Welcome to Gaia! ::

The mule is a sorry looking fellow, with so much mud stuck to his hocks he looks as if he is wearing thick brown booties, and more mud on his sides and in his raggedy tail and mane. At the moment he is standing with his ears pricked forward and his head turned away from the man who is standing over him, listening but obviously unrepentant and smug over his current state. Set to one side on the road is a pile of oddly bulky packages in thick layers of canvas; they haven't the orderly look of merchendise brought for sale, and besides the man yelling at the mule doesn't look like much of a merchant. No, this is probably all of the poor fellow's worldly belongings, wrapped up and carried with him.

" .. daft feckin' bugger!" the man is going on, his great big bellowing voice rolling out every word to a musical softness, making even his exasperation a very pretty thing to hear. He towers over the mule, too, so much so that the tiny beast beside him is very obviously nothing but a packmule -- there is no way that this bulky fellow could ever fit on the mule's back without his feet dragging on the ground on either side. As he shouts he waves a saddle-pad back and forth in angry gesticulations without ever doing so much as striking the beast with a switch. "Oi dinnae turn back nae mare 'n a minute, and ye gone an' claggered yeself all oop with muck! Would sware ye knew b'ain't nae stream 'til the-marra .. and how issit I'll be loadin' ye now?" The last bit is uttered as almost a groan, as with his free hand the man rubs his forehead as if to rub away the ache there.

The whole thing is rather comical, particularly as the mule isn't the least afraid of him. The mule's fearlessness may seem strange, as the man is powerfully built and does not look like the sort to spoil his animals; there are weapons in the packs beside him, and the man himself is battle-scarred and obviously familiar with violence. The freckles that spot his face and bare arms hint towards an origin from a troubled nation, but he does no more than gesture wildly at the mule and sigh explosively in its direction.

At the sound of his voice, the put-upon traveler turns about, unsurprised to be approached or even spoken to. His grimace suggests he will be able to see the humor in his situation some other time, but at the moment is utterly fed up with his mud-obsessed mule. The moment he has turned fully about, however, and taken one good long look at the odd menagerie that is coming his way, his expression shifts to one of open-mouthed shock. The mule is ordinary enough, and perhaps he has at times seen decorated carts, but .. is that a deer? And why does the man riding the cart look like he's gone and fallen in the scraps bin in a tailor's shop?

" .. t'is trouble," he says after a stuttered pause that speaks tellingly of his surprise, which he does his best to cover by giving a little shake of his head. "Sae far as Oi'm concerned." For all his shouts and curses at the mule, he is after a moment able to give the stranger a wry grin, as he twists the saddle-pad in his calloused hands. "Dinnae buy a mule tae be houldin' me own things, right?" Somewhere between exasperated and now desperately curious about the crazed man in his exotic dress, the big man gives the stranger's cart an openly envious look. "Don't suppose yousuns," he flicks his fingertips inelegantly at the lot of them -- mule, deer, and Warwick -- "are headed in towards thonder city?"

There is a request behind the question .. maybe he can put his stuff on Warwick's cart, instead of on the mule, and travel with him .. but he doesn't hold out much hope that Warwick will make such an offer. Most folk wouldn't. If his nationality weren't enough to make a man uneasy, the fact that his body has been so well-marked by his trade would cause most to hesitate. He hasn't much to trade, either. Almost no coins; he's hoping to sell the mule once he gets close enough to the city, and with those coins purchase room and board.

"Aye! Would suit me well and well enou'!" Warwick's grin is answered with one of his own, with a touch more surprise to flavor it, for Macaire is not accustomed to being smiled at. Crazed though the young fellow may be, he finds he rather likes it. But the deer -- the deer! He gapes for fair at her, astonished to find her acting so handsomely in regards to Warwick's offer, and finds himself bending in an awkward bow, as if he has just been presented to a great Lady and does not know how to act around her. "A pleasure, lass," he mutters, somewhat out of sorts now, though Warwick may be comforted to see that there is no spark of recognition on the other man's face, no dawning look of realization. He has no idea what Wren is, other than an incredibly tame, incredibly clever deer with unusual markings.

Ignoring the muddied mule, he bends to collect his things, which he will quickly stow in the back of the cart. They are bulky packages for the most part, and though they seem to be heavy, they do not give Macaire much trouble. "Thank ye, lad. I'll be Macaire Draughn, and mayhap as we walk ye can tink of some favor oi can do ye."

The reason he ignores the mule becomes clear as Macaire walks up to the cart, for the animal's ears p***k forward, and it follows at a trot, not at all interested in being left behind. It will sniff Wren, the cart, Warwick if it can reach him, and then finally snuffle Josie's ears almost lovingly. Macaire himself apparently intends to pace along beside the cart, so as to save poor Josie the effort of pulling his bulk along.

There's a snort of a laugh as Warwick first falls off the cart -- Macaire's only seen a rare handful of tumblers in his lifetime, and to him the easy grace with which Warwick moves is endearing and funny, like watching a puppy bounce along. He is more accustomed to a more deadly sort of physical grace, and as he shakes Warwick's hand he thinks he rather likes the gypsy's style better than his own. "Right, Warwick .. it .. is." He trails off as Warwick pulls himself up onto Wren's back, his eyes going big and round. Tame deer are one thing -- tame deer that allow themselves to be ridden are something else altogether!

"Blimey," he says, after a long moment of silence, holding his hand gingerly out to Wren; should she deign to sniff it he will smell of sweat, the leathers he wears, the dust of the road, and paper. Paper? "Blimey," he says again, obviously shocked, and it takes him a moment to shake his head and snap himself back into reality. "Dinnae know no deer would do that." He'll pull himself up onto the seat of the cart after that, and if he isn't as comfortable as Warwick was there, he's done it often enough to get the hang of it. But his attention is on Wren, the unexpected spectacle even taking away from his concerns that the rag-bin-man might be mad. "How'd ye train her?"

"Airelund," Macaire offers distractedly, though this bland description is little more than a confirmation, considering his appearance and honey-smooth accent. He seems to realize himself a moment later how little information he has given, and with a shake of head continues. "Town of Skibbereen. 'Tis south, an' south again." He hasn't yet stopped staring at the Guardian, though every now and then he flicks a glance back in Warwick's direction, his expression blooming from astonished to outright skeptical.

"Heard the like, right enou', but .." He trails off, not wishing to insult his new companion, but the implication is plain enough. But Guardians aren't real. Since they aren't real, the deer can only be a deer, and since Warwick is a preformer by trade, that can only mean that Warwick is trying to pass the doe off as something more than she is. Macaire himself seems vaguely disappointed that Warwick would maintain the fiction even now, on the road and away from the 'stage,' so to speak.

With a shake of his head, Macaire complies with Wren's unspoken wish, hauling himself into the driver's seat of the little cart and taking up the reins. He'll cluck the animals into motion, gently at first and then more firmly if necessary, though most of his attention is still caught up with Warwick and his graceful mount. "But how is it a wee carving maikes a graceful lass like that'un?" The question isn't belligerent or scornful -- in fact, it sounds rather like a scholar's question, or a child's, as if Macaire is utterly consumed with curiosity over the matter. He does not really expect Warwick to be able to provide an answer, true or false, but the question comes so quickly that it's likely to be one which Macaire has considered before.

Again he shakes his head, though he still does not voice his disbelief, and Warwick's calm insistence seems to be making him more curious than angry. After all, even he can see that Wren is something special: he just does not know exactly what.

Macaire gives Wren herself a good long look, as if he hopes that staring long enough at her will result in a more concrete answer: how does a tiny carving become a living, breathing animal? 'Magic' is obviously not answer enough, and never has been, suggesting that Macaire is not the sort of soldier who simply takes things for granted and accepts what is given to him. No, there's an inquiring mind behind that scarred face!

"Ye b'ain't nae fighter, are ye?" The big man sounds skeptical again, on the verge of actual belief: willing to listen and perhaps be swayed, but also willing to argue what seems to him to be a few crucial points. "Tumbles nae a bad route tae come by the sword, but takes trainin'." Though the question may appear to Warwick to come from nowhere, to Macaire the conclusion is obvious: he is a soldier coming from a family of the same, and what legends they had of Guardians focused on their abilities to fight, and their purpose -- fighting the Wolves. He has, therefore, only a passing knowledge of the rest of the story; how one is Chosen, and how that Choosing proceeds.

A shake of his head offers Warwick his soft skepticism again, though he does not directly address it nor accuse the gypsy of deliberately leading him on. Instead he sits forward, his elbows resting on his knees, entirely unself-conscious about his motley collection of scars. "Aye. Ye b'ain't got nor look of it," the words are meant kindly enough, but there's purpose to the question, and he follows it up with more. "Tell me true, then. Purpose of yon Guardian be to fight Wolves, right? 'Tis what the songs say, right?"

Then it follows, by Macaire's thinking, that Wren can't be a Guardian, because Warwick is no sort of fighter at all. "Wouldnae be sae bad at it," he offers thoughtfully, rubbing one hand over the stubble on his chin. "Trainin' for tumble lead easy tae trainin' for sword. But ye b'ain't training now." It isn't really a question -- he looks with interest at Wren, dolled up with bells, as if she might have something to say about this.