As the man behind him settles lightly, Wren things uncharitably for a moment that Marge's magic has worked better than the mage had thought. It only served the man right to be shown up by a basic hedge witch. 

But then, there is a moment and Chall tenderly slips only one arm around Wren's waist. Wren can feel the tension radiating from the young man's body and he winces in sympathy. No – Marge would have advised Chall to stay in bed longer. It is the mage's stubbornness and certainty that he is right that has put him into this painful position. 

Like that, the sympathy is gone. Nevertheless, Wren nudges their ride forward gently and does not ask for a trot which would unnecessarily harm the man behind him. 

Chall is warm against his back, despite trying to keep himself with some space between them. He's almost as warm as a child and Wren begins to wonder if the high metabolism that indicates is from Chall's non-human side. Wren knows little of the cat-like people as they are, for good reason, shy of humans. He hadn't ever been in a position either to get a proper introduction either and he's always thought it would be fun on his next journey out into the world. If he ever gets back out into the world. 

He has settled in nicely, actually and he feels he's bedded the wanderlust to a greater extent. He's spent fifteen years away from home and seen a great many wonders. It is nice to be home. 

The dobbin under them is very much like being at sea. Heavy shoulders and hips roll opposite of one another and Wren can feel Chall hold onto him, obviously unaccustomed to either riding dray horses, riding bareback, or riding in general. Wren doesn't feel as if he needs to ask, however, and instead, he merely sets the dobbin's head toward the town. 

Chall's presence has already been talked of so none are neither overly surprised to see him atop the horse nor with Wren. A few folk pause in their duties in the village to wave to Wren, call a greeting, and eye Chall with interest. But none stop them and in a matter of a few moments, they are through and on their way beyond. 

It is a long ride and Wren does not speak. He suspects Chall is in too much pain to want to converse, or he's preparing for the spells he'll need. Wren considers what he'll ask Marge to do when Chall is done magicking the pond. It seemed almost wrong to give the waters to the mage, but Chall hadn't stated that the waters would be destroyed, as many mages were given to do. It was almost a source of pride that they would have to declare destruction of whatever natural phenomenon they were poisoning with their work. Either Chall was too young to have that kind of pride, or what he intended to do, he felt was menial and innocuous. 

Still, Wren considered talking to Marge to see if she could ensure it truly was before the day was out. Children were wont to jump in the waters on particularly hot days. 

The pond hadn't a name. It was a fishing hole or a swimming hole, dependent on what it was needed. A watering spot if one had livestock, a trysting spot if one were going at night. Wren did not name it either and when he pulled the horse up at the edge of it, under a spread of elm, he cleared his throat and glanced back at the slender man behind him. 

“That enough?” he asked shortly.