He usually has an instrument with him when he sings, some rude guitar or lute to fill in the blanks, but here there isn't much.

He's not sure what happens next, if the faerie doesn't like his song. Nothing good, he imagines. He hates the idea of surviving a couple of hunters just to be killed or at best, stolen.

More than that, though, he wants to prove himself. There's something about this Tam Lin he wants to defeat and another he'd like to impress.

Wren leans, aching joints and grazed arm both thankful and complaining for it, and starts a beat with just hands and knees. He hums himself the beginning of a mournful melody before starting, in a voice that grows stronger after a moment of adjusting to use.

there's a story, so it goes
a maid sits on a bank of reeds
she never speaks she never sings
she weaves until her fingers bleed

guess the ending if you can
cold ground left where nettles grow
a bird whose heart beats like a man
feathers fair as falling snow

seven swans take to the sky
six return to summer sun
five fingers count the days before
three seasons gone since two were one.

He glances at the tall man, before continuing with the story itself. It's easier, a little, to tell this as a riddle, a ballad.