Welcome to Gaia! ::

It is likely first the Guardian who captures Petra's attention. After all, part of the draw that so frequently gathers close around Warwick's wildly-painted wagon is wrapped up in Wren, perhaps enough to rival the bright flashes of color in his hair, the tattoos that cover much of his bared skin, the rag-tag-costume. Pale and grey, she would be nothing more than a backdrop if not for the bright ribbons tied around her neck, and the red ball balanced almost thoughtlessly on the tip of her nose.

Hopefully, however, Warwick will quickly take over her attentions. Petra steps into the scene moments too late to join the show, two strong-looking men already drawn in to help out. Judging from the way he moves, his impeccable sense of balance and the glimmer of good humor lighting up his eyes, Warwick should have no trouble mounting the rickety wooden structure. Yet, somehow, he has fallen four times already in the effort, this last ending up with arms and legs wrapped around one of his volunteers' head, apologizing profusely as the audience dissolves again into laughter.

This is, for him, the point of the show. Certainly there are some people in the gathering who are there merely to see something amazing, who appreciate his tumbling, his skill. Most, however, are likely hard-working townsfolk who need a good laugh as much as they need a break, and he intends to give it to them. It takes skill to fumble and fall without hurting himself, to land just so, to plant a foot squarely on his poor volunteer's head and launch himself up the final foot onto a wooden contraption that swings and sways beneath him, kept upright only by the men on either side -- and, of course, Warwick's own efforts to keep his center of balance.

They will be able to catch their breaths once he is established, and launches into the finale at last -- juggling anything a young girl tosses up to him, from bean bags to clubs, rings to apples, apples to knives. The danger builds, Warwick himself swaying where he stands just enough to set himself rocking, to make the audience gasp, certain that he will fall. But now he will not, no, not as he approaches the end, knives turning to swords and finally fire.

His timing is perfect. The sun is setting, dark creeping in around him, as he lights up the final torches. They glow between his hands, to mark the end of the show, turning from individual torches to a winding, continuous shape against the dimming sky.

Petra is the only one, then, who lingers to witness the deconstruction of Warwick's act. She missed the set up of this wild wooden creation, but she can watch him take it to pieces, carefully stacking them into the giant trunk at Wren's side. The entire tower turns into arm-length boards, fits together so perfectly that someone expert must have made it -- and it must have taken them ages to complete the work.

That person hadn't been Warwick, certainly, and as much is obvious. He tries to be neat and tidy with his cleanup, but there is something impatient and careless to his movements. Knives are tossed into the trunk at random, and he pauses at one point to scratch behind Wren's ears, grinning at her and tugging several of her ribbons free as he does.

The hat, through all this -- a hat that will jingle just faintly with coin -- is kept within his line of sight. This is the only reason why he notices Petra before he finishes his work, blinking into focus and slowly drawing up another smile.

"'ey sugar. Need someth..." When his eyes drink in Spokelse, however, his smile brightens, more genuine, and his eyebrows inch slowly upward. "Oh. I see. Uh. Gimme just ten more minutes to finish up?"

He is at least faster now, tossing things haphazardly away, making his previous efforts look delicate. Warwick leaves it there as he gathers up his hat, fingers filtering quickly through the money, weighing it quickly in his palm. It will only be a rough estimate of profits, but he won't sit and count it in front of her. Instead it disappears into a deep pocket and, satisfied that the place is cleaned up enough, he drops bonelessy to perch on the edge of the trunk.

Wren still has her ball. Almost absently, she kicks it, winding her way in against his side, and it rolls to a halt between his feet.

"Ahm. Were...you lookin' for something, or just...?" Warwick gestures, absently, for her to come sit. Apparently this trunk will hold bot their weight. It is a sturdy thing.

Warwick has spent the past hour or so in motion, doing work that looked effortless but had left him sweaty and worn out and, well, not exactly spring fresh himself. Perhaps after they're done speaking he'll hunt out a water pump or a river or somewhere else he can strip to the skin and dunk his head, at the very least.

So. Her smell doesn't bother him, at least, he just grins at her and shrugs a little. It is not exactly humble. It means, more, 'I know', and it makes Wren huff out a bemused little breath into his hair.

"It was better with two people." He reaches up to rest his hand against his Guardian's neck, though, in a reassuring way. Perhaps, given more time, she'll be strong enough to bear his weight. Or perhaps not, as much as he would like it. "But I'm glad you enjoyed it. Did you see the bit with the wooden hoop?"

Oh -- well. He blinks at her then and rises all at once, reaching out to catch her around the waist and set her beside the trunk, instead, blue eyes bright with amusement. It is obvious, if she takes a moment to think, that he plans to show her now. And why not? He likes doing it, and it might just make Petra's night.

He gets the hoop out of the trunk and presses it into her hands, a simple oblong of wood barely bigger around than his chest, bound with iron. It will not yield between her fingers, if she chooses to test it. "You want to see, yes?"

Perhaps she expects a magic trick -- but that's not what she's about to be treated to, no. Instead he takes the ring and drops it around his neck, nudging her back a step to sit again. When she does, Wren will settle behind her to snuffle at her hair curiously, at the edge of her jacket, the smell of dog clinging around her. She will be a warm presence behind Petra as Warwick shrugs out of layers of clothing, leaving himself only in his undershirt and pants, even toeing off his shoes.

"What were you doing in town?" He nods to the cart, and then wiggles his first arm up into the hoop. It doesn't seem like it should fit, but with a little fidgeting, he gets it into place, rolling his shoulder carefully.

"Nnn, what'll you do now with no goats?" This is work, but he speaks through it anyway -- twisting and shifting his body, jumping slightly as he wriggles his other arm into the hoop. It is a very snug fit, the limb bending in an awkward way and the ring entirely unyielding. A sharp breath out and all at once it will pop down, settling around the barrel of his chest and hugging him there, not even shimmying its way down to the narrowed point of his waist. He breathes in again, and flashes her a smile, more subdued this time.

"No goats means there ain't gunna be more cheese. Or milk." And perhaps this is troubling, to him, behind the smiles.