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Thornley had lain like a very heavy rock ever since they'd returned from the Wardwood and awoke late - it was hard to tell from the ever-dusky Sunderlandian weather where the sun was, but the bustle of servants outside the door (and a final look at the clock) led him to realise that he had, for the first time in a very long while, slept till noon. He'd reached for a dressing coat and found his outstretched hand instead closing around a deer-shaped stone: yes, he had almost forgotten. Seized with a sense of settling but also renewed anxiety (for what could explain the entire ordeal but forbidden magic), he'd dashed out of the door, found his brother's room empty once again and swore (and apologised to the frightened new servant girl after for uttering such vulgarities in her presence).

He'd charged Locke with irresponsibility, spite and other less mentionable things as he got dressed proper, shoving the figure into a velvet-lined pocket. Already, he lied. He should've been a good boy, remaining in his chambers and reading his books, fresh and ready to explain just what was going on. Yesterday's description of 'a special tree' had scarcely prepared him for the magnitude of the totem-heavy monster glowing and towering over their (already exceptional) heights - he needed to know what this...memento stood for, and what was to come of it. What if it manifested in some strange manner at dinnertime in front of Father, or glowed unceremoniously in during an observed training session? "Damn you and your flightiness, Locke," he'd ground his teeth, and set out to, once again, seek his brother...and his infinitely troublesome wisdom.

The faces of the household help had been absolutely infuriating, but he could scarcely scold them for gawking at the older sibling who could not keep his own little brother in line for less than a night, much less chasing after him for the second day in a row. He'd relinquished his pride for information and rode out, following the direction that the stableboys suggested. He had remained concentrated on seeking him, and did not bother to dismount as he queried landscape staples and passers-by about Locke's path. It seemed to lead to Palisade.

And to Palisade he'd gone, attempting to ignore the weight tightly held about his torso. He hadn't been entertained at all by the thought of searching for Locke in such a busy place, but the healthy, lower-class activity along the streets warmed his heart, and he'd finally descended from his steed to peer at the peasants’ trinkets and brought himself to smile at the handbaskets and other trifling wares on display. Nothing cheered Thornley up quite like a good old-fashioned peasant market, and if he wasn't going to find Locke today, he might as well enjoy himself.

He led his horse along, strolling and taking note of potential purchases, and paused as he saw straggling deer wandering the premises - his brow creased, of course he would not be allowed to forget the potential vessel of...of magic that marked his person. But these were to be veal, he reasoned, and so they were here. The thought of veal was appealing right now; he did so wish they had gone to the Wardwood to find game instead of stone.

In fact, it was a magnificent dark buck with a stark blaze that truly caught his eye - sturdy and handsome, he considered. The likes of such a buck would be stunning hung on a wall. Where could such a trophy stag come from? In his forward way (and with the careless confidence only a big man could have in regards to a prominently antler'd buck), Thornley approached and reached out to touch its smooth pelt.

The trusting nuzzle of the stag had struck him with a little guilt (he was estimating its heft, for one), and the continuing personification of a mere deer by its...owner? (seemingly a peasant with delusions of grandeur, what with his station versus his clothing - but ah, which of them could help those desires?) had only served to dissuade him from seeking its kin to decorate the hunting room. Fair enough, if he found where it came from, he would only visit for spectacle and not game. The man had, however, continued from being endearing to somewhat insane, listening to the air and speaking to a strangely sentient deer. 

He was intially bemused, certainly, but the mention of that accursed Wardwood and the uncanniness of the situation threw his mind into chaos. It would not do for anyone to know that the son of the Earl of Ashford had been to the Wardwood, lest the news travelled back to the county - damned Locke! And the damned totem! Father would slaughter them both if he found out they'd been immersed in such hideous magic from the peasantry. His brows furrowed and he, in his very Thornley-style, violent and undignified panic, seized the man's shoulders.

"Stay your tongue and keep your words low!" He intended it to be an urgent whisper, but it came out as a growl. "And what manner of witchery do you possess - " an accusatory glare at the animal companion, "to know of - and to meddle in - the affairs of Lord Thornley Ormonton of Ashford?!"

Thornley was surprised by the tenacity - and the consideration - of the deer, locking his strong  arms into an antler'd hold (instead of running him through, just as pet dogs were wont to bite). Perhaps it was why he lived through the peasant's rambling spiel without a word, eyes shifting between both stag and owner. "Oh no, my good man," he said, wry, as the hold remained and his gaze settled back on the fellow. "You most certainly look unsavoury, and perhaps a danger to the public with your troublesome deer-speaking ways. But I require answers." And with that, the good Lord released his grip, retracting his arms through the bony points. 

The next look he had was still tinged with aggression, but much more amenable in a rather inquisitive way. 
"So, your stag comes from the Wardwood?" He noted, completely failing to comprehend that if it smelt the Wood on him, it surely originated from the area. "That is strange news to me...for - and keep this to yourself - the day I rode into the Wardwood, I saw no deer of such pedigree wandering the green. How did you find him, much less tame such a beast?" Then again, Thornley reasoned, perhaps they were asleep at the time they'd rode in deep enough. T'was mysterious.

Thornley's face warped in the most interesting of ways throughout the man's explanation. If only Locke had just been where he should've - it would've saved him all this public spectacle, and worse, a discovery of magical kinship with peasantry. He'd always desired a connection between himself and the common man...but such a relation was too dangerous to handle.

As it were, he had many things to worry about. Growing? It GREW? Into this magnificent monstrosity?! He glanced over at the deer again, taking in its size. "They grow," he affirmed, "from those little glowing totems. To this." The horror was palpable. "I pay no heed to Wardens and such superstition, it does society no good...and certainly it now does me no good. They grow," he repeated, wretched. "Why me? - and why us?" He pressed his hand against the cursed figure in his coat, now heavier than he'd ever felt. 

"Aravel," Thornley recalled, addressing the stag like a lunatic. "What made you choose...hm," he paused, back in reality for a split second. "I know not your name, good man," and turned back to continue, "what made you choose him?" 

He was highly displeased by the complete lack of explanations, the hoodoo and magic and feeling involved in this entire matter...and the smugness radiating from the peasant's very being in the face of his distress was most displeasing, especially since the pull he'd experienced just a day ago proved him absolutely right. "Evidently the Old Ways are versed in nothing but creating trouble," he stated sharply, fingers (so tempted to seize the totem from his pocket and crush it before the magic got the better of him - though the very thought hit him with a wave of nausea) curled into a loose fist. "Talking to a deer; presposterous!" He looked at the stag, with a look that almost sought his forgiveness, but turned back to his owner with one of hardened disapproval. 

"I refuse." Thornley said obstinately, as if him telling some other poor sod caught in the same web would make a difference. "I see no point in playing along with such ridiculousness. I refuse to have such superstitious tripe make a fool out of me, as it has of you."

Thornley eyed him with much skepticism , but with as much whirring and clicking as his brain could take, he uttered a single syllable. 

"Fine." 

He saved deer and man the trouble of much movement by slotting himself between the two, and gestured for the owner to turn around. 

Thornley's jaw was set, grim and unimpressed - but at the soft touch, he did as planned.

The hands flexed, before closing into clasped fists. Then after what seemed like a while of consideration, a palm turned down, and a index and middle finger extended. He stilled for the benefit of the deer, who was the only innocent party in these shenanigans. 

"Congratulations," Thornley said in a low steady voice, calmer than he'd ever sounded in their entire exchange so far. He turned his head to the side briefly to nod at the deer, then strolled in front of the Chosen.

"...you look like an absolute idiot!" He mocked, pointing just one finger at him this time. "That is impressive, isn't it, using your magical deer to count fingers like a common street entertainer. Oooh," he narrowed his eyes as he made the sound, "how incredible the Old Ways are, granting you a deer to make an additional living off guillible peasants looking for a spot of entertainment in their dreary lives. Seems like it has truly made an especial fool of you, but perhaps you have space in your life for such frippery - I will not afford such stupidity."