[Caerydd]

The poor guy gawped like a goldfish, or a spackleback possibly, and stuttered harshly as he tried to reply. Plainly the young man was terrified by Manyc. He looked blankly at the parchment. He had gone to schola occasionally when he was a child, but more often than not had played truant to help his Pa and uncles with the fishing nets. He dropped the metal scraper into the bucket, and wiped his hands hurriedly on his home spun tunic before taking the scroll. His face had a definite blankness about it as he looked at the invitation.

"Serale, an' beggin' yer pardon, Mr Úlairi" He said, pronouncing the dignified mage's surname all wrong. "But me let'ers ain't so good, so they are. I be 'appy to oblige yer, Mr Úlairi, iffen ye tell me where I be going." A deep, gravelly voice, the smell of chewing tobacco heavy on his breath; he straightened up from his task to look his social superior in the eye. "Iffen this one o' those recruitment thingies, I ain't int'rested. Got the spring catch to do, see. Can't be away long, or my Bessie will starve."