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| - Taran - arms quite full, and shoulders laden with lute and backpack, eyes the evident mage with polite interest. "Light's greetings," he says pleasantly. "I thank you for not stealing my horse; tis rather a problem to acquire a good one." Moving, yes, to place his load in the wagon the horse in question is attached to. Taran raises both eyebrows. "You don't know who I am, good master?" he asks. "Clearly, either I have not performed in Eastwatch much of late, or you are absolutely forbidden from going out and in any way enjoying your life, in which case you have my deepest sympathies. As to cults - why, I've never been against them. Quite popular these days, I'm hearing." While he doesn't turn away from the mage at the sound of noise, his head does tilt a bit to hear it better. The shadow blade is regarded with a pained expression, and the cloak-wrapped bundle set at his feet. "...Clearly, this is not going to be a very good day." Taran is not about to look a gift fire in the mouth. Murmuring, "Light forgive me for the sacrilege, don't-you-dare-damage-my-precious-Lute-or-I-will-hound-you-through-OBLIVION," the bard takes the neck of his Lute in both hands, swinging it in a hard, overhead chop with the fat wooden body of it aimed squarely for the mage's skull. Taran catches the mage's clawed hand in his own, letting the Lute drop to hang by its strap. "I am *not* going to pick *your brains* out of *my strings*," he growls, throwing a punch of his own. "Let me *go*." Taran growls a little, low in his throat. "I should help with that," he says, studying the cultist's face - memorizing it. "I think...I will have to pass." He takes the Lute's neck in his hands, the blue of his eyes icy. "And don't think I'm forgiving you for it." He swings it again, aiming to connect that lute to the mage's skull - and maybe, break that skull open. Taran shivers a bit at the Lute's chord of pain, murmuring, "Sorry, I'm sorry," as if the instrument might hear or forgive. Gathering up the cloak-wrapped bundle, he shoves it quickly into his horse's wagon, dragging pots and seedlings over it to conceal it. Only when he's satisfied that it would take a search to find the bundle does he pause. He looks from the fallen mage, to the haze of smoke, clearly conflicted. "...Light preserve the fool," he sighs. "A bard first and last." He checks the fallen mage - if he's breathing, he's going to get dragged along across Ablaze's pommel. If not, then rolled off the side of the road, and Taran returns to the village square. Navigating the village is a careful affair, best done by rowboat for those unsure of foot. Narrow planks range high over the swamp, set from the doorway of one house to another; each stilted home has a trapdoor also, which descends by way of a ladder to a floating platform below each home as well. Many boats are clustered around, both wooden rowboats and the high-riding woven marshboats unique to these folk. The houses are set in a random cluster above the deepest part of the centralmost pond of this marshy area. Safe as can be from any swamp- or forest-dwellers they stand on their tall tree trunks over deep water, a cluster of shops settled atop a common platform in the center. Made of smoothed boards chinked with mud and shingled with wood, they gracefully gray with age under a cover of marsh moss. From Ablaze's saddle, Taran rides in, watching for attack, but somewhat in awe of the extent of the blaze. "Light preserve us," he murmurs - then, louder, "What has happened here?" he calls. "Can aught be done to douse that?" Indeed, the bard is eyeballing the well - but also the intensity of the fire, and the likelihood of it spreading. "Some friends turned up." States a familiar regal purr from aside Taran's horse, face and features hidden beneath the hood of the black leather cloak he wears. The longsword is no where to be seen, which most likely means it's another thing that the cloak hides. "That shadow mask is new, as is the robe, and I thought I'd seen everything the Shadow had to offer. I guess not. As for the tavern, the stilts will eventually collapse, and the marsh will douse the flames. Light willing, the Watch will label it as arson and our first guest will take the blame, rather than every other mage in Fastheld by proxy of fear and mistrust." From Ablaze's saddle, "...You were not caught within, then," Taran replies quietly, without looking from the fire. "One of his friends found me...found my horse, anyway. I shall be all afternoon cleaning my Lute." He takes a deep breath, twitching knees against Ablaze's ribs. "Nothing to be done here, then...I'd better be about business. I could not go until I saw; tis probably my five minutes for the day all taken, but I could not do otherwise. The horse-watcher will meet the marsh soone enough." "More like ten," the ranger replies, mirth implied upon his voice, even if not seen upon his features. "I think you just used tomorrow's allocation there, Songbird. Unless you're aiming to use up your allocation for the rest of the week, now might be a good time to leave." From Ablaze's saddle, Taran laughs, shaking his head. "I did *warn* thee," he replies, amused and formal, turning his horse to the road. "Light keep thee." And there's quite the clatter, as horse and wagon take off at a very respectable clip.
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