“Flit! Heyoh Flit!,” a boy's voice calls out and the sheep stamp in nervousness a moment and settle right after. A series of quick, sharp whistles and high pitched calls, the dog responds as easily as breathing, its eyes fixed on the sheep while its ears flick at every call of its master. 

The sheep move slowly, pressing in closely to one another, silent and with noses in the air as they try for indirect eye contact with the predator in their midst. From within the group, a bell sounds. 

“There it be, Gran, go on!” the call and the sheep scatter, split down the middle. Gran, a large brown dog with blue eyes stops, turns and gives a single bark. Without a sign of being told, a slighter, pure black dog is in the midst of the sheep, driving them opposite of the shape inert on the ground. The bark being the only sound given, it is surprising how, in the resultant silence, the flock is moved and the dogs involved so quickly. Strange it is too, to anyone not of the sheep business, how the slender boy leaps the rock and heather, his small bow drawn immediately and his keen eyes, not unlike that of his dogs, takes in all about them. 

The brown dog lays in the heather and pants, his blue eyes watching the boy come in close. When the boy is at his side, he reaches out and with a cursory pat, turns his attention onto that which the dog is beside. 

Like his kin, the boy is quiet in regard and does not speak his thoughts aloud. Instead, he makes a click of the tongue to which both dogs come to his side. “Flit, get Annie,” he orders, then makes a finger motion to which Gran, the larger dog, slips from his side like a hawk from a man's wrist, diving into the sheep and driving them. 

The boy settles the sheep within eye distance of the silent figure. Both he and Gran keep alternate care of the sheep and the man on the ground. The sun slips into the sky and the boy, when no further movement comes from the sleeper, takes out a penny whistle. Sheep and dog all relax some as the first of a series of comfortably common reels pipes out. If there is to be music, then there is nothing to fear. 

It is an hour before Flit is back. Annie and her master were likely on the other end of their pastures, while the boy, a Harcourt Mace, is mostly between both, having intended to take his flocks to the far end of his family's pasture and work their way back in over the course of the day. The black dog hops up the slight rise and settles down comfortably at his master's feet, his tongue twice as long as usual, lolling out in a long pink portrayal of a good run. The boy says nothing to the dog, because as the dog is with him, then his job has been done. It is a marker of trust often seen between shepherd and dog, something he has learned from his neighbor and the only other shepherd in the area. 

Oh, to be sure, there are others who keep sheep, Harcourt argues during those times he speaks. But to be a shepherd, one must be more like Wren than like Jacob who pens his animals and then lets them out into a larger enclosure. It is the reason Jacob's wool hasn't the same softness as Wren's does. It is the reason, his father argues, that Jacob is married and has children for his father to dote on. 

Harcourt has no argument for this, as he does not know why exactly Wren hasn't any children to offer his mother. But the Widow does not seem overly concerned with her lack of grandchildren. In fact, she seems happy enough with her son as he is and it seems somewhat unfair that Harcourt's father would be so intent on such a thing. 

Still, despite Jacob being easier to find, as he is often in his workshop or barn, Harcourt intends to involve Wren and so it is that a moment after Flit has settled, that the black and white mask of Annie comes over the rise and trotting soon behind, in his ground eating lope which means concern, is the large, bird nest haired man. 

Wren says nothing, but his keen gaze goes over the sheep and the boy who jerks a chin toward the dip and the huddled shape on the ground. Despite it being obviously hurt, the man draws his blade and kneels down at the side of the creature. He shows no sign of hesitancy, nor does Annie, who sits at his side. She has none other to care for but the man, these are not her sheep, nor is the boy hers – only the man falls within her purview. 

Rolling the figure over, Wren lets his gaze sweep the figure, his broad, callused hands smoothing over sides, checking for pulse (there, but weak), temperature (high), and that all limbs are intact (fully, but for the injury to the shoulder which weeps blood still). The scent of blood makes Annie sneeze and she rubs her muzzle with her forepaw, then stands and asks her master with a low, slow half arc of the tail if he is going to take this lamb for shelter or not. 

Chuckling, Wren rubs a broad palm across her domed forehead as he stands. “Harcourt,” the man calls in a low tone. 

“Aye, Wren,” Harcourt is at his side as eagerly as Annie had been. The boy is easily half the size of the man and he looks up with the same longing and adoration as the dogs. 

“Go to yer Da. I'll have Annie watch your flock. Go'n tell yer Da, we need Marge at my cottage. And Harcourt,” he adds when the boy is a few steps already on his way, “no need to tell the entire village, is there.” 

“No ser,” Harcourt bobs his head and then as fleet as Flit, he is gone over the ridge which separates the band of pasture land from the rest of his family's farm. 

Wren leaves the man on the ground and with a nod to his dog, walks the flock. Annie shakes herself and while she seems to not notice the sheep at all, he ensures she has them, each one, in her sights before he jerks his chin. “Go to,” he orders. “Until Harcourt comes back, luv.” 

With the sheep under the watchful eye of Annie, Flit, and Gran, Wren returns to the man on the stoney ground. He gathers the man up easily, being not much more than a lamb, yes, and beings the trek back to the cottage. 

Wren's cottage isn't as far from where Harcourt had his flock and as he makes his way to the front door, he can hear the his own flock, being brought in quite handily by Baxter who, despite his only two years of age, is seeming more and more like his mother, Delta who has a way about her Old Man Jones swears is just this shy of being human. Having had four from the same line, Wren can attest to it and the superb intelligence of the dogs. 

Still, Baxter cannot undo latches and the sheep crowd around the yard gate. Wren hasn't time to tend to them and so leaves them to the dog and instead enters into his home with his burden. 

The front door leads directly into a small open room with a large sitting lounge and a stone fireplace beside which a rocking chair is occupied by a small, black cat. The shepherd carefully deposits his burden onto the lounge then goes to the kitchen to get water and a cloth. Returning with both, he sets all beside the lounge and leaving the man there, goes to let the sheep into the yard. It would be some time yet for Marge, the local healer, to make her way to his home. In that time, he managed to put up sheep and then allowed Baxter into the house where the dog settles immediately before the rocker and sat, one eye on the cat beside him. 

Wren ignores the interplay between dog and cat, and instead, focuses entirely on the inert man on his lounge. The man is slender, small, both of which Wren had noted easily when he'd carried the man back, just a little lighter than a broken ewe. Granted, Wren had not had to carry a ewe quite as far all that often, only when they fell and broke a leg or when, once, an older ewe had died in the middle of the pasture. Generally, he kept the elders in the stone corral and there, was able to move them via his sledge. 

This one, though, was slight as a teenager, with glossy black hair and pale skin, too pale to be a man of the country. But why would he have been in the midst of a pasture as he was, so far from the nearest busy town? Wren settles into a small, three legged stool and begins to use the cloth and bowl of water he'd gotten to wash the man's face. 

Some time later, there is a scratch at the door. Wren sets aside the bowl which he'd since ceased to use, and lets Annie back in. Harcourt had no doubt found Marge and then returned to his flock. Wren uses Annie's entrance as reason to put the kettle on. Marge would expect it. Manners are important to her. 

Marge comes in soon after Annie, though she does little asking to enter, instead she raps on the door frame and lets herself in. Wren has the kettle fully heated and cups of tea set to steep. He gives her a quick nod as the large woman instantly goes to the wounded man. “Any injuries beside the shoulder?” she asks as she lets her hands do the same that Wren's had. She trusts Wren's judgment, but it is she who has the healing lore to do more than make a simple poultice. She leans over and sniffs at the water and makes a grunt. He has put in lavender and comfrey and she approves, he can see. 

“None that I could find,” he says, then watches as she mutters to herself and lays her hands on the man's shoulder. 

It isn't anything flashy, this hedge healing. Wren has traveled, has been to many a country before he chose to return home and settle into herding sheep. There are courts he has seen where magic flared gold and blue, left baubles of red in one's retinas. He has seen blood rise and men scream in pain as their skin was painted with pain. It is a magic which Wren has no taste for, the higher arts. Rather, he approves and even covets to some extent, the art which Marge shows. It works with the world around them, not pressing her will upon it, but asking rather politely. And because of this, when she leans back, Marge looks as pink-cheeked as ever and the man on the lounge, just as pale and injured. 

“That'll do,” she says, standing. “He'll heal. There was a bit of infection starting but I've teased it out. The hole's best if it closes on its own. Poultice are good.” She looks at him and smiles. “And you, you probably didn't even notice what he is, did you?” At his blank look, she laughs. “Of course not. You're a blind man for all that you seen, Wren Autenberry. Poor creature's been mauled. I've half a mind to go over to Harveston and give them a piece of their own medicine. But you'll keep an eye out. If any of them boys or girls manage to come onto your land, I've no doubt they'll regret it.” 

Wren tilts his head in concern. Harveston, he's no issues with, other than it is a different sort of place, but not a bad one. There are some old fashioned ideas which Old Man Jones and Mother Autenberry never allowed to take root in Skyefell. But old fashioned ideas are safe to have out in the middle of nowhere. 

“Are they coming, Marge?” he asks, because her words mean something. 

“I'm sure they will,” she nods. “They'll be hunting this one, they will.” She gestures to the man on the lounge. But instead of answering his questions, she gives him a quick, business nod and mutters something along the lines of “best check in on Jasper's wife. You'll be making a blanket, won't you?” as she leaves. 

Wren, confused and worried for his charge, goes about the process of setting a poultice in the warmth of the fire, setting it to the man's shoulder. Then as the man sleeps off the magic Marge had set on him, Wren begins dinner and tending sheep, much of which is done out of doors. He keeps close to the house, however, and does his work while leaving both Annie and Baxter to guard his home. None will enter without his say-so, even the ill-informed of nearby Harveston.