The tall man looks up as his guest enters into the small main room of his cottage. He is tall, slender, like a whipcord. Entering into the side room where the dining table sits, Chall has to duck his head underneath the lintel between. Even doing so, he looks proud and sure of his place. He no doubt has a certainty of his own abilities, or it is merely an act of having been in court, Wren is sure. The mage looks delicate, almost feminine, though that could be the feline in him. But, even the cat who has chosen to precede his human-like kin in order to twine about Wren's ankles, looks as if she could dance with the fae on summer evenings. It is a farce, Wren knows. The female has chased off more than her share of toms as well as having given the rodent population of the farm a rendering. She is more than she seems, a killing machine. 

Like mages, who look helpless. More than they seem, despite the flash of light. Wren has seen, first hand, the horrors their magics can call down. 

The shepherd huffs through his nostrils in both uncertainty and amusement that the mage should consider having to ask about the place settings. “Of course,” he says slow and easy. There is hunger writ all about the young man's self. It is kind, that the boy chooses to ask, when he could simply take. There is a modicum of real manners, at the very least. “Please,” Wren beckons toward the table, “sit and eat. We have a short journey, but I suspect you've a long enough one ahead. I've made up a knap sack for your trip.” He turns to the side table and pulls from the top, a small sack with that very intent. Food stuffs, a half circle of cheese and two loaves of bread wrapped in linen, along with a bottle of warm cider, and it is something, enough if used with care, to get the mage to the next town. 

He sets the satchel to the side of the sidetable's top, then goes to the kitchen where he calls Baxter to his side and leaves the dog with the leftover mutton bone. The cast iron pan is plucked from the fire with a thickly woven wool pad and set upon the table with serving spoon set cock-eyed in the eggs. 

Wren sits himself across from the mage. Not standing on ceremony, he makes himself up a plate, dropping some of the mutton to the floor where Baxter has settled with his bone. Annie will have food enough, Wren does not worry overmuch. The boy, Harcourt Mace, no doubt will find her with the sheep and give her part of his afternoon meal. 

He eats quickly, a man who has not taken time to digest a meal, nor do more than manage his needs so that his duties can be gotten to, and very intent on getting them into the farm yard and across town, sooner rather than later. As he eats, however, he takes another look at the young man and feels sure that both the sleep and Marge's more slow acting, nature inclined magics have done more good for the mage over the night. It no doubt would take a few more days if the man were patient to let her magic work, but that was not the way of his kind, Wren knew. The quickness of a thing was its measure in the more flash and glitter of the courts. He chuffed again, almost like a dog, and finished up his plate, ensuring the man had his fill before he cleaned out the rest of the pan. He did not try and talk to the man, there was no reason to do so. They would part ways in time for Wren to catch back up with his herd on their way to watering at high noon. He had a desire to make it to that place in time to catch them again. 

“When you've finished,” he says almost a moment after he's begun, having eaten all there was to do, “I'll take you to the pool.” He stands and gathers up the platters not still in use, then goes to do the washing up as his guest continues to eat. Baxter, under the table, thumps his tail in delight as his master stands, but does not leave the bone. Instead, the good-natured dog returns to his meal, cracking through the walls to get to the marrow.