The oxen lowed and snorted at the rain of apple cores among them, but didn't cause as much fuss as the people who also suffered the indignity. Mayspeak lifted his arm to shield himself from any of the projectiles, but didn't voice retaliation as the others did. He could not walk forwards to demand respect as the flute-player did, not throw one of the scraps back the way it had come or shout the snarl of words that twisted in his throat least his owner learn of it and see him punished. Mayspeak didn't fear the man who had bought his labour, but he did value his comfort. The healing burn on the back of his wrist was enough pain for him to want to carry along the road, a flogging would make the whole journey miserable.<br/><br/>He still felt the need to vent the bright thorn-riddled twist of anger that lodged in his chest, his ribs becoming a cage.