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 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*." marshboats unique to these folk.