Private Tales of Haunting and Happenstance

[Oliver]

The rain was beating down, making the dense forest around him hum rather loudly. Standing in the overgrown front yard of an abandoned house, watching the ever-deteriorating wooden frame, he had the look of a lamenting, if hopelessly lost artisan. Or whichever pastoral stranger, clad simply in his earth tones and with a length of wool cloth spun about his shoulders to fend off the cold. He was bereft of armour and emblems, if armed just so with a knife, and had come on foot as was his way for the occasion.

It was a bit of a hike here from the monastery, but he’d merely called it a perfect opportunity to get some mileage in his boots. This had been, naturally, before the weather had turned dramatically, dark clouds accumulating and blotting out the sun like by some warlock’s spell. He adjusted the makeshift hood upon his head, bending down to open the lantern that lay set next to the remnants of a garden fence. He put a candle in, giving it life by means of a fire striker, amadou and straw. And a lot of bending over to shelter it from the rain.

There had once been a flower motif next to the front door, carved and painted. None of that vibrance was there, all of it rendered nigh invisible by the outright murky conditions of what surrounded. Though some reminder of an old dirt road and unkempt shrubberies yet existed, most had fallen beneath an overbearing new forest — why none had resettled here, yet escaped him.

Was this place haunted? Should it be? Would he have liked if it was?

The metal groaned as he closed the lantern and straightened, taking a moment to rearrange the contents of the satchel he’d brought along. Beside the cacophony of rain, there was no other sound — perhaps not even another soul, he found himself noting.

“ Ei siinä mitää. “ He muttered to none and yet everyone, glancing around at passing air with his hands conclusively on his hips. It was a habit, to speak out loud in here and then wait for an answer, even if none ever came. Not that he could hear — and what a relief.

“ Mhm. Jatketaan. “

It was an easy enough smile as he inhaled and turned on his heel, heading back to the road.

 

[Marchello Farregrynn]

All he could manage at this point was staring at the state of his wagon in exhausted disbelief. His driving team of horses was tied to a copse of trees off the roadway where they would stay marginally dryer as Marchello tried to find a way to royally UNfuck his day. But if the torrential downpour had anything to say about it, he didn't see how that was possible, let alone by himself. The man may be fae, but he couldn't work a damn miracle if it didn't involve wine.

THIS. This is what his ambition had wrought. The famed vintner had been so determined to make it to the weekend market at Astenvale; so excited to showcase a new wine he had made, that he had disregarded the obvious signs of inclement weather and insisted on taking the shortest route, which also happened to be the most trafficked, all in an effort to cut down on time. But due to the rain, he now stood calf-deep in mud that was gashed with deep trenches from said traffic along the main road that led from his vineyard to the town.

He glanced sourly at a handful of casks scattered about, a couple had even broken open, as evidenced by the stains of Merlot that left his once white peasant's blouse clinging to his chest. The rain doing little to clean the evidence of his hubris. Half-heartedly, he kicked at the corner of his wagon that was sunk into the mud, the wheel laying off in the ditch where it had rolled over and collapsed after breaking from the spoke for only godsknewwhy.

Rubbing at his eyes with intense frustration, he wished to be anywhere else but here. All he wanted was a hot bubble bath, an even hotter book to entertain him, and an entire bottle of his wine while he soaked away the memories of such an awful day.

Deep breath, big guy. Closing his eyes, he turned his scarred golden face to the sky, letting the drops of rain pelt his face and lure him into a headspace where he didn't care so much about his problems, but instead reveled in the small beauty of now. The beauty of the rain that kissed his cheeks.

Please. He absently begged to whatever omnipotent and primordial beings may have been listening. Please. Help me... Send me someone who will help.

Oliver

 

[Oliver]

There was a wagon on the road.

Despite the poor visibility — all mist, rain and the occasional looming shape of trees — he could make out it being in an unusual arrangement. Haphazard, a little cocked. Something was up.

Or was it down, rather. Squinting against the downpour, he took a gander at the immediate surrounding in order to rule out whatever threat he’d encountered in the past. Highwaymen, some nefarious ambush — It was the most plausible, but one had to figure that were they in any way professional, he wouldn’t be able to spot them even if he tried. Let alone avoid — not anymore, as he made sure to keep a steady pace in his advance.

Drawing closer, he saw mixed within the murky shade of a grove a group of horses. No others, save for the lone figure clear in the open, captured in some standstill next to the vehicle. Judging by the fragrant waft in the air, the darkness mixed within the water in the ground was wine. It told on the contents of the scattered casks, which dispersed his suspicion further.

The person hadn’t moved, having their visage skyward and back turned to him. What was more, they were in their shirtsleeves, which he thought rather inappropriate level of dress for the circumstance. Unless they, of course, wished to catch something or had been hard at work, unwilling to soil overgarments.

So — a small breather, enjoying the weather?

He rose a brow, equal parts inquiry and amusement. It lent an amiable ease to his voice, which he elevated a little to speak past the environment.

“ My — What happened? “ Rhetorical, seeing as it was painfully obvious one of the wagon’s wheels was missing. Suppose he could’ve opened with Good day, but the content of such a greeting was so far from the truth, he couldn’t in good conscience speak it. Lest he be taken for someone with snark or wit.

“ Are you quite alright? “

 

[Marchello Farregrynn]

The fae was contemplating whether he was actually going to grab his horses and head the hell back home, head hung low, resolved to retrieve his broken wagon and casks a different day. A drier day. When a voice full of rich timbre pulled him from his melancholic musings.

He turned with a reluctant greeting on his lips, and while Marchello wasn't sure who he was prepared to see, he was suddenly glad for the mud that clung to his legs and anchored him, for fear he may have stumbled when coming face to face with whom the gods delivered.

Before him was an unassuming male of an orc, his hood up against the rain. But unassuming more in the quiet energy that surrounded him. Because his stature was arresting in itself, bulky, but in the way a warrior would need to be.

Realizing he had let the quiet drift between them for a heartbeat too long for it to be proper while he assessed the orc, he cleared his throat awkwardly and threw himself into bravado. His hands thrown wide to gesture to the chaos behind him. "Why hello!" He flourished a bow, aware of the deep auburn waves that clung to his face and neck in a haphazard manner and his wine-stained wet undershirt that left little of his stature to the imagination. He cringed inwardly, not the best first impression. Rising, he yelled back, "Merry and well met, good sir! As I'm sure you can tell, I've had better days." He grinned, rain dripping from his red lashes. "Now, although you may not be the knight in shining armor I had in mind when I asked the gods for it a moment ago, I have a feeling you are still just what I needed. So, if you are feeling charitable this fine spring day, I wouldn't say no to a helping hand. I am happy to pay in wine if you so desire."

Oliver

 

[Oliver]

The stranger turned to face him, revealing quite the — fae appearance and thereon - coming in as the secondmost striking feature - a ruined shirt. Had it not been for the rather deadpan air about the man, he might’ve first assumed him having been stabbed in the chest.

His look dipped at the stain as he settled to openly stare, having arrived to what he deemed a modest and perfectly acceptable distance, in that it didn’t qualify as neither paranoid nor overly familiar. They stood there for an extended moment, his words hanging in the air long enough that he was beginning to get the impression the man hadn’t understood him. He was just about to take a breath and try any which dialect he knew, when the stranger finally spoke.

And in so many words. Tension draining off his shoulders, he merely watched as the other exclaimed and gestured, all in a smile. Like they weren’t both actively getting soaked through all their clothes, like there was no chill in the air, no casks splayed about in the ground and no broken wagon. The tone struck such a hideous contrast to the content of the words, that he couldn’t but smile a little.

One had to admire the amount of untroubled the man exhibited, feigned or otherwise. Emboldened, he approached a couple steps, gaze averting to inspect the empty spoke.

A knight in shining armour, huh? How hilariously storybook.

“ While I indeed am not half as gleaming or gallant as that which you prayed for— a thing of tales, delivered by some Divinity — “ His look returned to regard the man anew, forcibly nonchalant. “ — I’ve certainly time and hands two to spare, presently. “

To emphasize, he spread his arms and gave a little bow of his head. A lopsided smile splintered the neutral pleasantness upon his face, adding a dash of conspiracy.

“ And let both be granted gratis, for the day is so very fine indeed. “ And since you asked so nicely. His head keeled, allowing him a glance at the dark grey above.

“ So — what would you like me to do? You've a spare wheel, or— ? “

 

[Marchello Farregrynn]

"Just the two, you say?" He asked with mock surprise before revealing a wolfish smile, his tone flirtatious. "My, then I best not waste them on trivial things, like say, a handshake between noble men, eh?" He threw his back and laughed at the expression on the man's face. The absurdity of his circumstances giving way to throwing every caution to the wind.

He was an eccentric man, he knew, not one prone to being self-conscious. Which is why he took no qualms to his queer state of dress, but noted, all the same, the question held in the man's eyes. He thought to himself, that he would have gladly answered them if, under different circumstances, they had been warm and dry and conversing amongst the company of a crackling fire and full decanters.

But instead, fate had woven a scene where they stood, half-drowned, covered in mud, and one of them in a questionable stance with their dignity. Yet, the result was still the same, each curious as to how the other got there.

Following the stranger's train of thought, Marchello motioned beyond his shoulder to the bottom of the ditch, where lay his tempestuous wheel. Mocking him with it's stationary cheek. "Well, we can start by grabbing that sorry sonofabitch and try and see if we can't muster the strength between us to get it fixed back onto the spoke. At least enough where I can get it back home for repairs."

 

[Oliver]

Noble men?

While it could’ve been meant in the figurative, he certainly hoped there wouldn’t be a drop of that in blood. There was no knowing, as many actual nobles dressed unassuming enough on these roads. If they did come here at all, that was, generally fancying just keeping estates somewhere far away. While he wasn’t against helping them, he would’ve hated to render servitude unwittingly in a way that aligned with expectation and some code of conduct betwixt the classes.

To his credit, the stranger had the demeanour of one he found rather easy to offer aid to. There was nothing commanding, just humility in way of both requesting and directing, which invited leniency and honesty in turn.

At a closer range, he let his look rest on the man, shamelessly inquisitive. He was of half the mind to regard him from head to toe, in an overly open and grim sort of way that spelled out he wasn’t entirely charmed, but ended up choosing against it. One had to imagine a baseline of suspicion and wariness be expected, without it’s image having to be bent out of wire.

“ Let us start there, then. “ He agreed, tearing his look away to indicate the partly submerged wheel. “ We aren’t diminutive, either of us. I’m quite positive we’ll manage. “ Seizing initiative, he made to move past his fellow and into the ditch, stepping down carefully. He grabbed with it both hands, leaning his weight back to pull it upright.

“ You’re in luck — It doesn’t seem to be so broken as to not last a couple more miles. “ He remarked in wake of brief glancing over, stare shifting to watch the man sidelong. With his cordial smile restored, he made space so they might together lift the wheel back to the road.

“ So one hopes your destination be not much further than that? Be it home or— “ Trailing off, he shrugged one shoulder.

 

[Marchello Farregrynn]

"Diminutive?!" He gave a mock glance down, as if just now recognizing the state of his, well, undress and how little it left to the imagination.

"Yes, well, it seems the rain has given up the goose on my end. Apologies, if it at all makes you uncomfortable.. I promise the moment we are out of this rain, I shall redon more appropriate attire." Marcello settled across from the man, the wheel between them as he tucked his fingers under the arch of one side and lifted in tandem with him. His boots sank slightly in the muck until the wheel gave from the stubborn earth. And ever on the losing side of keeping his mouth shut at the best of times, he looked to the man and teased in a nonchalant tone, "Unless, of course, you preferred me in my current state?" His eyes bright as he cackled in the mischievous way that Fae do. For the sheer joy of finding the thread that would unravel someone in the most delicious of ways.

"As for my destination, I don't think the fates meant for me to make it to the market this weekend. But I admit, my trip back to my vineyard is a longer one than I have the patience for anymore after such a... fiasco." On that last word, he dropped his side of the wheel with a grunt near the sunken axle of his broken wagon. He wordlessly motioned to the orc-man to stand back while Marcello would lift that part of the wagon, so the other man could attempt the struggle of placing the lost wheel.

Oliver

 

[Oliver]

Unocomfortable? Hardly.

Saying nothing, he merely kept his neutral pleasantness, listening to the man make apologies and promises. Neither were of particular value to him, if only for he deemed them unnecessary and curiously forward. Not that he was to protest to them, of course, with other than his silence.

That was, before the man spoke again with an addition, just as they’d begun hoisting the wheel. It was with a laugh, suggesting jest, which Oliver was quick to respond in a snort and a hum, equal parts amusement and recognition. Like daring detailed elaboration, he met eyes with the man.

“ Wouldn’t you like to know. “ In your current state and all. Despite his face, which remained unaffected in its weary smile, his tone had an edge of mischief. Or was it some inkling of actual inquiry — as while response wasn’t expected, there was space for it. Two could play at that.

The wheel dropped, released to the earth in unison. He kept a hand on it to keep it upright, watching as the man motioned him to stand by. Blinking, he realized it gave him the most unusual sensation of offence, no matter how vanishingly small. To dismiss it, he drew a breath and settled his hands firmly on the wheel in preparation.

“ Your vineyard? Fancy that. “ He emphasized rather deadpan, watching the man bend down to pick up the corner of the wagon. “ Astenvale lies not terribly far from this spot, to your luck. You might well make it before dark, even — “

With the axle in the air, he was forced to pause, shifting his weight to heave the wheel where it belonged.

“ To have your well-earned change of clothes and — “ Metal clicked against metal and he twisted a little, helping with his knee to push the parts together.

“ Whatnot. “ He concluded belatedly, stepping back to inspect the result of their joined effort. It wasn’t too meticulous, as his stare was quick to land back on his company, some subdued victory in the way he stood.

“ And hark — A small success amidst the fiasco. “ He smiled, approaching in a step as he gestured at the wagon. From there, his hand went towards the man, offered to be shaken.

“ Oliver. “

Marchello Farregrynn

 

[Marchello Farregrynn]

Oliver.

The name suited him.

In that moment, as Oliver extended his hand, Marchello pondered how the name seemed to reflect the quiet strength and authenticity he sensed in the man. It was a name that spoke of reliability. And carried a timeless quality, much like the rugged landscapes of the forest that surrounded them.

With a charismatic grin, Marchello accepted the gesture, seizing Oliver's hand with both of his own. But there was an unexpected tenderness as their hands met and inwardly, he paused.

In the fleeting moment where their hands entwined, Marchello sensed a soft connection that transcended mere courtesy and words failed to capture in its budding infancy. He took pleasure in the way his fingers danced across the subtle textures of callouses and scars between them. Each one a testament to a life filled with equal challenges.

So he held Oliver's for a moment longer, seeming lost in brief thought, before reigniting his smile that had slipped while he wandered.

Clearing his throat, he answered benevolently, "As I said, well met. I am known as Marchello." A soft blush colored his cheeks, one he dared hope was reasoned away by his natural gold complexion.

Oliver

 

[Oliver]

It wasn’t as much a shake of hands as it was a lingering grip, one that held him twofold. Despite the weather the man’s hands were warm, a such he minded it none that he had been all but seized betwixt them. There was a thoughtful sort of silence in the way a name was kept secret for a moment longer, his brows sinking a touch as he inspected the man’s face. It made his smile curious, like that of one attempting to solve a puzzle.

In tune with his company, he eased back into a typical sort of amicable disposition the instant he was released. All old pattern and newfound distance, almost formal. As only befit the strangers that they were.

Surely.

“ Well met, indeed. “ He responded, willing a neutrality into his expression and tone. “ Marchello. “ The rosy hue on the man’s face wasn’t lost on him. One had to only hope the colour wasn’t for a budding sickness, but taking their surrounding, frigid circumstance he couldn’t really count on it not being so. He hadn’t a clue how long the man had remained stranded here in the downpour, or the cold in general.

An air of indecision came upon him, prompting an aversion of the gaze as he shifted on his heel to face his destined direction on the road. An idle animation of the figure, lest he stare overmuch.

“ Not to intrude, but— “ His look grazed the shapes of the horses betwixt the trees, careful and bereft of prior jolly spirit. A lower tone was upon him, serious. “ Had you in mind to wait out the rain or — “

He gave a sincere keel of the head, one hand tossing Astenvalewards as he dared glance at Marchello in the midst.

“ Continue on to your destination posthaste? My asking is purely selfish — “ By some effort, he mustered a smirk. “ For I worry that if it be the former, your well-being be compromised some way in your lonesome. And if the latter — “ He took a step towards the wagon, looking at the wheel for effect.

“ That you might yet be stricken anew by this particular misfortune. So, I’m rather bent to at least offering my company and thereon you the opportunity to deliver me from wondering what became of you in the end. “

Marchello Farregrynn