A/N: Giant 'thank-you' to Wynni for inspiring me and helping out with this chapter. Since I am fully ignorant in the whole Renaissance Faire thing :) Check out her fic All's Faire in Love and War that has actually started all this madness and will give you yet another look at what is going on here :)

Now Wren can finally look at every single ring, and chain, and pendant, and cross, and yum! Very nicely made. She is standing above a table where some pins are displayed on tartan, and then there a low voice, and seriously, that should be bottled and sold for a thousand quid per ounce, and no more volume than this, otherwise OD and kaputt! The accent is weaker than in his brother's but just the right amount to make Wren's reproductive organs rejoice.

"Anything to your liking?" She jumps up and stares in the older uncle's blue eyes. He is standing behind the table, and how do they sneak up like that? That must be the scouting skills or whatever they do here. Probably run in the forest and catch a deer with bare hands. Wren shortly wonders if she has overdosed on testosterone floating in the air. But she can clearly imagine this massive body dashing between trees, kilt fluttering in the wind, oh no, not going there… Jaysus. Why is it so hot in this bloody tent?

"Um… I like this one," she points at a ring with traditional Highland interlace and thistle blooms. Although the pattern is common, this one has some strange irregularity to it, and it just makes it… interesting. He picks it up and stretches his palm to her.

"I've panned this one."

OK, A. When he talks in this voice she is not using the often mentioned 10% of her brain. Her fanny is doing all the thinking, which means no meaning reaches her poor squawking brain. B. What does 'pan' mean? And C. He made them?! She quickly looks at his hand. While his brother has wide palms and very masculine hands, perfect for a sword and groping her arse, not thinking about it right now, Wrennie, the dark and egg-laying has longer fingers, and although it's still a very macho hand it's more artistic, probably because of the elegant wrists.

"Um… Panned?"

"Bodged up. The interlace is wrong," he twirls it in his fingers, and she snatches it.

"I'll take it." Their eyes meet, and suddenly he smiles widely. Bugger. Oh god. Bugger. Nothing more articulate is happening in her grey matter. The crow's feet, the sparkling eyes, the lips! What is with her fanny and the lips in this family? Ask her what shape the ex's lips were, she wouldn't know. These ones? She can probably trace them on a paper by memory now. But she'd prefer to trace them with something different now… Uhem. She licks her lips, completely involuntarily, and then her cheeks are burning. Damn the blush!

And he has gorgeous calves! That is, honestly speaking, the only formed thought thrashing in her mind. Gastrocnemius, peroneus longus, tibialis anterior… He was forging or forgering, whatever it's called, his back to her, and these calves!

Her poor noggin pushes another daft Scot-ish phrase to her, 'Foo muckle's this?' but she suppresses the urge and goes for proper English.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Take it," he is still smiling, she is still imagining wrapping her legs around his waist. Oh bugger. But seriously, that is mental hip-shoulder ratio! And the calves! Concentrate on the conversation, Wren, although he is not saying anything…

The ring is too big, but everything always is. She has ridiculously small hands and feet, they are also narrow which adds to an aggro. Even if she finds shoes and gloves, they are always too wide. She wiggles her finger and the rings swirls around it.

"You are a peedy thing, aren't you, hen?" He is chuckling in his chest, and she assumes comparing her to a female chicken isn't supposed to be insulting. You are a chicken, she wants to yell, and about to lay an egg, for that matter! But not at the moment, actually, because he is not brooding, he is smiling with the very corners of his lips, and she clearly imagines straddling him on his anvil, and yes, somehow it's that graphic in her noggin. Oh, she needs some alone time! What's with her today? She is normally rather blah about shag. She is blaming it on the calves.

And then he pulls a string off his ponytail, and he is saying something, but she doesn't hear. Because... the hair! Oh, she really didn't need any additional stimulation, thank you very much. It is thick, glossy, and there are grey strands! And they are not that random salt in pepper, no... They are noble silver streaks, and Wren can't confess even to herself what she is thinking right now. In the words of our goddess River Song, the mind races! And then he does the hair flip! Hair flip, people! The heavy silky curtain flutters, and the hair is at his back. Wren's brain out.

He picks up the ring out of her weakened hand, puts it on the leather strap and holding it in two hands he is clearly inviting her to duck and put her head through it. She is imagining other actions, but whatever. The ring lies on her chest, she lifts her eyes, and common, mate, that's our moment! Ask Wrennie anything, at this stage she'll probably agree on blowing your bellows. OK, she seriously needs a barrel with cold water and extensive head dunking right now.

The lips, oh god the lips, slightly open, and common! But then he sets his jaw, gives her a tight smile and goes back to his anvil. What? What?! What the…?! Mate, we were having a moment here! The sexual tension was so thick one would need a knife to cut it! What's your problem?

Wren takes a breath in, and then she is cheesed off. She sticks her tongue at his wide back, and whatever, she doesn't even care about how his rhomboideus muscles move, and she marches outside. Prick.

She stomps out and looks for Bri with her eyes. Oh! Apparently Bri caught a fish. And it's a big fish. Blonde and hench, and good on you, Bri, look at those vastus lateralis, and that is the fish that played a fiddle earlier on the stage. Fili, and his was the only name Wren heard clearly, is standing very close to her, basically leaning in, and there is this overall gentleman-y but also 'I fancy you' and a bit of 'let's get it on, babe' lean-y tude in him. OK, Wren is officially still inarticulate after the tent experience. And now she feels cheesed off. It was going so well! Ugh.

Wren wonders if she should just stay behind for a bit and give Bri and her golden boy more private time. Where they are standing, there is also a small group of people watching a human mountain swinging terrifying blades and repeatedly stabbing what seems to be a mutilated oil drum. No need for all this effort, honestly. It's dead, Jim.

She is sort of lost what to do now, she really doesn't want to intrude. God knows, Bri needs some of that. And Reese is nowhere to be seen. Wren is turning her head, and an elderly gentleman with forked white beard stops by her. She gives him a polite smile.

"Is Thorin in, m'lady?" The dark eyes are sparkling under bushy eyebrows, and somehow she thinks he knows something she doesn't. Oh, so it was Thorin then? Whatever. Not thinking about him and his mouth-watering… everything. Blagh.

"Um, yes, I think so. Tall, dark and forging? Yeah, he is inside."

"Very nice, very nice indeed." His tone is so chuffed as if she just told him he won a lottery. He looks at her hair and slightly shakes his head. Wren's nose twitches. Yeah, she is a ginger, so what? "Till later then, m'lady." Well, that was foreboding. Maybe she is leaving now! Who says she is sticking around?

But then Wren realises that there is a much bigger crowd, many sitting on the fence, watching something else. And something else it is!

Barechested, wearing only a kilt and shoes, Frerin, I-Have-the-Greenest-Bedroom-Eyes-in-This-Hemisphere Durinson is standing in the middle of the lawn, or whatever it's called, and he is… stretching. And it isn't an 'I just woke up' stretch, but the purposeful long legged stretch of a man getting ready for vigorous exercise. His wooden practice blade is nearly as tall as he is, and he's using it to help stretch his oblicuo externo, rectus abdominis, and latissimus dorsi as he braces his arms on it. OK, meaning side, stomach and back muscles, and he is doing very well! Wren is watching with her jaw hanging around the area of the cute leather belt Bri gave her, and obviously it's the sheer interest of a fellow combat enthusiast, pure scientific interest. Wren wipes her clammy hands on the leggings.

And then, he starts swinging the blade in slow, well rehearsed moves, and would you just look at these bloody thrusts, swings, and blocks… It looks like the man is dancing with the bloody sword. OK, it looks like he is participating in a different activity with this sword, much more intimate, and judging by the heaving chests all those maidens on the fence are imagining to be that sword. Slowly he speeds up the moves, faster and faster with every repetition, till her eyes can barely follow. Her vision might be also obstructed by the the blood roaring in her ears.

She decisively marches across the grass and wisely stops in his field of vision but behind the fence. A chick sitting near her shoulder on it gives her a death glare, Wren reciprocates. The chick scampers. Whack at ye. Wren is pissed off and on a mission.

The Golden Brown and Delicious, and yes, that's his title now, saunters to her, and she is now the one trying to keep her eyes above the neck. She fails dramatically. God, these pectoral muscles! Oh god. Breathe, Wrennie, breathe! Oh no, don't breathe! The myrtle aroma she caught on him before is stronger now, and is mixed with the fresh spicy smell of his skin, her knees are jelly, and she leans on the fence, hopefully in a relaxed nonchalant pose, and not looking like she is sliding down. She is also hoping the whimpering is only happening in her head.

"Hou's it gaun, hen?" So 'hen' is a good thing then, alright.

"Smashing," she gives him her best innocent look. "Just stopped by to make sure I remember your digits right." She repeats them, and here we go. Full frontal assault of his sexiness ensues. He smiles widely and then runs the tip of his tongue on the inside of his upper teeth. Oh god.

"Quite right, love, these are indeed the digits." Wren gives him a sly smile, not saying anything, mostly because she can't talk, and if she attempts she'll be squeaking and might, purely accidentally, start running her hands over his chest, so she just climbs on the fence and makes a wide gesture of her hand dismissing him and encouraging him to go back to his... swinging.

He is standing in front of her for a few seconds, and all sorts of graphic stuff starts galloping through her mid. She can actually stretch a bit and pull him to her if she wraps her legs around him right now. Around these very lovely semilunar lines. He makes a step towards her and places one hand on the fence near her hip. His long nose, and that is one fine nose, mamma mia, is on the level of her clavicles and she is studying the fluffy lashes.

"Aren't you supposed to be warming up?" She sounds like she just tried to swallow a hedgehog.

"I am all heated up already, love," he looks up at her, lips slightly parted, Wren is very hot, and then his face suddenly drops. His eyes are on the leather string around her neck, she has forgotten about it, the ring is under the overtunic, and he picks the string up and pulls. The ring falls on his hand. The thong is very distinct, a dark navy blue string weaved into it, and he slowly lifts his eyes to meet hers. Obviously, about 87% of all this is acting, she gets it, it's all a faire thing, she has had experience with carnies in Oregon in uni, champions faux fighting for a maiden's attention and rubbish like that, but that's a hell of a possessive look!

"How about we skip the texts and have dinner on Tuesday?" The accent in his voice is thicker, she also starts rolling her r's more when she is emotional, and it leads her to believe that those other 13% of his "that's ma hen, get ye own" might be a wee bit genuine. Wren gulps.

And then his eyes shift, and he is looking at something around her shoulder. She turns her head, and bugger. Thorin, was it? Yeah, the dark and egg producing has just pushed the back flap of the tent aside and is walking out of it as if he bloody owns the place. He might be actually, but still shouldn't he scale down the tude? Git. OK, that's officially not walking. That's strutting. Swaggering? Sashaying? Bloody drama queen, so full of himself. Like a Russian doll. Anyroad, he looks like he fancies himself a King here. And he is barechested. And just... oh god. It's like the darker and wider and taller version of the body that is in front of her, and apparently one can drool over two hot bodies at the same time. The one in front of her is covered in dark chestnut hair and the tattoos are mostly in dark blue, the man currently bloody prancing through the gate is all coarse black hair and crisp black tattoos. The thingie on his left shoulder is mind numbing. It's round and black, there is a large branching tree as a negative space, and all that ink must have hurt. He probably didn't even wince. Oh god, Wrennie is in a pickle.

She turns and meets the tense green eyes in front of her. A squeal 'who me? I wasn't looking! Not me!' wants to erupt out of her, but she remembers she is a free woman and a feminist and jerks her chin up.

"Alright then," he straightens up and starts walking to the center of the lawn, or whatever it's called. Oh, the calves thing is apparently genetic. Oooph, where is Wrennie's bucket with ice water?

And then the other one decides to warm up too. Yes, please, we wouldn't want those lovely brachioradialis to hurt tomorrow, do we, lovey? Wren is not new to the world of male bodies stretching and moving in the most enticing ways but… A. His sword is bigger. And wider. Wrennie is feeling dizzy. B. He goes through the same moves, well, we are all human, muscles are the same, but then he swirls the bloody thing above his head! Wren is watching him impersonating something between a helicopter and a majorette with her baton, Bunty Carmichael would approve, and then she realises she is fidgeting with the string on her neck.

And then the two heavy bodies clash. Oh. My. Lord. Heavy bodies… Heavenly bodies… Somebody call a medic, Wren is overheating.