As the Kirin stepped into the water, Wren turned the draft underneath him back toward the road. Behind him, he imagined he could sense the wrongness of it all in much the same way he had in the courts all those years ago. His shoulders hunched defensively and the mare dropped her head with a soft snort, shaking her great head to relax her rider. It did little good, however as the man spurred her into a shambling trot toward town. 

Therefore, it was not Wren at the water's edge who watched Chall exit the water, but at first glance it may have been. They were identical in almost every way, down to the clothing they wore. In fact, even in soul, they might have been brothers. This man who stood in the stead of the weaver had fashioned himself a carbon copy of the man who had left almost immediately. It was a pity, really. It would have done Wren good to see courtly magic used so respectfully in his own land. 

“They are,” the man intones, his voice the same as the large shepherd's had been. It is a deliberate ruse and the man does not think that the kirin, magic drawn from so deep, will notice. Chall iss, the man thinks with a slight tilt of his head, but a child yet and has much to learn of the ways of the spirits which preside over the wilder places in the world. 

Had Chall been less of a gentleman, less apt to try and make his watcher feel comfortable, he might then have looked more directly upon the man when the last of the farce settled upon his broad shoulders. He may have seen the shimmer of antlers or perhaps he might have noted the faint, green aura which faded from view. But he is young still and trusting of places which are, in essence, innocence. He has not learned how long forgotten places might leap at the turned doe's back, hungry in that wild innocence. He has not learned yet to keep watch in all directions, for when in the open field does a mouse think to worry about the skies until a shadow has passed over his trembling body? 

This Wren who is not, takes some steps down to where the half kirin is working on his ingredient mixture. Even the mixture smells good to the pond and the wild and the man grunts in approval. He stands over Chall and turns his attention to the pond beyond. It humms in happiness, glad for the additional magics it leeched from Chall, not quite full as it had been ages past, when the ancients gave as a lover to his lady, but pleased nevertheless. The hum resounds inside of him and he does not move to it, does not brush fingers over it, does not yet immerse himself in the life which thrums under the surface of the water. 

Folding his arms over his chest, he considers giving a warning to the fledgling mage. There had been, in the ages past, a time when he might have done so even. Then, magic in the land and magic in man bound themselves together and together, were greater than any of the more tame magics of the world. During those days, the half kirin would have been honored for existing – a blend of one and another. The blend would have given him the promise to be one of the greats and he would have been raised to know it. Now, however, there is no such sense to this child and what promise there is, will no doubt be beaten into submission by the court mages of these emasculated southern lands. Prosperity, it seemed, led to stagnation. Unlike those lands to the far north and those in the deserts to the east, where life was more tenuous and magic honored, this boy's countrymen were fat and lazy, like indolent lapdogs in sunshine. They ate, they shat, and slept. It was all they were good at. 

The man shares much of Wren's thoughts on his lands, which may be a good reason to take on the shepherd's form and spirit. With a smirk, he leans down to look at the ingredients, then brushes his fingertips against the nape of the boy's neck, still wet from the pond's touch. “Don't move,” he hisses as his first and third fingers trace from the nape of Chall's neck down his spine and to the the center of his shoulder blades. Magic swirls like a hidden snake under the boy's skin, weakened by the activity of healing, and the man finds the head, presses his thumb to just behind and holds it still. “Whatever you do,” he rumbles, “don't move.”