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Standing on its outermost boundaries, Macaire regards Palisade with a quizzical look, as if the city might at some point produce answers to any number of questions. He scratches his chin as he thinks, the rasping sound one of very few outside of city boundaries, soft enough that it does not compete with the early evening birdsong. Bit overwhelming, really. So many folk that he don't know which is worst, sounds or smells. Leastways he's sold the mule now, and with the coins got a flop for a fortnight, a wee room hardly as long as he is tall. Not much coin left after, neither, which means it wouldn't do no harm to supplement his meals a little. So he's got a string and a hook, and asking about got him the the location of a wide brook where nobody'll bother him.

As he stands there, a gleam of something pale catches his eye, noticable because it's out of place: against the blooming greens of summer, a creamy white hide on a graceful shape, like a picture in a storybook. For a moment all he can do is stare, his calloused hands grasping the rough stick he'd chosen for a pole with a white-knuckled grip -- and then, abruptly, he lets it go. He can spend a few of his clipped coins in a cookshop tonight .. it's one of them bloody deer, all pretty and pearled like its hide were custom order! And it's headed into the city, not away from it, and his curiousity eats at him, bone deep, until he turns back to the city himself and starts pacing after.

He's a big man, and hard to hide, but he does his best to make it look like his path is purely coincidental. But he's determined to follow the deer to see where it goes; all these fancy trained animals must be coming from somewhere, and he's all eaten up with curiosity about them.

Bloody hell, thinks Macaire to himself as he paces oh-so-carefully after; not only is she walking the city streets as bold as bold can be, but folk are greeting her, and speaking to her like they know her! Even a tame deer, so far as he knows, would still be skittish around lots of people, and not inclined to let strangers touch her; this one seems like a social youngster, stopping to greet friends even though she has an errand to run. He does his best not to gawp, though his current attire will put him in good stand here: though it was once of better quality, weeks on the road have left him looking more than a wee bit patched. What's mended is mended poorly, and if leathers and linen both are in rough shape, he is at least scrubbed clean.

But there's a rough look to him that will keep folk from asking him any questions, and it may as well be that they'll assume he's gaping at the city in general -- not at pretty little Niamh in particular. But he follows her well enough, utterly fascinated, and when she goes into the alleyway he's not but a few breaths behind, walking up all careful-like. He may feign that he's just walking by, but there's little subtlety or sneakiness in him. And without the pole he'd meant to fish with, he is (to all appearances) at least unarmed, though his scarred body suggests that he can fight well enough even without traditional weapons.

Skulking, Macaire decides at some point along the way, is not amongst his many talents. The trek through backyards and gardens is far more arduous for him than it is the nimble deer, for while those that glimpse her may think her someone's pet, anyone who sees him will surely think him to be some sort of criminal. Besides which, things that she can duck under or leap he has considerably more trouble with, meaning that by the time Niamh puts her soft head into Sorcha's hands, Macaire is several steps behind, sweating at the thought that any moment someone might call the city's guard on him, and with scrapes of dirt on his hands and his knees.

Sorcha will have as much as a minute of quiet communion with her Guardian before the big man stumbles around the corner himself, coming to an abrupt stop when he sees that he's finally caught up with Niamh again. In his battered leathers he looks not at all like someone who belongs here, though at one time he might himself have served -- as Sorcha does -- these more noble personages. But just now he is between jobs, and looks it, and there is besides an almost wild look in his eyes, for he had been most intent on his search, utterly determined to follow Niamh wherever she might lead.

When that ends up being to a back alley and a girl who is obviously only a servant, he cannot even react. He just comes to a halting stop, bending double with his hands on his knees to support himself as he catches his breath with slow gulps of air. After a moment, he reaches up distractedly, patting his tousled hair, and pulls bits of twigs and flowers from it. Bloody hell! One shrieking servant and he could well have been dragged of to gaol!

(He does not yet seem aware that his appearance might startle the servant girl; he is tall, poorly dressed, well scarred, and has been chasing Niamh for reasons of his own. Honest guardsman he may consider himself to be -- there's very little to his appearance that would differentiate him from a thug or a bullyboy.)