool to pursue what he does -- but as if it's just something he's come to accept about himself, a madness he can neither cure nor escape. Despite the fact that his chances of getting it noticed are less than nothing .. he is common-born; it's amazing enough that he can read and write in the first place!

"'Tisn't me tae be hesitatin'," he tells her, and his voice has grown softer as well: in the darkness it is easy to dream, to think that he might somehow be able to overcome the significant barriers of class and wealth to achieve what he desires. This is not something he talks about frequently, and even more rarely does he mention it with any seriousness, but Rajani .. Rajani has taken him seriously, and so he owes her a serious answer. "Asked me around, when 'twas younger. Takes gold, and plenty, for the puttin' out of a book, and them as do it dain't like tae do for them but is higher blooded than oi -- or for them scholars as is owned by them who are higher. 'Twould laugh me away, they would."

It's as peculiar as all the rest of him: muscular and scarred, wearing sturdy leather, and yet with ink and charcoal on his calloused hands, but Macaire sounds gently wistful as he speaks. He'd rather the world were wholly different, that those that mattered would listen to a fellow like him, but that's the sorrow of it; there are those that matter and those that don't, and what is there folk like them can do about it? "But loike me brother says, one mountain at a time, right?"

A look of real surprise flashes across his face, for it's rare enough for any of their sort to know a noble well enough to expect the occasional favor from them -- rarer still to offer this as a boon to another. 'Tisn't only Rajani that's been surprised this night; Macaire looks distinctly impressed, for all that he don't recognize the name or the family. Foreign, perhaps, but not every foreign-born man is a poor Airelund mercenary!

"Aye? Oi may very well! T'would be a fair thing, tae have sich a friend, one a step higher than meself." He chuckles at the thought of it, absolutely tickled by the possibility, and pats her hand on his arm with another smile. "Ah, lass, 'tis grateful oi'll be that oi took the courage tae step up and spake tae ye. 'Tis a wonder ye are."

It may be funny to hear a big man like this talk about courage, but it's not entirely unusual; bravery on a battlefield is one thing, but it takes an entirely different sort of bravery to approach a pretty woman, no matter her station!

"T'would argue, if oi were the sort tae deny a lady's word, that t'were oi what had the pleasure of it." He gives her another slow grin, and patting her arm one last time releases her so that he might give her a deep, courtly bow. Oh, it is not a proper bow, and those in a royal way would have much to criticize, but it's certainly what Macaire must imagine a courtly bow would be like -- and it's graceful enough, for someone who looks like his muscles ought to creak when he walks. "An honor it were, tae speak with ye. If 'tis oi am one day sae lucky tae have a book, 'twill see tae it ye have a copy."

He will with a half-quarter turn also nod gravely to the bird and the buck, giving them their own farewells; to the buck he even salutes. "Oi trust oi can leave her in yer watchful care, m'lairds?" The question seems very serious, though there is a twitch at one corner of his mouth as if he is trying not to laugh -- he sounds rather like a solemn guardsman, passing off the care of a queen to another set of guards.