The marketplace was a much more pleasant place Fenn’s second time through it. Out here, where he wasn’t being paraded around, where he was overshadowed by a figure of real authority, he was unnoticed. Small. Most of the flitting crowd towered over him, and he felt oddly at ease. As the sunlight began to drain from the sky, carefully cultivated plants lit up the houses with their enchanting glow. Now, he could clearly see the little shops set up, selling odd things. He saw a butchery stocked with greyish, dripping meats, and a flower shop full of sharp-toothed snapping blooms. On more than one occasion Fenn became tempted to swipe a shiny and stash it in his bag. There was just one thing that halted his eager fingers...

He was strongly aware of Banrion’s presence as they walked. She was a tall, intimidating figure, but he supposed she was nice enough so far. A smell, blood and something bitter, wafted around her. “You were raised among the southern hominids, if I am accurate in my assumptions? Not among other Fae?”

Fenn nodded, skipping alongside the Chancellor as they made their way through the crooked snow “streets” of the Court’s settlement. Her strides were long and difficult for him to keep up with.

A muted, derisive hissing arose from Banrion. “Then it will be nigh impossible to integrate you into our society, even if you were permitted to remain in Sidhe. The culture, the nuance, it would be beyond you. When I look at you, you lack a certain restraint. You will not understand our games of interpersonal politics.” When Fenn frowned up at her, his shoulders scrunched in worried confusion, she sighed. “It may be like explaining colors to a blind child. Perhaps I will be able to impress upon you the general ideas, the barest cognitive understanding, but the experience will not transfer. You have a very different picture of the world than we. If you had even been raised among one of the less civilized courts, this would be easier. Solitary Fae are not well-liked by our Courted gentry. They are too wild, too human-touched, their violence unrefined.”

They crossed a walkway into a colorful, circular clearing of sorts. But for once, Fenn was distracted by something more than the sights. His ears drooped and twitched as he mulled over Banrion’s words.

Banrion patted him lightly on the head. Her touch was smooth and cold, yet bright with a similar magic to his own. The familiarity comforted the little Fae a bit. Yet, he still found himself drawing away. “There, there,” she said, her eyes smiling, slitted pupils widened in a friendly manner. “You may still ask questions and try to learn what you may, if you wish. Perhaps you shall even prove me wrong.”

Both stopped for a moment in front of a stand heaped with softly growing fruit. The squirrelish fae manning the store swiveled her ears back in shock as Banrion said something her. She twiddled her hands together and gladly handed over a pointy purple drupe, quivering as she did so. With a quiet word of thanks, the Chancellor handed Fenn the fruit.

Her eyes followed his hands as he gratefully took it from her. Fenn took an uneasy step away from the stand as her gaze fell first on the blackened bands of skin on his wrists, and then down to those by his ankles. She frowned in bewilderment, her heads leaning in for a closer look. “Pigwidgeon, if I may ask, where did you get such scars? Is that… iron-burn? Have you earned the wrath of more than just the dragon, or are the mortal lands more barbarous than I last knew?”

Fenn paled and hid his arms under his cloak, shaking his head. Yeah, no thank you. He didn’t want to discuss those. He didn’t even want to think about them.

A slightly hurt look crossed Banrion’s faces. “Very well then. It is no wonder that you are so odd; obviously, you have been subject to unfortunate cruelty.”

A warm anger wavered within Fenn. His free hand twitched at his side, itching for a good surface to spell his thoughts out on, and his cheeks puffed out in frustration. He wasn’t “odd” or “unfortunate”; he was Fenn! Explorer, adventurer, collector of shinies and scrolls alike. This adventurer had just… been through some rough patches recently. He just needed to reevaluate how he dealt with other people. Reluctantly aware that he wasn’t going to be able to get his point across, as usual, Fenn huffed and took a bite out of his fruit.

Everything about the fruit was right -- the skin was thick but easy to pick off, the cold flesh underneath was crisp, and a satisfactory crunch resounded as he bit into it. Everything... except the taste. Almost immediately, Fenn gagged and spat his bite back out. It was as if he had bitten into a rotting pepper! Bitter juices and spicy undertones assaulted his senses.

The boy vehemently wiped his tongue on the sleeve of his cloak -- blehh!

A hearty laugh rose from Banrion on sight of his puckered lips and betrayed expression. “My regrets, Pigwidgeon. I hear that the harvest grows sweeter in mortal lands. The seadir fruit is no more deceptive than you,” she said, gesturing to him. “Who is this creature, with singed wrist and trustless eyes that I find in my sight? Marked by torment, seemingly slated for death, yet you live. Who are you, and what?” she recited.

Unanswering, Fenn cast the awful seadir aside into the snow and shook his head vehemently. The who, he knew. The what… well, stumbling into Sidhe had only made him more confused.