Wren gives a grunt of acknowledgment while dipping the morning dishes into a basin of rinsing water than placing each dish into the drain pan. The cast iron is wiped clean and set back over the still hot hob. Food already put away but for the little on the table, the shepherd muses as to his guest and the man's imperious nature. It isn't that the man is so sure of his place that all others haven't their own places. No – at the very least, this mage's apprentice hasn't pulled on the airs of a true court mage just yet – looking down their noses at the rest of the world as if only their magic was of any use. Instead, it is a simply view of the world about him that the boy seems to carry about him. This was not his world and he was, almost understandably so – considering the state they'd discovered him in, wary of interacting with a world where he did not fit in. 

Well, best to get the boy back to his courts and his comforts and out of Wren's kitchen. That was all it will take. Wren kneels to draw out his heavy herbal box from under the kitchen cupboard and takes it to the mage. It is a box of rowan lined with cedar, created to keep the faint properties of herbs dry and active, with a tooled top intricately scrolled along the edges and oiled with linseed until it gleamed like moonlit wheat. To the untrained eye, it is a art piece. To one who had been in the courts, there is a chance that the mage would recognize the marks of the House of Madrigal, a royal house of Urr. 

Then again, Wren isn't sure the boy is well traveled enough. Urr being a twice removed country to the north, its political influence on their home courts is negligible to the point of nonexistence. A significant mountain range between Urr and their nearest neighbor, as well as poor weather, makes Urr the land of mystery to most, as far removed from their king as the other side of the world might be. Still, now and again, Wren has heard tales of Urr, knowing most are aware of the magical differences; working with winds and the pockets of wild fae as opposed to the more civilized interior countries working with the ley lines and the land beneath their feet – tramping it down and bending it to their will. Had he thought to mention that the box is a rarity from the House of Madrigal, he has no doubt the boy would know the name, but outside of that, he risks little in setting it on the table between them both. It is, overarchingly, a well created box of wood in which one can keep herbs. 

It is also very much the cause of Wren's quiet, innate disgust of his own country's mages and courts. But what else was he to expect them to be, really? His own countrymen were spoiled, indolent. Urr's nobility had rough calluses on their palms and all were more peasant in appearance than royal. There was little room for anything outside of hard work in a land where the lack of a pair of hands could mean one less mouth to feed come the hard-won spring. Life was precious, magic more so, and nothing came easily. It is a life Wren has a great appreciation for and one he lives now that he has resettled in the town of his father. 

He pauses with his hands about the edges and looks at the young man sitting at his table, giving introductions of himself like any highborn brat might well do. His dark eyes meet bright, pained green and takes a moment to assess the other. Chall has attempted niceties while injured, and the stupidity of it in a shepherd's home does little to impress the tall man. But it is a gesture and it is kind, innocent even, of the boy. It does soften an edge in Wren and he gives a half smile, then nods slowly without playing the same airs back at the young apprentice. It is Wren's home the boy has graced with his grand self, not the other way around. 

“Wren,” he gives with little pomp or circumstance. “Autenberry. First of that name and of no court, nor none of that. Now take as you'd like and we'll go.” He returns his attention back to the box between them. Knowing the Kirin-man's name and place will be of little good to him come an hour's time, provided the waters work for him. 

The top is easily lifted, despite it being fitted, and he sets it to the side, then leaves the mage to take as he wishes. Inside, along the edges, herbs, wrapped in soft lamb's skin or felted rags, fit into each compartment. The herbs circle the center where an array of vials filled with tinctures of this or that, all labeled in neat, tiny script along the sides. And in the very center, a locked box with no key in visible sight thrums with a low, hedge-witch magic and completes the entire ensemble, keeping all the innards fresh and viable long past the date of picking. 

He has two of the boxes, though the second has the more precious herbs from far away lands and Wren is not interested in sharing that with this mage, no matter what the reason. Even to rid himself of the boy. 

Wren clears the table and puts out a small pocket of felted lamb's wool as a carry for the herbs Chall chooses, then climbs to the attic and pulls down a thick blanket he's had stored for some time. It is tightly woven and will keep the boy dry if he chooses to not do so with magic. It isn't as important to Wren that he'd feel poorly if the mage chose to throw it out upon arriving home, either, having been one of the first blankets he'd begun and without the perfect edge which the weaver was accustomed to offering his town and the neighboring communities. Still, it was warm and thick and dry enough to be light until rain came. 

He dusted off the blanket outside of the cottage, then returned to where Chall had set aside what he needed. It was good to see Chall wasn't overly grabby over the various herbs, taking on what he needs, and Wren nods in approval as he sets down the blanket and ties it to the food satchel which he then hefts and jerks his head toward the door. 

“Away, if y'don't mind,” he then adds, “Baxter, come on then.” At his master's command, Baxter leaves behind his bone as if it were nothing and is quick to the side of the large man, hindquarters bumping against Wren's shin and his doggy face looking up in adoration at the man above him. “Sooner started is sooner finished,” Wren intones and humps out of the cottage, making his way to the large draft waiting for them. A quick ride to the pond and then he'll be washed clean of this boy and back to his life once more. It will be a relief, he decides, as he hadn't made plans at all to have anyone come in and stir up his life so. Not that he minds company now and again, but this mage's apprentice is not the kind of company he generally keeps.