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Odd enough that the battered soldier has no interest in the wench: odder still that all his interest and attention is for Eluf. In this rougher area there are probably those that think they know what such interest means -- but fair to say that Macaire may be too simple to have planned all this to carry Eluf off somewhere private. No, he's got some other meaning on his mind, something what's got him intent on the wee fellow, though it hasn't passed his notice how sweet and fair he is.

Macaire doesn't even realize that Eluf might be awaiting silverware: he sets at it at once with his bare hands, grease or no! Eluf's careful investigation of the offerings seems terribly amusing to Macaire, and then when he asks .. why, poor Macaire nearly chokes on his mouthful bread! Poor lad! So clever and curious! Washing down the bread with a few great gulps of the frothy beer, Macaire grins at him and tugs a lock of his own red-tinted brown hair. "As it looks, me lad; oi hail from Airelund -- wee town as south as it may go, called Skibbereen. And ye? Ye have the sound of them oi've heard here, but 'tis a touch of somewhere else in ye luiks if oi'm not mistaken, right?"

Arrgh! He's adorable! How is it possible that this wee thing has made it all the way to adulthood without being stolen and locked up in a golden cage somewhere? Airelund's shores, but he's just .. well .. maddening! Just look at him drink the beer, so determined to be able to handle it! The longer he's here the more Macaire wonders if he ought to regret bringing this chick amongst the foxes, and yet is unable to do so. It's just .. just .. argh!

" 'Tis naught bold at all, but oi will require a price for it. T'will answer ye any question, but in return .." He glances towards the door and then back, leaning towards Eluf with an air of a man making a slightly shameful confession. There is indeed something rueful in his expression, as if he is asking for something vaguely embarrassing. "Ye kin tell me all about yon lad of your'n, what's so fierce tae protect ye. Seen a slew of them since oi came here, and dain't know what 'tis all about."

Something pulls Macaire's eyes to Eluf's hand, as it toys with the handle of the mug. He can't help it. He wouldn't dare say why -- but he watches until Eluf speaks again, and reddens abruptly as if the boy has pointed out something especially embarrassing. But of course his hand goes to his throat, where no doubt the totem still lies beneath his shirt; now he looks especially uneasy. "I donae really know what it means, y'ken," he says softly, licking a mouth gone dry. "I donae know what tales say of them here in they homeland, but 'tis sairrow they stand for where oi am from." He would say more, but he frightened Warwick before, and Eluf is even more fragile than that: no sense in trying to explain any further. "But they as has got them here b'ain't afeared, right?"

The youth's reassurances don't seem to have the intended effect: he listens, it's true, noticing only in a distracted sort of way how carefully Eluf sets down his mug. Why in the world did he do that, anyway? But his words are more pressing matter, and they make Macaire press his lips together. How does he explain that it isn't public reaction that worries him?

But it's so hard to look on Eluf and talk of his fears, to explain what he worries about when he sees the Guardians leading children around. Eluf is one of those children! Maybe it was a mistake, to try and get some answers out of him, but it isn't like there's anyone he can just walk up to and ask if he's the only one worried about all of this!

Being called 'Mr. Draughn' snaps him back to the present, and he looks at Eluf a little aghast, as if he cannot imagine being referred to by any sort of title. It'll take him long enough that he hardly notices the waitress; he gives her a sideways glance and a small shake of his head. No time for that sort of thing now!

"Tish, none of that here," he tells Eluf, lightly as he can, waving off the young man's formalities. "Only Macaire, lad, ifn' it must be ye calls me something. Tain't muck tae tell. Me da were a soldjer, and me brothers all were the same. Talk of me elder brother bein' made Cap'n afore oi left, even. Lived on a little plot nor'east of Skibbereen proper, we Draughns do, and has always fought. 'Tis in our blud, me father says." He shrugs, as if uncertain of the truth of this himself. "Since oi came here, it's a guardsman's work oi'll be doing. Won't have me amongst yon soldjers, and there's precious lil' need of 'em anyways."

Special. Oh, if only the Old Gods could whisper that in his ears, Macaire would shake in his boots for little Eluf and his dreams, and go shake a fist at that monster outside. It's probably for the best that Macaire has only unconfirmed inklings of how Eluf feels about his Choosing --

-- as to his own, he does not say. He blushes again, and shifts uneasily in his seat, much preferring to answer the other questions. Eluf's line about not being 'useful in such a field' very nearly makes him choke again, anyway, and he reaches across the table to pat Eluf's shoulder gently, almost in reassurance. "Oh, aye, there's them that're fit and them as ain't, right? But nae shame there: 'tis to be sure ye are fit for other things that oi cain't touch." He shrugs, then leans back and sets his foot up on the chair beside him, with a sigh that it should be so. Never for him, the world of wealth and innocence that Eluf moves in!

"I cannae say oi do, but 'tis a living. Oi do well enough at it, right?" He thumps his chest, to show how hard the muscle is there, and then shrugs, dismissing the strength of his body as if it means very little to him. "'Tis plenty quiet, for the most. Gives me time tae think."

A coveted -- Old Gods, give him patience! Is he going to spend the whole time he speaks gaping at the poor child? The more he speaks the more certain Macaire is of it, until he's almost embarrassed at having waylaid the boy with the intention of asking so many questions of him. If the lad hadn't seemed to be enjoying himself .. and somehow getting the better of Macaire in the conversation! .. he'd even feel guilty about it.

"I donnae dislike it, ye ken." He is very careful on this point. It wouldn't do to have someone think he is feeling -- rebellious -- even a boy so innocent as this. "'Tis more like, jest sommat tae do, right? But, if oi'd me druthers .." Trailing off, he muses the possibilities, then sits back in his chair and nods once to himself. "T'would write. O' history, and them as ain't got nae written tales: lesser folk, right?"

Shifting his seat, he takes a small leather-bound volume from one pocket and shows it to Eluf, flipping open the pages himself. They seem to be notes .. long explanations or copied stories in a neat, even hand, in ink and in charcoal. Some appear to be interviews; others, copies of bardic tales. There are even short songs and sketched pictures, the most recent being of a gypsy woman looking serenely at a rook, which is giving her a critical stare.

The big man shifts in his seat, somewhere between embarrassed and pleased: how often were it that anyone looked to him with awe untainted by fear? Granted, he'd swear it was just because Eluf were too young and innocent to know better, but that doesn't mean it doesn't put a flush to his cheeks.

"Were a lad when oi started," he confesses, and there is to his tone a definite air of confession, as if this is something he as not frequently -- or ever? -- spoken of. "Were sickly, loike. Me brother, he said oi may as well make meself useful, and sent me tae a priest fer larnin'. Came intae me own," he taps his breastplate to indicate the muscular bulk beneath it, "later on."

The picture of the woman and the rook is faced by neatly lined verses -- presumably, a song or a poem. Still flushed with pleasure at the tone young Eluf has taken, he taps the picture with one finger. "Ach, 'tis naught. Mair the subject than the pen, right? 'Tis a gypsy lass what oi met at tavern. A sainger, aye?" He taps the song on the facing page. "'Tis hers, this. Fair tae break me heart, were sae lovely tae hear."

If the big man is aware of the genuine jealousy that Eluf suffers from, he does not seem to understand what it may imply. Rather he is far too flustered himself to react properly, unaccustomed to such heavy praise -- particularly from someone higher in station than himself. He fidgets in his seat, and takes another several gulps of his drink, perhaps in the hopes that such liquid courage will give him the understanding as to how to deal with the mess he's gotten himself into. Oh, if he'd known what a dangerous little thing Eluf would be, he might not have come up to him so easily! The flattery that Eluf applies could become every bit as addictive as hard liquor ..

"T'ain't naught but scribblin's and ramblin's," he murmurs, caught by the smaller man's gaze: he holds it for a moment, flushes ever more deeply, then is able to drag his eyes away for only a second before bringing them back. "Have a care, me lad," he continues, and his tone is almost begging. "T'would be over-easy tae get used to such talk, and tempt me tae keep ye about tae give it."

Before Eluf can respond he drives on, answering the final question. "Aye, near out of charcoals and paper."