Bal snorted indignantly at the nearby roar of laughter. He couldn't quite see the culprit - he couldn't see much of anything, truth be told, squinting as he was against the light of day - but that was suddenly the least of his concerns. In rapid succession he was poked in the cheek by a shiny stick and struck in the left horn by one of his own apple cores. Other voices chimed in about Oberon's Path and patience but he didn't catch the rest as he was busy slamming the shutters and fumbling for his shaded glasses.<br/><br/>With all the dignity he could muster, the satyr opened the door and stepped out onto the little platform on the back of his wagon, where he leaned on the iron railing and had a good look around. "Puck's Prick," he groaned, "how many of you are there, anyway?"<br/><br/>The curly hair on his head was a shocking shade of copper; his pointed beard, sideburns, and broad mustache were the same color, though very neatly oiled and smoothed.  Two sturdy horns swept back from his forehead. Hiding his eyes, a pair of bronze spectacles held burgundy-tinted lenses that matched the trim on his emerald velvet smoking jacket. The regions below were covered with shaggy, silken fur of a slightly darker auburn shade. Thick cloven hooves were black and highly polished. His fingers were rather graceful as they drummed on the wagon's rail.<br/>