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" .. sae very sorry," someone is saying earnestly into the soft chatter taking place between her sets, as if, strange for the coarser quarter of the city, he really and truly means it. The voice is big and deep with a strangely accented harmonic to it, as if he took each sound out before he spoke it, rolling the words in the palms of his hands until the edges have been dulled away. "I dinnae mean tae .. " Should she look, she will see a large man, so tall that he seems to have crunched himself up into a corner, the tops of his knees rubbing the underneath of the table. His size has apparently caused him to bump the table, sloshing beer onto both his legs and the dress of the serving wench, who is shaking her head repeatedly.

He doesn't look like the sort to be issuing such an apology; his clothing is rough-cut and so is he, powerfully built and heavily scarred, with the look of a guardsman or a mercenary. There is in the firelight a glint of red in his hair, which along with his accent and the freckles scattered between the scars gives him a distinctly exotic appearance. By convention he ought to be sitting with his back to the wall, legs stuck out before him and arms folded (if he could fold them across his broad chest), not giving a damn who might trip over them, glaring at the room in general. He isn't the sort of fellow that ought to be fumbling and bumbling and mumbling horrified apologies to the harried wenches of this sort of tavern. In the end he presses a few small coins in her hands, ordering another drink meant to sit by the one he hasn't yet touched, then settles awkwardly back into his corner, trying to pretend that he isn't there.

It doesn't work very well for him, but he'll sit it out best he can until she starts the next set, at which point he surreptiously pulls a very battered leather journal from his pocket. Setting this on the edge of the table, he writes with a thin graphite stick as she sings or plays, occasionally stopping to listen more carefully.

He doesn't drink. That may be the strangest thing about him on a long list of strange things, for what soldier -- or guardsman, or mercenary -- doesn't? But the two mugs of ale sit at his elbow until he offers them in apology to someone sitting across from him, for bumping into them like he'd bumped into the serving girl. Despite all the stares he's getting, he seems wholly taken up with whatever he is scratching away at in his battered journal, and she may notice a peculiar pattern to his writing. The pauses .. taking place shortly after every time she pauses .. seem to suggest he is either taking notes on or somehow transcribing her music. But why?

A scholar might be interested in a bard's tale, but this fellow looks like no scholar at all, and she's certainly out of keeping with a stuffy sort of bard. Yet whatever he finds in her music pleases him, and at the end of her set he will carefully unfold himself from his corner to approach her, hoping to put a handful of coins into her hands directly. Though there are some that would say he'd been brooding over the music, and most will work to avoid him after he has sat for so long with a serious expression, there are hints of satisfaction in his face and in his bearing. "It is a mistress of art ye are, right enough," he'll tell her softly by way of greeting, the coins a-jangle in his hand. "Honoured was I tae list'n. Dae ye sang here often?"

He seems vaguely aware that he has somehow misstepped or misspoken, and furrows his brow over how he might repair it; he has not the least desire to frighten her. "Right, oi'll be back again tae list'n." The great big rumble of his voice is not fumbling or nervous, as it would be if he were truly shy -- but it is not hard to think of him as rather slow, as he considers his own words and tries to determine what social more he has broken. Was he too forward? Too scholarly? Too slow? Gads! And why are people staring?

He sighs, reminding himself that this mess is why he keeps his fool mouth shut, then asks her (rather hopelessly), "Could oi guide ye on homeward, lass? T'is dark as hells without, and would sarrow me greatly tae think of ye coming tae harm." A fair number in the tavern may wince to hear him speak, or hold their breaths; a great big man like that, his offer may very well sound like a threat, and even Macaire seems aware that he will be refused. Oh, well. Nothing for it but to try!

He seems aware that his mere presence negates the desire for crime in all but the most fearless of hearts, and he is happy to give her that advantage. Moreso if she is not one of those intimidated by his rough-hewn looks; her prompt acceptance leaves even him gaping at her. She will? Blimey! She really means it .. maybe she's mad? Maybe she's heard of him? Then again, them Rom-ie are generally off their rockers right off, what with all that traveling here and thonder they do.

But right happy it makes him, to hear her say 'yes,' and his big brown eyes go warm with pleasure at the thought that he might be able to do a good turn for a lass so fetching. He'll give her a nod and head off to the door, so as to wait beside it for her to be ready. Out on the street he'll even give her his arm, though it doesn't seem to be something he's done often in the past. It's as if he's seen rich folk do it, time and again, and thought he might try it out to see how it worked.

"Oi'll be Macaire Draughn," he tells her, when they're a few paces out from the tavern, as foreign a name to these parts as her own. "Will let ye lead, as oi've only been hereabouts a day or sae."

He seems puzzled by the whistle, pausing alongside her to glance down the alleyway. A more jaded traveler might have worried that such a signal was meant for a companion, who would sneak up along behind him and help Rajani to rob Macaire blind -- but the gypsy would need a rough crew indeed to accomplish that, if it were indeed her intention. When instead a bird flies out, Macaire makes a strangled sound of surprise, astonished that a bird should display such keenness. And trotting behind the bird ..

" .. blimey!" The word falls from his lips before he can stop it, and he gapes at the Guardian as if he has never seen its like. "Dinnae know ye warn't alone!" It's plain from his [removed](a rather dazed one) that he feels he now knows why she was so willing to walk home 'alone.'

Yet he has an immediate response to the strange animals, as amazed as he may be by them; without detaching himself from Rajani he holds his free hand against his chest and bows deeply in the direction of the deer, then treats the rook to a shallower bow. "Milaird," he greets the buck gravely, and then gives the rook a rueful glance. "An' yoor honour. 'Tis a pleasure, tae be sure. Cain't say oi've ever seen a bird so hannsome, nor a buck sae splendid."

"Nay," Macaire protests, with tones of great disbelief, though should she look closer at him there is a glitter of what may be laughter in his warm gaze. In fact, he cannot help a moment's grin, quickly fading to a more serious expression, as he pats her arm with his free hand to reassure her. "This lad? T'won't be false pride, right me lad? Why, just as he looks it, 'tis sure he comports himself with dignity and honour. I could nae imagine naught else." The tall man sounds perfectly certain of his conclusion -- that the deer is so handsome that he must also be elegant and polite -- and the perfect calmness with which he announces it suggests that he has, at some point, had little brothers and sisters. It is almost a game which he falls into quite naturally, as someone might greet a little girl with a high title, and then remind her that if she really is a princess, then she must act like one, mustn't she?

But he doesn't really expect much intelligence out of Oberon, or for him to have more than the intelligence which a dog might: answering to his friendly tone and lack of ill feeling towards either the deer himself or Rajani. In fact, that is part of the humor in the situation for him; he's reassuring a pretty woman that he won't make her deer too prideful. Hah!

The tall man sputters a helpless laugh at this display and cannot seem to help it: after all, it is not him who will have to live with Oberon's pranks and games after this! Why, the prancing animal just strikes him as terribly funny, preening under the attention, just like it understands exactly what's being said! It is so comical that it is easy to ignore the uneasy feeling in his gut that all might not be what it seems: that the handsome fellow may indeed understand more than Macaire gives him credit for. He will not think on it: better by far to think of Rajani, of her music and her bright company.

"Right, right enough! Oi'll be having a care with me mouth around his lairdship, then, 'tis nae mistake. Hoo!" He must swallow a few big gulps of air to catch his breath from his laughter, and with Rajani's arm tucked in the crook of his elbow, he pats her hand as he steps alongside her, now in good humor indeed. "Aye, look on 'im! He knows he's a handsome beastie, dain't he? Ye must do well by 'im," Macaire continues, almost as an aside. "T'would think the city wouldnae suit 'em, poor lads."

.. and with that it is hard to tell what Macaire knows and doesn't know. The remark could come just as easily from someone who thought Oberon just a deer as someone who recognized him as a Guardian .. but did not know much about them, and assumed that their shape meant that they would act rather like deer.

"Sense enough, it seems: are ye nat a lady of the stage? 'Tis only fitting mi'laird should hould affection for applause. A pity he cain't follow ye oop on thonder stage, right?" He tips his head back toward Oberon, still quite amused by the whole of it, and in exceptionally good spirits in any case, with such a pretty lady on his arm.

"On me way intae the city, I had the honor o' meetin' a lad what had a doe, clever as ye please, what he'd gone and prettied all oop with ribbons and the like." He smiles a touch at the memory, sharing the humor with her: vain he may be, at least she's not dressing Oberon up to match a performance costume! "How laing ye lot been together?"