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It's been a good show overall, as far as the tavern is concerned: the drunken soldier slurring his old ballads, his sorrow selling more mugs than the tavern keeper has sold in a long time. And then the acrobat -- the bigger, broad-shouldered man looking to him like he's got all the wisdom of the world hidden under those rainbow rags, begging him mournfully for advice on a new babe! And of course the gypsy boy'll be able to give it, who better? Everyone knows about gypsies --

There are some who'll go back to their cups, pretending they haven't been shamelessly eavesdropping; others'll look interested. Macaire does not seem to notice either way, not the profitable possibilities nor the danger, shoving himself to his feet with a slow, thoughtful wobble. He holds onto the edge of the table for a moment to keep himself steady, regarding the table as if suspicious that it might be trying to escape him. " .. dain't need mair drink? Oi know ye a wee little lad, but ye a man still," he mutters, clapping Warwick on the shoulder as he lurches past. " .. would do ye right, right enough." He seems to be mumbling to himself more than anything as he staggers off towards the exit, somehow managing to keep himself upright enough that he doesn't land on top of anyone.

For now.

Macaire will have to lurch to a stop when he sees Wren; his expression is perfectly mournful, and he reaches out one hand towards the Guardian as if begging her silently for absolution. " .. oi wroinged ye," he mutters to her. "Oi dinnae ken ye were true, but ye are, oh! Roight ye are. Forgive me, fair lady, fer oi dinnae mean it!" The words are low and mournful, and if his accent is thick enough to slur the meaning, perhaps she will yet understand the apologetic tone -- or perhaps not. Either way he shall blink at her for several seconds before continuing on, allowing Warwick to support him and lead him along.

With the reassurance of Warwick's help he is a pleasant drunk, occasionally warbling snatches of old Aireland songs or talking in his thickened accent about things that have happened, or how foolish he was not to believe Warwick and 'that gypsy gel.'

As they turn down a new street, towards the area of town that is not quite unsavory, Macaire freezes. He has his head tilted up to stare at a baker's shop, a two-story building that like many such shops likely has more than one rented flat situated above it. One of these flats is presumably Macaire's, because standing on the roof of the building is a tiny stick-legged figure with dark brown fur and a cream splotch on his wiggling rump. Warwick, Gwen, and Macaire will be able to hear the happy peeping of a creature thoroughly delighted with itself -- after all, Cadence has just spotted Macaire, and is flipping his little tail back and forth so fast it ought to be humming.

" .. small gods be damned!" Macaire gapes at the apparition, gripping Warwick tightly. "Ye bloody stupid bugger, what're ye doin' oop there?!"

"How? 'E's a daft bugger, is how!" Though this is no answer at all, Macaire sounds especially aggreived, as if Cadence has done this specifically to embarrass him before Warwick, glaring up at the fawn in the dark. Fortunately the little Guardian does not seem the least afraid, being too pleased with both himself and with Macaire to evidence any distress. In fact, at the sound of Macaire's voice he turns in a little circle of glee, peeping further greetings down at him, at the stranger, and at the other Guardian.

This further aggravating his Chosen, Macaire lifts an arm to shake a fist at him, though this causes him to wobble slightly and lean more heavily on Warwick. "Dain't ye shake yer tail at me, lad! Get ye on down, won't ye? Bloody hurtin' me neck, bent all over tae look at ye!"

This demand stops Cadence, who considers it with interest, scooting right up to the edge of the roof and peering down at them all. It's not clear whether he just doesn't understand the demand .. or doesn't know how to get down .. but either way, he doesn't go anywhere. He just peeps again, like a question, and Macaire groans at him, rubbing one hand over his face.

Warwick may be able to spot a way, though it is precarious -- Macaire's flat is on the second floor, and there's a wobbly set of stairs that lead up to it from an alleyway. If the fawn had gotten out of window, he might have used the railing on the stairs to reach an overhang positioned over the door into Macaire's flat, and from there it's a small jump to a short ledge, and an easy hop to the first slanted section of roof.

" .. got half a mind tae leave him oop there until he's seen fit tae come down," he mumbles, in ill grace, even though he knows that he'll not be able to rest until the fawn is back in his arms again. " .. but then me mam always said half a mind be all oi've got, and that oi were left with the half what's muddled." He shakes his head and takes a step forward, then glances sidelong at Warwick. "Aye? Well, 'tis tae be hoped, me lad, for oi'd break through yon roof, oi would." If the tumbler and his Guardian don't support him Macaire will stagger forward without their help, heading towards the little set of stairs. "C'mon, me lad, oi'll boost ye."

If nothing else, Macaire can hold himself steady against the building so that Warwick can climb over him, using the broad man's bulk as a stepping stone on his way up. Bending down to launch Warwick into the sky when Macaire is so drunk might end poorly, and it will be easy enough to convince the old soldier just to hold still. He will stand just below the little overhang over his front door, head craned to try and catch some glimpse of his disobedient Guardian.

" .. there's a lad," he coos at Cadence, who still evidences a complete lack of fear. "Ye jest stay where ye are, roight enough, me ol' frend be coming tae get ye. Dain't ye go nowheres, lad, jest ye stay right there." The reassuring croon keeps the fawn close by, though he can be heard pacing back and forth and occasionally peeping.

Cadence is big for a new fawn, all long and gangly legs and great big ears and great big eyes. He regards Warwick with fearless interest, one ear turned towards him and one towards the wobbling voice of his Chosen. Then, considering them both for several seconds, he does a little dance in place -- one of delight to see that Warwick has obviously come up to play with him -- and skips across the roof towards the chimney. After a few heart-stopping seconds during which he vanishes from sight, he comes trotting back with a long length of bean-vine that he has probably torn off of someone's window-trellis. See? he seems to be saying, there are all manner of wonderful things up here! Come look with me!

Cadence is glad to comply, as if they are just playing a game of fetch together; he trots forward as if he has known Warwick forever, and they have always been close friends. The concept of "strangers" is not, apparently, one that the fawn understands. But as uncertain a Chosen as Macaire is, he must also be a kind one, for Cadence has already learned to butt his little head into a person's hand to ask to be petted and stroked.

On the ground, Macaire feels rather as Wren does, uneasy about the entire affair. "How's it goin', me lads? Ye get 'im tae come close tae ye?"