Distracted by their own concerns, no one seemed to notice Phaelan's comment, sparing him from the shame of even an unspoken 'pretty.' The tree was sturdy, and like most orchard trees it had been pruned with an eye toward keeping it climbable. The pruning was fortunate, since orcs-- even half-orcs-- weren't really known for their tree-climbing skills. The climb up to the branch was uneventful, but as he edged out toward the feather it began to creak and sway alarmingly. Just as his fingers closed around the bright scrap of red, the branch gave a distracting wiggle and dumped him to the ground.

With a speed that belied her age, Widow Harper darted across to stand over the fallen bard. She peered intently at the branches, making certain he hadn't done more than dislodge a few leaves as he fell, then glared down at him. "You break so much as a twig, and you'll pay for it, greenboy."