The wood-panel floor of the treehouse is carefully nestled between the twin trunks of a tree, about ten feet off the ground. A panel in the center of the floor opens to allow a rope to drop down and give access to those welcome.
The house itself is fair-sized and sturdily built, mainly of pine panels. One wall is largely open, covered in metal wire mosquito-screen with two large, thick blankets nailed and tacked as drapes and insulation for the cooler times. This makeshift window faces west, toward the lake, and a section has been carefully cut and taped up to allow access to a wooden windowbox attached outside.
Nearly half the floor -- right up to the trapdoor -- is taken up by the bed, a mattress filled with straw, topped with a thin but soft featherbed, all capped by a large nest of blankets, quilts, and pillows. The other side of the room appears to be mainly the kitchen, such as it is -- a small 'pantry' box of food, a few pans and dishes, and a clay pot redolent of woodsmoke and coal. In the corner away from the window on that side is a very simple wooden box with a lid, and atop that is a cobalt blue wine bottle acting as a vase for random wild blooms. Three rows of shelves line the wall above the cooking area, the vast majority of the space on them covered with carefully arranged shiny baubles of various kinds.
Did someone call for 'tall, dark, and handsome'? Well, dark's fairly well covered, at least. Jet-black hair's pulled into a long, loose tail at the nape of his neck, a few stray strands about the face occasionally drifting into his almost equally dark eyes, the irises of which are a brown deep enough that one needs to look closely to find the pupil. Nut-brown skin that sets off the white of his teeth and eyes -- it could just barely be mistaken for a very deep tan, if one really tried. Tall is a miss; he's still several inches off six feet, and he probably won't ever get there. Handsome... well, not a classic beauty, to be sure, but well-proportioned, with a stunning, frequent grin and deeply expressive features. Slim, but in perfectly good shape.
He's clad in... well, black leather pants. Somewhat faded, well broken in, but nicely cut and really =quite= nicely fitted. A simple cream shirt hangs untucked above them, long sleeved and fastened with a row of small, black stone buttons. Over that, he wears a decidedly well-worn old black trenchcoat, almost too big for him -- the cuffs hang down half-over his hands, when he lets them, and the hem hangs perilously close to his heels. Scuffed black leather boots with worn soles adorn his feet; there's a seemingly random collection of bracelets, all on one wrist, and several piercings along the upper section of each ear -- little silver hoops. His right ear also bears a rather delicate silver earcuff.
He's a big guy -- that's the first impression this man gives. Standing at an even six feet, his build is certainly sturdy, with broad shoulders and beefy arms. There isn't a scrap of fat on him either, and the calloused hands look like they've seen their share of hard work. The second impression he gives is one of youth. His clean-shaven face has a boyish cast, slightly round but with a strong jaw and squarish chin. It's a strange mix of lingering adolescence and budding maturity. His eyes are pale blue, clear and bright, expressive in a way that hints at soulfulness, though he often looks somewhat preoccupied. A tousled crop of blond hair frames his face, windblown and sun-bleached in an array of shades that could only come from nature: the color of honey and wheat sheaves streaked with gold.
His clothing isn't fancy, but he keeps it in good repair, with careful patches covering the places where it's gone threadbare. The black breeches of a dense cotton weave are tight enough to show off the musculature of his legs though loose enough to remain modest. The linen shirt he wears is clean but dingy with age, left unlaced at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A leather thong around his neck seems weighted down by some kind of pendant, a glimpse of which can be seen through the loose lacing of his shirt. It seems to be made of polished wood, but its shape is indistinct.
Martin has been hiding in the treehouse today. It's raining, and he's getting spoiled with the idea of a roof overhead. His book is open on one of his crossed legs. Balanced precariously on the other is a sheaf of papers, upon which he writes meticulously with small, neat printed letters. He looks very intent on whatever it is he's writing.
The treehouse makes the characteristic creak and shiver that means someone's climbing up the rope, and then the hatch flips open, admitting a decidedly damp coyote kin, carrying a bulging bag in one hand. "...boo," he greets the trader, with a grin, and clambers the rest of the way in, dropping the bag on the bed and wriggling out of his coat and boots.
Martin glances toward the bag with passing curiosity, and then he focuses up on Ren to offer up a warm smile. "Eek," he replies dutifully, then looks back to his papers. "You'll catch cold if you're not careful," he chides.
Serendipity slips in to sit behind Martin, pressed up against his back with one leg to either side, and wraps his arms around the blond's waist, giving him a tight squeeze. "Mm. Nah, I'm not worried. You'd warm me up. An' if I got sick anyhow, maybe I'd hafta stay in bed and you'd make me soup, whatcha think?" He hooks his chin over Martin's shoulder, to peer at the writing. "Whatcha doing?"
Martin grins crookedly. He leans back to give Ren a nuzzle, then carefully moves his inkwell to be out of spilling range. Dipping his quill, he starts to write again. "I'm thinking about the book," he replies. "There are parts that... well, they don't need changed, but they may need clarified. Daniel said I should write my ideas down."
Serendipity considers this a moment. "So you're editing th' book? Or writin' new chapters?" he asks, curiously. "What're you changin' in it?"
Martin grimaces slightly, and he gives Ren a pained look. "Not editing it," he insists gently. "Nor adding to it. Just... thinking. Adding my thoughts. I wouldn't presume to think that my wisdom is any greater than that of the ancients who wrote it."
"Bet it's not any =lesser='n theirs, either," Ren remarks, "an' anyway, they're all dead. Right?" He grins, and gives Martin's shoulder a gentle gnaw. "...sowhat're you thinkin' bout what in particular, then?"
Martin points out, "It's because they're dead that it's important not to change their words in ways they can't defend against." The gnawing draws his attention away, and he sets his sheaves aside, closing his book. He then caps the inkwell and leans back to sneak an arm around Ren's waist. "The old laws of the Jews," he replies. "Leviticus, and other books."
Serendipity nuzzles in reaction to the arm, and snuggles in some more. "Mm, yeah? What'd the dead old ancients say there, an' what're you sayin' about it? 'm interested. Wanna know."
Martin draws Ren onto his lap and curls his arms around the kin, taking full and shameless advantage of his physical prowess to accomplish these ends. "They were fairly repressed," he replies lowly. "And their punishments were harsh. Men weren't allowed to sleep with other men. There were many incest prohibitions. Women in the middle of their cycles were considered unclean..."
Serendipity squeaks in startlement at the manhandling, but doesn't at all resist it, settling in quite happily in that lap to resume his cuddling. "Well, you don't wanna be havin' sex with your mom or your sisters or anythin' like that, 'cause, y'know, broken babies," he grants, "an' maybe the middlea women's cycles might make kinda a =mess= if you're not careful, but..." He shifts enough to let a hand slip into place for an illustrative grope as he adds teasingly, "an' you =know= how I feel 'bout that first one."
Martin says wryly, "I have some idea." He nuzzles Ren's hair, planting a kiss along his shoulder lightly. "I think these laws were written when a fear of disease was strong and medical knowledge was virtually unknown, so there are prohibitions against things that could cause illness or death because illness and death were considered punishment at the hands of God. So they would stone people to death for breaking these laws, for fear of incurring God's wrath, when what was really happening was a result of germs, not holy retribution."
Serendipity takes advantage of his current position to make a few more gropes before he shifts again, tilting his head to catch Martin's lips in a quick kiss. "Sounds like it makes a certain kinda sense, I 'spose. Though, girls can getcha sick just as quick as guys..."
Martin for some reason doesn't seem to mind the groping. It gets a little grunt out of him, low-voiced and pleasantly distracted. "In some cases. Not so with some blood borne pathogens. Besides, we have access to safety measures they didn't back then, and medicine, and knowledge. There are certain sexual activities that do increase risks of disease, but that doesn't mean they're inherently evil. It just means you have to approach them with knowledge."
"What kinda knowledge?" Ren inquires, playing with the bottom hem of Martin's shirt, "...an' are you addin' the proper info in your thought-notes?"
Martin ducks his head, grinning a little as he says, "I don't think the Christian religion needs a 'how to' guide to homosexual sex, but we'll see if there's room in the appendix for some helpful pointers." Ren gets nuzzled again, then a light, affectionate squeeze. "A knowledge of the hazards, of ways to reduce them. To treat the ones that can't be avoided. Knowledge of one's body doesn't have to be a sin. It shouldn't be."
"Well, if they've been outta the loop since ancients were writing their books, they prolly =could= use one," Ren retorts teasingly, and nuzzles back, catching a tiny swathe of Martin's neck with a flick of the tip of his tongue, as well. "Y'know, you're sexy when you're bein' scholarly."
Martin chuckles, burying his nose in Ren's hair to inhale the scent of him. "I think you're biased," he accuses. "Besides, there is more to faith than sexual identity. It's just that a lot of people have suffered needlessly, and if I'm going to try to bring this faith back to the word, I'd rather avoid more needless suffering."
Serendipity grins. "Maybe a little," he grants, "but that doesn't change th' fact it turns me on." He punctuates this by managing another little grope. "An' I know there's more t' faith'n that, but..." He pauses, tilting his head. "How're you plannin' t' try an' bring it back more?"
Martin rests his cheek against Ren's head, taking the groping with good grace. He seems more in a cuddling mood, himself, and does so shamelessly. "We have prayer meetings at the poor farm," he says thoughtfully. "Though that's something we all chose to do. Mostly, the way you bring something back is to live it as hard as you can."
Serendipity returns to cuddling quite happily, comments aside, and laughs suddenly. "I dunno, hasn't worked yet for me," he replies wryly, "...but maybe I'm not livin' hard enough."
Martin's brow quirks curiously, and he rearranges the cuddling so that he can look Ren in the eye as he asks, "What are you trying to bring back? Your people, yes?"
Serendipity nods. "Yes," he confirms, a near echo, "...yeah. Wherever they went. At the =least=, gotta find that out."
Martin considers this thoughtfully, then says, "Well, with something like that, it isn't as easy as living it as hard as you can. It's your will conspiring against another -- whatever force it is that would have your search be in vain. Ultimately, what will find your people is if your will is stronger than this obstacle, or if they start living in such a way as to return."
Serendipity makes a face. "Don't even know what force it is, yet. Chances are good as not that if I knew that I'd know where they are, too. Still tryin' t' work out where t' look next, y'know? They even mighta gone inta th' shadow world, which'd mean I was screwed, an' not in th' good way." He considers. "Anything in your book that'd be relevant t' the situation?"
Martin chews at his lower lip thoughtfully, glancing over at his book. "Well, the Christ said, before his spirit departed this world, that through him we would know the truth, and the truth would make us free. Maybe there is something in the path of his life and death that might be useful."
"Couldn't hurt t' look," Ren replies fairly brightly, though he shows not the slightest inclination to get out of Martin's lap, or to stop snuggling in warm and close as he can.
Martin doesn't seem to think the situation is immediately dire either. He keeps cuddling Ren, reaching up a hand to loosen the kin's hair from its bindings so that he can rake his fingers through it at his leisure. "Besides, it might be different for people who aren't human. God doesn't speak much about them in the writings."
Serendipity allows this, and gives his head a little shake to let the soft, shiny strands slither free. "Might be," he grants. "...though then again, might depend if you're thinkin' of it as advice for me or advice 'bout them, seein' as I prolly count as human, yeah?"
Martin smiles crookedly. "Mostly human." He seems to revel in touching Ren's hair, combing it with his fingers, stroking the dark strands fondly. "Human enough." He studies Ren's face, his eyes bright and shielding nothing of the warmth and affection within. "You're beautiful," he whispers.
Serendipity smiles -- the rare one, distinct from the grin -- and ducks his head slightly, damn near demure for a second. Uncharacteristic as hell, but it passes fairly swiftly, and he meets Martin's gaze again, returned affection and a touch of mirth in his eyes. "...thanks, han'some," he murmurs in reply, and just a bit wryly, "...you're not bad yourself."
Martin arranges Ren's hair to fall loosely over his shoulders, framing his face. "I'll just say that God has been generous," he replies, ducking his head slightly. "Though I should probably finish this important work. Maybe he will forgive me for taking a break."
Serendipity mars Martin's lovely hair styling by tilting his head and leaning in to catch a kiss, lingering and rather tender, at least to start. "Bet even gods take breaks," he replies.
Martincloses his eyes a little, gazing at Ren through his lashes, looking quite, quite distracted. "And on the seventh day," he muses, leaning in closer. "Why, Mr. Jones, I do believe you're right." Thus convinced, he takes a break duly, starting with an insistent kiss.
Serendipity pages the room: Serendipity thinks that looks like a good ending pose? I should be responsible and sleep. Much writing to do tomorrow.
Martin pages the room: That works. Mmm, and on the seventh day, the Lord got his freak awn.
You paged Martin with 'Awwwwww yeah. With Coyote, apparently. ;)'.
Martin pages: Heh heh. Well if he was going to get it on with someone...
You paged Martin with 'Could do worse! ;)'.