Some months before Serendipity ended up in Haven:

The tavern is small and dark, the windows too small to let in much of what light the moon sheds or let out much of the marijuana smoke that, while few people are actually smoking anything, lingers all out of proportion. For all that, it seems a fairly cheerful or at least raucous clientele that frequents the place, and the majority of the seats at tables and the bar are full. The food is hearty if uninspiring, the drink is nearly as solid, and two young women bustle about tending to the customers, a more matronly one tending the counter. A door leads outside, and another to the attached inn -- also small and uninspiring.

Sandro has managed to get a small table by the door, and there he slouches, his rucksack and guitar case tucked beneath his feet as he stretches out his legs, studying the rest of the crowd through the haze of smoke. There's an empty bowl of what might've once been soup before him, and his hands clasp a glass not quite a third empty. It's warm in here. Making the drink last means he won't get kicked out quite as soon.

The door opens just wide enough to allow Serendipity to open it and slip inside, quick and quiet, no fanfare. He slides himself right into the empty seat at Sandro's table, and reaches out to pull the empty bowl to rest in front of him, simultaneously rummaging in his coat with the other hand and pulling out an empty mug much like the one already in evidence. "'f anyone asks," he remarks in a remarkably cheerful conspiratorial murmur, "I've been sittin' here all night. An' my name's Ren, hi." He winks and settles back in the chair, taking a sip at his already empty cup.

Sandro watches the swiping of his bowl with a lot less alarm than he might if it was full. He's got the tired look of a man who could fall asleep standing up, or sitting as the case may be. Dull-eyed, listless. His gaze drifts from the bowl to Ren, and he studies the man's features without offering up much of an expression of his own. Some might find that cool. Hell, some might even affect it to come off as such, but this is the real deal. There is aloof, and then there is shell-shocked. "Yeah," he says absently. "Okay. Who's gonna ask?"

As if on cue, the door opens again, this time with rather more force, and noticed by rather more of the drinkers, revealing a decidedly large, decidedly red-faced man with an axe. He glares around the room 'til he catches sight of Ren, then stomps the few steps toward him, letting the door fall closed. "=You,=" he growls menacingly.

Serendipity looks up from the 'last sip' of his drink, the very picture of startled innocence. "...Hey, evenin', Mr. Rossum. Stoppin' by for some ale?"

Sandro's attention darts to the axe, and he sits up slowly. Weariness aside, this perks up his interest. "Hey man," he says warily. "You be careful where you swing that thing." A drinker at heart if there ever was one, he scoots his glass closer to himself, nestling it behind a few condimental odds and ends on the table.

Mr. Rossum narrows his eyes, gaining a shade of red. Well that Sandro should fear the axe; it quivers in his hand with barely suppressed fury. "...you think you're so damn clever, don't you?" he hisses, leaning in toward Serendipity. He dwarfs the smaller man, even without the axe, and Ren leans back, spreading his hands in a placating palms-up spread, the mug dangling from its handle on one finger.

"I just thought you might be comin' in here for a drink," Ren replies with credible bewilderment. "Somethin' wrong? Why don'tcha pull up a chair an' tell us about it over Bartley's Best?" he suggests, and immediately lifts a hand to signal the staff, calling, "Hey, Barmaid! Another round for me 'n' my friends here, wouldja, beautiful?"

Sandro shoots Ren an indignant glower. The mention of another round stays whatever retort doesn't make it past his lips. He eyes his glass, taking it up again. "Yeah," he says listlessly, eyeing the axe while managing not to look too closely at Mr. Rossum. "Might as well."

Serendipity flashes a stunningly bright grin, which does nothing to calm Mr. Rossum's anger, but does garner an answering smile from the barmaid as she tilts her head in a slight nod and flits away to the bar. Mr. Rossum thunks the axe down, one end heavily against the floor, and glowers at his would-be host. "I'd sooner take fairy gold 'n drink with =you=, y'worthless bastard. I toldja, you stay away from my son or you'd get a real close introduction to ol' Betsy, here, and you c'n ask anyone, I'm a man of my word."

Sandro relaxes some as the axe is brought down, not on his head as it turns out. Or Ren's -- no one wants blood in their ale. He takes a sparing sip from his glass, then says, "Dunno what you're talking about, man. He's been here all night." He darts a glance to Ren, then up to Mr. Rossum. "You think maybe you could take this up later? Man, I got nothin' against Betsy, but all this agro's gonna give me indigestion." He pats the cavernous dip of his stomach by way of demonstration.

Mr. Rossum stops short at Sandro's comment, and turns to examine the man, silent for a moment, looking him up and down. "You're new to these parts. Ain't seen you 'round before. You onea =his= folk, maybe? Coverin' for him?" He leans in toward Sandro, now, still menacing.

Serendipity shakes his head. "Never met 'im before. Just ran into him here, looked like he could use a friendly face. ...Sure you don't wanna drink?"

Sandro shakes his head slowly, his regard of Mr. Rossum level and solemn. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, man. I just rolled into town. Place is packed, and he had to sit somewhere, yeah?" He shrugs one shoulder, lifting his glass again for another small sip. "I ain't got no folk in these parts."

"Honest, Mr. Rossum," Serendipity remarks earnestly, "I never doubted you'n... Betsy were sincere. I've got no death wish, too much out there to live for, am I right?" Another grin, open and friendly. "Dunno what makes ya think anything's going on with yer boy, but if there is, hey, maybe he got himself a lady-friend." He arches a brow slightly, and Mr. Rossum looks as though he really isn't sure what to think, glancing between the pair of them, not quite believing, but unable to maintain the fury in the face of this concerted denial.

The barmaid glides up and sets mugs on the table, first to Sandro, "There's a Best for you," then Ren, "and you," and finally, "...and yours, Fred."

Sandro darts a glance at the barmaid, and a smile flits over his lips, quick as a flash and then it's gone. Without ado, he tilts his head back and empties what's left of his ale. Then he slides the glass aside and reaches for the new arrival. "Come on," he says easily. "Have a drink, Fred. What's it gonna hurt?"

Mr. Rossum... Fred... looks at the mug, then the barmaid, then Sandro, then Ren again, and his eyes narrow a bit. "...I'll let it lie for now," he decides slowly, "let you live another night -- but I sure as hell ain't drinking with you, and if I find your boot prints 'round my place tomorrow morning, you'll be tellin' your stories to the spirits by the night." He punctuates it with the axe, the blade coming dangerously close to Serendipity's neck, and then turns and heads back out into the night.

Serendipity's empty mug seems to have disappeared; he glances after Fred, then lifts his glass to the barmaid, grin returning. "We'll keep it anyway, beautiful," he informs her, "...'less you feel like joinin' us yourself tonight?" He lifts his chin and eyebrows a bit with the invitation, and she laughs, shaking her head as she clears the bowl and remaining empty mug. "I'm on duty. And I said no =last= night, Ren."

Sandro shakes his head, settling into a slouch again as Mr. Rossum departs. Casually, he scoots his guitar case and rucksack closer to himself under the table with a nudge of his feet, then stretches out his legs again. "Damn lucky you're buying this round," he says with a low grumble. "Fuckin' don't need crazy men with axes swinging around me. Should'a turned you in." But he says this around sips of the ale he couldn't otherwise afford, so his tone isn't terribly acidic.

"Yeah, but you said yes the night =before=," Ren replies to the girl, and she raises a finger to him in mock-reprimand, then spins and heads on her way, skirts rustling. He leans back in his chair, relaxing, and finally gets a good swallow of ale. It =is= pretty decent -- much better than Sandro's first round. He sighs contentedly, and turns that grin on his companion. "Hey, everyone needs a little excitement in life once in a while. No harm no foul, right?" He rummages absently in his coat again, coming out with a small coin purse, which he opens and looks into with the curiosity of one who'd never seen it before. "Anyway, I'm much too cute to die," he adds airily, tongue-in-cheek. "...thanks, by the way. Fred's right though, haven't seen you here before. Fellow traveler, yeah?"

Sandro points out, "No such thing as too cute to die." The words are curt, with a trace of an accent so faint it's hard to place. The eye plays tricks, wanting to place it somewhere south of long gone borders, but mostly his intonation is just dull, absent. With a shrug, he lifts his glass again and says, "I guess. Traveling, yeah. I don't recall ever being through here before."

"A'ight, too =me= to die," Ren replies easily, with a cheerful shrug. "Coyote's not done with me yet. Ale?" He pushes the glass meant for Fred toward Sandro, taking another sip from his own. "Not too much here to draw you in twice, really," he observes, and glances toward the door. "...'fact, I'm thinking it might be about time to experience a parta the world with fewer axes. Which way you headed?"

Sandro shakes his head to the ale, and though he arches a brow at the mention of Coyote, he doesn't seem any more offended by Ren's presence than Ren's presence has accomplished all on its own. "Nah, I'd better not," he says. "Gotta stay clear headed. Don't know what to make of this place, crazy old men swinging axes around. You must've done something." He shakes his head again, low-key and laid back in his admonishment. The glass is sipped from again before he says "I don't know. Maybe north. Maybe east."

Serendipity pulls the mug back toward himself instead, unperturbed by the declining, or the accusation. "Well, yeah," he agrees as if it should be obvious, giving another little shrug as a briefly wicked tinge taints the grin, "...his son. And it was definitely worth it." He watches the other barmaid swish past for a moment, and adds, "...all the same, Betsy's not my type. I hear there's a port town about four hour's walk north, bigger than here -- they keep a market on some boats in the bay there. Might go take a look at that. Whatcha think?"

Sandro shrugs again, the corner of his lips tugging at a hint of a smile, rueful as it is. "Sure, I guess. Maybe there's work on the boats." He lifts a hand to splay over his mouth, doing a poor job of hiding a yawn. "You know where a guy could sleep for free round here? Where they don't throw you out or dump garbage on you or anything?"

Serendipity studies Sandro thoughtfully for a moment, sipping his drink. "Well, if you don't mind sharin' and getting up early you can stay in the loft here with me t'night," he offers. "There's a pump down by the stable, so you c'n even wash and all."

Sandro nods slowly, tilting his head as he studies Ren in turn. "You got a loft," he muses. "Okay." He swallows down another gulp of ale, sighing softly, relenting to a small bit of satisfaction. "Just so long as you behave yourself," he warns.

"Well, I'm =borrowing= the loft," Ren specifies, with unnecessary honesty, "...but they don't care who I share it with. Seein' as you weren't gonna be renting a room here anyway." The broad grin flashes back into place, "...and I =always= behave myself."

Sandro sighs again, this time with chagrin. He doesn't look convinced, not in the least, that Ren can behave himself -- at least not well. Toying with the glass, he slouches down, stretching out his legs. A faint frown flits over his features as he considers. Then, with a slow nod, he replies. "Okay. I don't mind getting up early. I just need somewhere to crash tonight."

Serendipity drains what little remains of his drink, eyes the other one, shrugs, and empties it in a few good-sized swallows. "A'ight, cutie, my loft is your loft. 's just 'round back, I'll take you there." He tosses several assorted coins from the little purse onto the table, and slips the thing back into his coat, rising. "...so what's your name, anyway?"

Sandro arches a brow dubiously at the moniker of 'cutie.' There is a sense of hesitation, but then the sight of coins clattering on the table is enough to convince him. He drains his glass, then sets it on the table. Reaching under it, he reclaims his rucksack and guitar case. "Sand," he says quietly. "Uh, Sandro." He looks around, preoccupied. "You said you were Ren, right?"

"Yup," Ren agrees cheerfully, and makes a rather flamboyant bow, "Serendipity Jones, atcher service. My friends call me Ren, my enemies call me a lot of things. Niceta meetcha, Sandro." He glances over to catch the eye of the barmaid who'd served them earlier, and gives her a grin and a wink, "...G'night, Lucy. Thanks for everything." She looks amused, and gives him a light wave as she goes about her business. Ren returns his attention to Sandro, and indicates the door with a tilt of his head. "C'mon, O Sandro. Our mansion awaits."

Sandro eases the guitar case onto his back by a home made strap of extension cord. Then he shoulders his rucksack, studying the indicated door intently as he readies himself to out. "That's your name for real?" he asks uncertainly. "Man, I don't feel so bad about mine." Lucy is spared a glance, but not much of one before Sandro makes his way doorward.

Serendipity laughs. "Yeah, it's my name for real," he confirms, holding the door open gallantly. "I like it, actually. 'cept my middle name, but you're not gettin' that outta me. What's wrong with 'Sandro'?" He closes the door once the other man's come through, and leads the way around back toward a barn.

Sandro glances over his shoulder at Ren, a crooked smile touching his lips briefly as he says, "S'a nickname. Nothing wrong with it." Then as Ren takes the lead, he pads along behind, soft and silent footfalls, but the thump of his guitar case against his back is hardly stealthy.

It's not far to the barn; the stables are attached, and the smell is, of course, rather... livestocky. However, the place is in good repair, not particularly drafty as they go, and the hay in the loft is reasonably fresh. Ren leads the way up and introduces the space with a flourish of arms. "Ta da! Welcome to my humble abode. 'til the morning, at least."

Sandro crawls nimbly into the loft, quick on his feet, er, knees. Scuttling further into the hay, he slips the rucksack off his shoulder and sets his guitar case aside, putting them between himself and the wall -- not that he doesn't trust his new best friend not to rob him blind or anything. "What's happening in the morning?" he asks as he rakes a hand through his hair. The brief sweep of strands from his eyes reveal long lashes and a dark, warm brown hue.

Serendipity rummages in his coat again and comes out with a fairly good-sized if somewhat worn blanket. "In the morning, I'm headin' out. Up north to the port, I think. It's Time." He says the last word as if it were something official. Settling in, he considers his companion a moment. "Y'got lovely eyes," he remarks, really more observational than blatantly flirting, at least for now.

Sandro's brows arch again, first at the officialness of Time, and then again at the following comment. He eyes Ren warily, then turns away, dipping his head forward to let his hair fall over his face. "Maybe I'll go north too," he allows grudgingly. He unrolls the sleeves of his sweater, letting them engulf his hands as he curls up in a bed of hay, twisting and turning in a vain attempt to find a comfortable spot. "What's it time for?"

Serendipity offers part of the blanket, but doesn't try to get particularly close. "Time for movin' on," he replies, with a faint shrug. "Been here a couple weeks... sometimes it's longer, sometimes it's less, but eventually, y'know, it's always Time." He stretches out comfortably, looking rather like a satisfied cat.

Sandro glances at the blanket, then Ren's face. He tilts his head to one side, looking both suspicious and curious at the same time. There's something on his mind. His poker face isn't good enough to hide that. "You don't stick around," he observes ambivalently. Cautiously, he sidles closer, snagging the corner of the blanket and curling into the offered part, turning his back to Ren -- a skinny and shivering fetal ball. "S'cool. Sometimes you have to keep moving."

Serendipity, possibly to Sandro's relief, does not fall upon him like a lion on a wounded gazelle or something. In fact, he remains right where he is, head pillowed on his arms, eyes closed. "Always gotta keep moving. Most things aren't gonna come to you, right? Anyway... how else're you gonna know you're alive?"

Sandro's shivering starts to subside once the blanket adds another layer of warmth. At least he isn't radiating nervousness. Rather, the weariness seems to come off him in waves. He doesn't move any more than necessary, and his breathing evens out swiftly -- though he stares straight ahead at the barn's wall, his voice dazed and distant. "Hunger," he replies quietly. "I don't know."

"...maybe," Ren allows. "...but hunger's a cage. Movement's freedom. Anyway, food you can work for, trade for... play that guitar of yours for dinner, yeah?" His voice is a little drowsy, though nowhere near as weary as Sandro.

Sandro's head shifts a little as he nods, the tangled strands of his hair collecting a few loose blades of hay. "Was gonna play, if you hadn't shown," he says listlessly. "Don't sing, so much." Not that his soft voice isn't pleasant, but it doesn't carry terribly far, either. "Guess I owe you, when we get to the port. Maybe they'll hire me on a boat. I can pay you."

Serendipity makes a quietly dismissive noise. "Nah, don't worry 'bout it. You helped keep my head attached, I just gotcha a drink and a bed. And I'm not entirely certain it's even my money." In the general quietness of the barn at night, the sound of his mouth breaking into that grin is just barely audible. "We're good. Though hey, when we get there, wouldn't mind hearing you play."

There is a hint of a smile in Sandro's tone as he replies, "Yeah, if you like." He uncurls a little, sidling closer, though there is nothing overly flirtatious about the gesture. There is body heat to be leeched. He keeps his back turned, though, and doesn't quite touch. "You're trouble," he decides. "Four hours walk, you say? Can you stay out of trouble that long?"

"Mmm, four hours..." Ren makes something of a show of considering this question, if only by tone and timing. "...yeah; yeah, I think I can manage that." The crinkle of the grin again, and a shift in the hay, though he remains in place. "Anyway, I'm not trouble," he corrects cheerfully, "I'm Coyote's."

Sandro sighs deeply, his quiet voice grave as he replies, "Yes." Then, thoughtfully, "I suppose one might consider traveling with one of Coyote's lucky. The luck that allows a man to see the oncoming stampede rather than having it sneak up on him. There is a bright side. I know to keep an eye on you."

"There are worse fates," Ren agrees mock-solemnly, and sighs with contentment. "...we'll prolly head out around first light. The inn-maids'll be loud enough t' wake us by then. Then we oughta be plenty clear even if Fred Rossum =does= find a bootprint," he decides, sounding unconcerned.

Sandro says dourly, "You should cover your tracks." He shifts a little, glancing over his shoulder at Ren, eyelids drifting low as sleepiness encroaches. "It isn't hard. You just scuff the dirt." His eyes narrow further as he assesses, "You like the trouble."

Serendipity sounds almost wounded. "I =do= cover my tracks. I'm not =stupid=. ...it's just hard to find time to stop for it when you're being chased." A shrug against the hay. "Maybe next time I'll keep brancha leaves up against the house so I can drag it behind me," he muses. As for that last accusation, it seems to go unanswered.

Sandro snorts his disapproval, looking away and curling into the blanket comfortably. "Just keep it in your pants long enough to get us to the port," he grumbles, his voice starting to fade as sleep slowly but surely claims him. "After we part ways, I don't care what you do." The last words are garbled, fading. His breathing evens out. It doesn't take him long to drift off.