By the time Ren and Martin have gotten as far as the 'breakfast' part of their little agenda, it's damn near lunch, and the meal turns out a bit of each. Stomach full, the time has come to get to some of the work for which they came to town, and Ren's already being reasonably well-behaved as they leave their lodgings -- which is to say, he isn't being actively ill-behaved, at least.

Martin has taken time to have a wash, and he's even chosen the least travel-weary of his clothes to wear, hiring a cart to haul crates through the town. It's just as well, the streets of Millinockett are full of people, and it takes the stamping of hooves to clear a path along the cobbled paths meandering mazelike between buildings in various stages of disrepair. It isn't the nice part of town by any stretch. Crates have been loaded into the back, and Martin sits at the front, the reins to the team in hand. There is a place beside him for Ren, though there's also room in the back, which may well be more comfortable.

Serendipity is sparkling clean in body if not in mind or intention. He's chosen to sit up front with the trader, so they can chat. And certainly not because it's easier to molest him that way. He's =mostly= well-behaved, still, on that front, though he does seem inclined to maintain contact of one sort or another as much as he fairly casually can.

Martin doesn't seem to mind the contact. He doesn't complain about it, doesn't try to move away, but as his hands are occupied with the reins, he alas isn't in a position to return the favor. The horses meander the road, their hooves clopping on the stones as he steers the team toward the riverdocks. "Market day," he comments with a nod toward the many people out and about. "Won't be much this early, but the farmers come for seeds to plant."

Serendipity experiments with slipping both arms around Martin's waist and resting his chin on the man's shoulder, to see if that's comfortable, while looking about. "Didn't see a lotta the place last time I was down here," he remarks.

Martin is a lot of guy to get one's arms around, but he certainly doesn't resist the effort, glancing briefly toward Ren with a warm grin. "Most folks would say there isn't much to see," he replies. With a nod toward a row of buildings on a sideroad the cart doesn't take, he says, "Farmer's market is down that way, and later in the year there'll be produce coming in from all over, possibly even Haven if the Farm is interested in trading. Down back the way we came is the teaworks where I order most of my tea and coffee. There's also a distillery down by the riverdock. They make vodka, whiskey, and rum. Which is liquid gold in trade, though I don't partake much myself."

Serendipity grins. "Hey, after three months in Haven, it's practically urban," he replies dryly, and obligingly looks whereever Martin points his attention. "....liquid gold, huh? ...If you got bottles, I c'n provide occasional very small amounts of unpredictable alcohols," he offers, "...which I do tend t' partake of. We going to pick up any of the above lista stuff over there while we're in town?"

Martin shrugs amiably and replies, "We can. I'm going to look for some glaze materials for Daniel's kiln, but otherwise this is mostly a run for staples for the townfolk, though I did promise Robin I'd look for candy while I'm here. As for your alcoholic experiments, you do realize I could get you the proper equipment for distilling if you wanted. It's all here." The cart draws closer to the riverdock, a less than savory part of town, and the blond steers the team onward toward a dilapidated neighborhood that makes the riverdock look cosmopolitan by comparison. He nods amiably to poor looking men and women who regard the pair with speculation and suspicion.

For some reason, the remark about the kiln leaves Ren very quiet for a bit, resting his head on that handy shoulder. Eventually, he replies, "...I don't distill it, I just... have it. Hard t' explain. Also, we need sewin' needles." He's not paying much attention to their surroundings, or doesn't seem to be -- more accurately, they don't seem to be making any particular kind of impression on him.

Martin leans over to give Ren a kiss atop his head. Then he continues to guide the team on, toward a road pocked with potholes and missing cobbles, toward what looks like it used to be an old farmhouse, but has been rebuilt, added onto, and left to turn all faded and rundown again. A sign fixed to a fencepost with a rusty nail reads, "Millinockett Poor Farm." in faded whitewash lettering. Martin continues to guide the horses on, through the gateway and toward the ragged kaleyard with a rope swing hanging from the branches of an old weeping willow. On the plantation style porch, a few old hound dogs begin to bark, causing a stir from within. Faces peek out the windows, and a woman who looks to be somewhere in her thirties steps out to regard the approaching pair. Her body is thin, her dress patched and threadbare. Her features might have been pretty once, but hard times have given them a pinched and suspicious look.

"...home, sweet home," Ren murmurs wryly, the first thing he's said since mentioning the needles. He sits up, though one hand manages to keep resting in the small of Martin's back, and shifts slightly, stretching the muscles of his neck and back, and somehow, rather suddenly, seems a lot more like his old self, studying the place and radiating... well, a likelihood of trouble, sooner or later.

Martin eyes Ren sidelong and just smiles, with a sort of resigned look to it. No warnings to behave, though there's a hint of pleading in his eyes before he turns his attention to the woman on the porch and calls out, "Sarah, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine."

The woman on the porch steps off, her bare feet getting caked with cold mud as she approaches the cart along the path. "Jimmy!" she calls back toward the house. "Taran, Marty's here. Come help him with this stuff, now." Once Martin climbs down off the cart, the woman breaks into a run and nearly hurls herself at him with such a fierce hug he's almost taken aback, but he returns the gesture gently, laughing softly as he says, "It's good to see you, dear."

Serendipity follows Martin down off the wagon, his drop to the ground looking lighter than usual by comparison, and heads after him, hands in his coat pockets, and grinning again. It's staying there, something it hasn't been doing this trip. "Everyone get a greeting like that 'round here, or am I outta luck?" he inquires lightly.

Sarah draws away self-consciously, smoothing her dress with a flighty, nervous hand as she bobs her head respectfully to Ren. "I'm sorry, mister. It's just that... well, we're always so glad when Martin comes to pay us a visit and..." At this point, two beefy looking farmboy types amble out of the house and toward the cart. "Hey, Marty," one of the calls amiably. The other waves. Martin waves to them as he says, "Now Sarah, there's no need for formality. This here is Serendipity Jones, and he's a good friend of mine from Haven." Sarah's eyes widen as she echoes, "Haven?" She studies Ren more carefully, trying not to stare, yet failing. "How're you doing today, Mr. Jones?" Meanwhile, Martin joins the farmboys in unloading the crates from the cart.

"At your service," Serendipity agrees at the introduction, sweeping a surprisingly flamboyant bow, "...an' most people call me Ren. Well, in polite company, anyway. Pleased t' meetcha, Miss Sarah, an' the better for meeting you. An' how're you this fine day?" He sounds remarkably cheerful, and doesn't seem to mind the stare. Not that he shows off for it at all. Oh, never.

The poor woman looks so flustered, but her smile is genuine as she says, "Oh just fine, M.. Ren. Just fine. Won't you come in? Martin will insist he can't impose, but I can't let you both leave without something to eat and drink." She gestures toward the multi-storied house that, in its prime must have been glorious as a mansion but now looks like it's only barely standing. "I hope you won't mind the clutter. We're people of simple means."

"Bet he will," Ren agrees, grinning, "...an' I'm sure I won't. Protest an' mind, respectively. An' thank you, but I figure I oughta head over," he indicates the wagon with a glance, "an' help with a coupla those boxes, earn my keep. 's a lovely building y'got here." Well, it was, anyway. Its =essence= is a lovely building...

Sarah glances toward the old house with a small smile. "We do what we can," she says modestly. Then, more firmly, "I'll go put water on for tea. Mind the third step. It's loose." She then heads back toward the house. Meanwhile, at the cart, there are crates to be unloaded, though between Jimmy, Martin, and Taran the heaviest of them are already well on their way to the storage shed behind the house. There are some smaller boxes, lighter. Martin packed those with clothing, blankets, and toys. Taran and Jimmy nod amiably to Ren, wordlessly incorporating him into the group of unloading men-types. Within the house, there are still faces pressed to the windows -- some young, some old.

Serendipity nods back to them with amiable if amused Manliness, and sets to helping with the boxes, even going so far as not to eye the others bending and lifting and such too much. Well, okay, he does get distracted by Martin once or twice, but all in all he seems to be Being Good as promised.

Martin certainly does stand out in the crowd. Jimmy's a little too thick around the middle, and Taran a little too long in the face, but Martin is, well. Martin. Utterly clueless to ogling, thus an easy mark. Once the unloading is down to the last few boxes being carried toward the house, Martin insists, "Now we're not going to be able to stay very long..." In the doorway, there is a little person, maybe five years old. She's wearing someone's oversized t-shirt like a dress, with a bit of baling twine for a belt. Her dark hair is curly and tangled, and dragging behind her is a headless ragdoll that looks like it's collected a lion's share of dust and grime from the floor. She stares up at the men as they sidestep her to head into a foyer cluttered with old papers, empty boxes, broken toys, and the odd bit of furniture. "What you got there?" she asks Ren, pointing to the box he carries. "Are those toys?"

Serendipity grins at the girl. "Haven't looked in it," he replies casually. "Could be. Could be toys. Could be a tiger." He continues carefully around her, holding the box gingerly, and sets it down very gently atop a stack of others. It settles into place, then quite suddenly shifts and inch or so, Ren's hands nowhere near it. His knee's behind it, but he looks so surprised at the movement that just can't be relevant.

The little girl regards Ren dubiously. "It is not," she accuses, then follows after him, the doll dragging behind her. The motion causes her to pause cautiously, eyes widening a little, but at the wizened age of five, she has seen an awful lot of the world, and hers is the voice of supreme experience as she confirms, "Is not."

"Mina," Sarah calls from the kitchen, "Don't be a pest. Go round up the others and tell them soup's ready." Mina gives Ren a significant and long suffering look before she lets the headless doll fall limply to the floor and runs away, up a flight of stairs, maybe just a little too quickly than necessary after another glance at that box. Her shrill voice can be heard as she runs up and down the halls upstairs calling, "Soups on! Everyone soups on. Marty's here, and he brought a funny man with him!"

"Yeah, it's pretty unlikely we'd be bringin' a tiger here," Ren agrees in that way adults do, though he sounds pretty unconvincing and he gives the box a wary look himself, standing a few feet away from it oh so nonchalantly. It's not 'til she's run off that he lets the grin out again, and saunters off to track down the trader.

Martin is in the kitchen, which is a mess, but a clutter-mess, not an unsanitary mess. There are two pots on a wood-burning stove, and the smell of stew mingles with the smell of a dusty home where some of the damp has gotten in and caused some mildew. There is a kitchen table around which sit a few older women, who have kidnapped Martin and brought them to a chair in among them. He sits there, his expression animated and interested as they all discuss their various aches and pains. The one with her hand on his arm is telling him all about the progress of a bunion by the time Ren finds him. Sarah is in the dining room, setting a massive old and scarred table with chipped, mismatched plates and bowls. Martin glances up to Ren and gives him a warm smile and a wink, looking for all the world like a man surrounded by his own family, not a bunch of lost causes who can't find anywhere better to be. Meanwhile, the herding of the little girl has caused a stream of weary looking people to come into the dining area: adults coming in from working outside, older people beyond their working years coming from upstairs, a ragtag bunch of children with a pair of harried looking teenagers trying to herd them quietly, but they're all chattering, pointing at Ren and peeking. Speculation is loud and curious. He's brown! It's probably because he's been in the mud. Or maybe the sun. Maybe he got cooked like a gingerbread man. There is a dare issued to bite him to find out, but this is quickly vetoed by an adult who overhears. It's chaos.

Serendipity grins back at Martin, truly looking happy for a moment, and strolls on over to him. The blond may be the taller standing, but in that chair, he's just the right height for an armrest. Ren takes advantage of this, entirely casually coming up behind him and resting his crossed arms atop the trader's head, squishing those lovely blond locks. "Afternoon, ladies," he greets the older women smoothly, in the first momentary local silence that presents itself. The kids get a grin too, displaying the potentially startling contrast between teeth and skin. That may, in fact, be part of the reason.

Martin reaches up to pat Ren's arms atop his head, and the older women pause in their regaling of various maladies to cluck and fret over Ren. It's a polite way of interrogating him. Martin says he's from Haven. Haven! Mercy, the stories they've heard. What's it like? Who is he? What does he do? How does he like Millinockett. Do excuse the disrepair of the house, etc. etc. Meanwhile, the children are sent into another flurry of chattering at the grin. This is clearly exciting stuff, and a council must be convened at once to discuss these developments, but alas, their adolescent caretakers herd them into the dining room to help with the setting of the table. Martin starts to get up to help, but the old ladies refuse to allow it. Amidst the hubbub and chatter, one of the ladies, a brittle and grey old thing, tells Ren solemnly, "Your Martin here is an angel, he is." Martin's cheeks color and he protests, "Just a man, Nadine. Come on, now, it's almost time to eat. Ren? Would you give me a hand escorting these lovely ladies into the dining room?" He's gallant as he rises, offering his arm to the fragile Nadine, who frets and giggles as she rests her shaking hand upon it. It's clear the reason he's escorting her is that otherwise she'd never make it, but he makes it seem for all the world like she's the prettiest lady in the room, and its his meager pleasure.

Serendipity answers all the questioning good-naturedly, with some teasing and random flirtation but nothing that might reflect badly on Martin. If this is a strain, he does a pretty decent job of hiding it. At Martin's denial of being an angel, Ren nods conspiratorially over the trader's head, where he can't see it, to Nadine, and puts a finger to his lips conspiratorially, then winks, and grins again, and when Martin asks him to help escort, Ren makes another of those flamboyant bows, this one to the women at the table, and offers both arms for their use. There'd be heart attacks in some parts of Haven, he's being so good.

Nadine looks positively delighted at this conspiracy, and she winks to Ren in return. The blond is clueless, chatting away with his lady fair as he sees her to a seat in the dining room, then returns to offer another of the frail biddies the same. Ren gets an elderly woman on each arm, one of whom tells him in a voice crackling with age, "You remind me of my son, boy. Always such a gentleman." Anyone with a sense of social current could tell these people are the sorts the world forgets about and leaves behind. The attention, the conversation, it just seems to breathe life into them. They're palpably thrilled. A few of the able-bodied men and women help in the task of assisting the elderly, but they stick mostly to the men. Apparently, the ladies would rather wait their turn for one of the handsome visitors to do the honors.

Around the table, the adults sit with a subtle pecking order according to age. The biddies and old men have their place nearest the kitchen, and the younger folks further toward the end of the table. The children are spread out over a few kids' tables pushed along the walls. Young adults and teenagers tend to them, looking terribly put upon and with good reason. Apparently, Martin and Ren are considered grown up enough to sit among the adults, and two of the nicest chairs are reserved for them. "At least let me help serve," Martin asks of Sarah, who says in turn, "Sit you down, Martin Brook. We go through this every time."

Serendipity reaches up and puts a hand on Martin's head, helping Sarah out by pushing him down into the chair reserved for him. Well, not literally -- the pressure's very light, and Martin wouldn't even have to blink to ignore it. After a second, Ren notices some of the children watching this avidly, and starts hamming it up a little, pretending it takes great effort to overcome the large trader's resistance.

Martin momentarily looks wounded, then confused, more so as the children giggle and whisper. He glances toward Ren, noticing only after a moment or two what's going on, and he snorts, giving Ren a nudge in the ribs. "You are not helping," he informs the kin as he grudgingly takes his seat. Ren's is beside it, so he doesn't have to go far. Teenagers who aren't watching the children come in to serve, and the ranking order of age-first is once more observed as the savory smelling stew is first ladled into bowls for the older folks. There are also biscuits brought in on a trencher and distributed. They're not elaborate, but the herbs baked in give them something more than a vague bready flavor. The older folks (and very younger) who don't have the teeth for chewing also have milk for dipping to soften the food. A number of chipped and mismatched, tannin-stained tea mugs and teapots also make an appearance. It's a basic herbal blend, cheap, but better than drinking the mucky well water. As the food is distributed, rather than digging in, even the most rambunctious of the children wait, watching Martin and Ren expectantly.

Serendipity grins at Martin, and slips into his own seat. "Am too," he retorts mildly, and teases, "I'm keepin' all these nice people from havin' to wait through too much dinner theatre before they c'n eat." He gives Martin's leg a small, fairly discreet if not exactly covert squeeze, and then joins the expectant watching, focusing his bit on the trader. After all, he's the one who's been here before...

Martin blinks a bit, glancing around the table, then says, "Ah, I'm sorry. Of course." He bows his head, and the rest of the group follows suit. There's a moment of quiet, then he speaks tentatively, obviously giving the words a lot of weight. "Father of these lost children, I pray that you bless this food, and the gathering of souls that have come together today. Please fill our hearts with compassion and mercy, as we would wish others to show us the same, and guide our steps along this dark path toward your healing light. As we break bread together today, our hearts our filled with gratitude, and love for the fellowship and family we have found within these walls. Hear our prayers, and forget not your wayward sons and daughters. In the name of the Word, amen."

A course of 'amen' echoes among the people gathered. Most delve into the stew and biscuits before they have a chance to get cold. A few watch Martin for a moment, their eyes alight with some deep emotion. As for his own part in this, the trader's appetite seems to have caught up with him, and he digs in heartily, tearing a biscuit in half and using it to sop up the stew's savory broth.

While everyone else's head is bowed, Ren watches -- all about, but mainly Martin. His hand slides a little up the trader's leg, but he's apparently taking the assurance he gave seriously, and manages to resist doing anything likely to startle him amusingly. After the amen, he considers Martin for a moment or two more, and then digs into his meal as well, listening to the sounds around the tables.

Martin glances to Ren with a warm grin, and he pauses in his eating to lean over and give the kin a fond kiss on the head, unselfconscious of the people around, those who might see and even speculate. Then it's back into eating, and conversation breaks out, mostly localized in groups where people are gathered, though a few comments get yelled down the table here and there. Most of it is stuff fairly meaningless to a one-time visitor. Apparently the reclaim of the fields are going well, and there should be enough to plant a decent crop once the seeds come in. The sheep in the south field are lambing, and that's good news. They might be able to afford a milk cow and some goats, and at this point Martin interjects to assure them they will. Haven is broached, both in terms of speculative trade, and a fellow of about thirty, sitting next to Ren, asks him, "So how do you like living up there?" He's a little chubby, round-faced and homely, but he's got a friendly grin and sincere demeanor.

Serendipity responds to the kiss with a grin, and leans over to bump his shoulder against the blond's upper arm for a moment before going back to eating and listening quietly for once. When he's addressed, he takes a moment to finish his bite before replying to his neighbour. "'s not bad," he responds cheerfully, "nice area, lotsa interestin' people, decent amount of interesting stuff going on. Figure I might stay there a while longer. How d'you like it here?"

Martin discusses the finer points of putting together a goat shed with a few of the other working men, which ties up his attention. Apparently the work is never done til one's head hits the pillow. Mealtimes are just a chance to make plans. Ren's neighbor bobs his head attentively, then grins and says, "Things are great here. Three squares a day and a roof overhead." He says this as if it were the finest thing a man could possibly hope for, so much so he only barely dare hope at all. "Course, it wasn't always like this, but we're doing good. We're getting back on our feet."

Serendipity grins crookedly at his conversational partner. "Sounds pretty decent. Those c'n be hard t' come by at times. So you got a particular thing you mostly do here, or...?" He continues eating, and keeping an ear on the rest of the room -- particularly the kids.

They seem to be behaving, for now. There is food, and what isn't for eating is obviously for finger painting. It keeps them and their adolescent caretakers quite busy. Martin discusses the finer points of setting up a compost bin for what they take from the mucking of the goat shed, interesting stuff and savory dinner conversation. The place is abuzz, but it's a peaceful kind of chaos. The fellow chatting with Ren belatedly offers his hand and says, "I'm Henrik, by the way. Henrik Cooper, and that little girl over there is my daughter Mina." He nods toward the tiger-fearing know-it-all Ren encountered earlier, where she sits trying to stuff a stewed potato down the neck of her headless rag doll, no doubt feeding her. "Her ma succumbed to the fever that hit last Wint," Henrik continues quietly. "Anyway. I help out with ploughing, clearing the land. You wouldn't believe all the stuff we've dug up, stuff folks just left to rust." He shakes his head. "Anyway, when the seed comes I'll be plantin', too." He sounds quite proud of this.

Serendipity shakes the proffered hand. "Serendipity Jones, at your service," he replies, forgoing the usual bow given the whole sitting at the table thing, "...folks mostly call me Ren. Pleased t' meetcha, Henrik." He grins a little when he sees what Mina's up to, and adds, "Your daughter's a cutie. Sorry 'bout her mother..." He takes a drink of his tea, briefly looking a little out of his element. "...so you find anythin' specially interestin' out there, then?"

Henrik glances at the child fondly, then admits, "Hard to find someone to look after her, and we don't have any other family. It's nice here. I know she's in good hands when I'm out in the field." He shakes himself out of what threatens to be a dim mood, grinning again as he says, "All kinds of stuff. Bottles, bits of metal, old equipment from before the sun came back. All rusted, mostly junk, but we've been selling the metal for scrap, and once the fields are cleared, it'll be worth it to grow our own food."

"Always liked seein' what sorta stuff people get rid of 'n' leave behind 'n' all m'self," Ren remarks, and goes a little thoughtful, looking over the items on the table from one end to the other while he munches a couple spoonfuls of soup. One of his feet sneaks over under the table, and steps lightly on Martin's.

Martin blinks a bit and glances over quizzically, drawn from the intricate and interesting details of planting teff verses barley. He smiles a little, in the vague, happy little disconnected way of his. Henrik polishes off his stew, sopping at the bowl with a bit of biscuit. It's not a very fancy soup, but it's hearty, with carrots and potatoes, and bits of lamb with herbs to give it flavor. "Well, you're lookin' at it," Henrik says with a wry smile. He claps Ren on the shoulder amiably as he draws back his chair and rises, taking a floppy old hat from his back pocket and putting it back on -- no one is wearing hats at the table. A few other men follow suit as they finish up. "We're going to head back out into the south field and see what we can get done before dark," Henrik explains to a few of the womenfolk who glance over inquisitively.

Serendipity gives Martin an innocent look, smiles back a little, and runs his foot up the man's calf, just because he can. He polishes off his stew, then leans over and murmurs quite quietly in the trader's ear, "...remind me I got somethin' to ask you later, a'ight?"

Martin nods gravely to Ren, whispering back, "Remind me I have something to ask you as well." He starts to say something, but from outside, the baying of the various decrepit hounds on the porch cuts through the chatter at the eating table. Sarah rises, promptly looking worried, and Martin rises as well, telling her gently, but quite firmly, "You've got dishes aplenty. Get to them." Oddly enough, she looks grateful as she resettles in her seat. Martin taps Ren on the shoulder and adds, "Want to come with me? Our high-tech alarm system has detected an intruder."

Outside, a long and pot-hole pocked road leads along the river to a house that may have once been a fine mansion, but it has been patched, repatched, and fallen into disrepair so many times the only resemblance it bears to its former self is sheer size. A whitewashes sign at a fence marks the place as the Millinockett Poor Farm. On the porch, a half dozen dogs woof ferociously, but are too complacent to get up. Men of a working age are pouring out of the house from various doors, heading out toward a field to the south. The place looks dismal. The early Bud drizzle doesn't help.

An old woman shuffles up to the porch, well past her prime and dressed in tattered rags. She whispers a few quiet words for the dogs out of habit, but their barking doesn't disturb her. Her long, snarled hair has long since lost any luster it might have once had, and is mostly grey but for a few black strands here and there, and she probably hasn't eaten in days. A napsack slung over one shoulder is floppy enough to indicate it's not holding much, and she's wearing only scraps of cloth for shoes, and they're soaked through with mud.

Serendipity hops up easily, with a small nods. "Sure," he replies easily, "I'll go along 'n guard your body." He grins and follows the trader toward the door, stopping when it becomes clear there isn't that far to go out there after all.

Martin shakes his head wryly and tells Ren, "I feel safer than I ever have." As he steps out onto the porch, he calls toward the dogs gently, "Settle down, now. Settle down." His serene tone has a dramatic effect on the animals -- they turn slightly to start barking at him instead. With a sigh, he gives up on that cause and turns instead toward the woman, inclining his head as he asks, "Good afternoon. Is there something I can help you with?"

"They said this' the place for the lost folks. The poor folks," she says, giving Martin a look that, were it not for her generally pathetic state, might be shrewd and sharp. "That truth?" She shifts the napsack so it's resting differently on her back.

"'s what I hear," Ren replies, leaning against the edge of the doorframe and studying this new arrival carefully. He seems otherwise inclined to let Martin deal with the situation. Unless, of course, the woman flips out like a ninja or does something else where his assistance might be useful, like drops a perfect straightline.

Martin doesn't seem to have the good sense to fear ninjas. Stepping aside from the door, he gestures inside and says, "Please, come in. I'm Martin, and this is Serendipity. Let's get you in out of this weather." The inside of the place isn't much better from the outside, but it's dryer and warmer. The front doors open into a cluttered foyer where there are a few chairs and a table, as well as some boxes -- around one in particular is a gathering of small children who are watching curiously but not getting close. When adults come, they scatter, whispering and giggling. "Sarah!" Martin calls toward the kitchen, "Could use some food here, when you get around to it."

The woman musters enough energy to look at Ren with tired eyes and say, "You could say yes or no, instead of making a tired body guess at it, boy." Her gaze moves back to Martin, and she slowly moves forward to follow him inside the house. "I don't need much, just some-ut to eat and a dry spot on the floor to rest."

Serendipity shrugs a little, spreading his hands. "All I c'n tell you's what I've heard, otherwise I'd be guessin'," he replies, and considers a second. "You want a hand with your bag?" he offers.

Martin says mildly, "This is the first day our Ren has been here." He quirks a wry smile as he adds, "He's only got about an hour and a half's experience on you if that, ma'am." He gestures to a chair, carefully clearing off the table of a few ratty toys. A woman in her thirties, skinny and skittish looking, comes out with a bowl of a hearty lamb stew, with a few biscuits still warm. Upon seeing the old woman, she looks relieved, almost gushing her welcome as she sets down the food and invites, "Please, rest and have some lunch. We'll have one of the girls find you a bed." The house is abuzz with controlled chaos. There are voices from the dining room, laughter, children scampering about.

"No, s'my bag, I'll be the one what carries it, thank ya." The words aren't harsh, they're just candid, and it seems like it might be an honest answer, and not one brought about by exhaustion mingled with pride. "S'a very nice house. Had a house like it once. Very nice." Her eyes narrow at the children, but she doesn't say anything to them, instead taking the seat with a murmur of words that might be thanks, but the language is strange and not familiar. "Over kind of you, girl, over kind. I can work for the food and bed if you need it. No good with the youngin's, though."

"Fair 'nough," Ren replies, unruffled, and drags a hand across Martin's lower back before collecting a goodsized pile of abandoned dishes from the table and carting them off to the kitchen, dodging toys and the occasional kid.

Martin nods to Ren, grinning a quick, fond grin. Child-dodging is a necessary skill in this instance, the kids seem fascinated by the dark-skinned man, and they look for excuses to be in the general vicinity, watching intently in case he does something. They're an information network to rival that of the ancient Nosferatu, whispering up and down the halls, little bits of gossip. Something about a tiger in a box somewhere in the house, and speculation upon who it's eaten so far. Martin tells the older woman, "Sarah will find you a place. Everyone has a place, here." He then drifts off, outside where it's cooler and quieter. Sarah sits beside the woman, fussing over her while she eats. There is no talk of work at all until she's had a chance to at least finish her lunch.

The woman eats healthily enough, although with a care for her stomach, which hasn't had food recently and might reject it if she goes too fast. Once she's done, she asks after a bathroom to clean up, intent on being a little less of a mess before she settles in to help with any chores.

Serendipity gets sucked into the kitchen for rather a while, but eventually emerges -- through the small forest of children, who interupt the process a while as one or two of the braver actually talk to him, and get rewarded for the effort with a magic trick, as Ren produces several improbably objects from his coat before finally making it outside to track down the trader.

It takes four teenaged girls to herd the children away from Ren, and even then a fifth girl has to come out onto the porch after an escapee who toddles toward Ren with tiny hands splayed to reach for him. The barely-walking infant squeals with dismay as he's scooped up and carried back inside. One might think someone had canceled Yule, the way the little ones complain and groan as they're herded off away from the visitor. Martin sits on the porch in an old rocking chair. There are a few in a semi-circle there, and he looks ponderous and relaxed. Ren's arrival causes him to glance over and smile warmly. "I think you've made some friends," he comments.

Serendipity looks like he's distinctly torn between being taken aback and being pleased by all the juvenile attention, and sits himself down across Martin's lap, leaning back with the back of a hand pressed melodramatically to his forehead. Then he grins, and sits up. "Looks that way. We gotta pick up some things before next time we come back this way," he muses thoughtfully. "...so. Am I bein' good?"

Martin chuckles and slips his arms around Ren, drawing him close. It's not quite chase, but certainly not anything young eyes would be scarred to see. An affectionate cuddle. "You're being wonderful," he replies. His tone is simple, sincere in its pride and warmth. He lets out a soft sigh, leaning his head against Ren's with a tiredness he would never show anyone inside. "Mmm, what do you have in mind for picking up?"

Serendipity cuddles in return, and after a moment leans his head to try and catch a kiss to go along with it. "...some solder, little clay, some decent tin or sim'lar. Think that'd do," he replies, then. "...what'd you wanna ask me?"

Martin supplies the kiss readily, not perhaps as passionately as he might if there weren't little faces peeking curiously out of windows. A tender version will have to do. "After we leave here, I need to pay a visit to the landlord. Ex-landlord, I should say. Apparently there are a few aspects of our arrangement that have confused him, and, well. My faith forbids me from resenting the man, and I do truly wish only the best on him, but I think your talent for showing deserving individuals special insight might help him to understand whatever it is that is causing him trouble."

Serendipity grins broadly, then stifles all but the soul of it, which shines right through the solemn expression, and nods oh so gravely in agreement. "=My= faith says that's the kinda situation I just might need t' take a look at," he replies brightly. "Ex-landlorda where, an' what kinda confusion? Or d'you plan t' fill me in on that part on th' way?"

Martin gestures around the place, taking a deep breath, looking still more tired as he lets it out in a sigh and explains, "This old farm used to be abandoned, owned by one of the investors that came to Millinocket from richer parts. They gobbled up all the cheap land they could find. Most of the time they don't even do anything with it. They just hang on to it, waiting til folks looking for homesteads come desperate for land, then they graciously sell it off at a profit. When I came in to Millinocket in Wint, this place housed about twenty squatters, and the owner wanted to have them removed so that he could show the place to a prospective buyer."

Serendipity nods a bit, running his fingers absently through Martin's hair. "I'm gonna go ahead an' guess at least somea those squatters're still here...?" he says quietly, quirking a brow.

Martin smiles crookedly, nodding as he says, "Some. Others have moved on, gotten a job or a house elsewhere. The problem is the landlord didn't realize he was sitting on a goldmine. Not literally, but close enough. These people, they're capable of providing a lot of things for trade, metal scrap, lumber from clearing off the fields for planting. Produce when fields are cleared. The women want to get a weaving business going. They sold the wool from the sheep last Bud and want to spin it this year instead. Now the landlord wants to buy the land back, and he hasn't been discouraged by the fact that the new owner isn't interested."

Serendipity nods gravely again, and leans his head against Martin's affectionately. "An' who, pray tell, might th' current owner of th' place be?" he inquires, shifting a little in the trader's lap to get the chair to rock somewhat.

Martin leans a bit to help with the rocking, and he takes comfort in a cuddle as he says morosely, "I -want- to have it deeded to all the residents, but that's a bureaucratic nightmare, and every time I try to get the residents to push for it, they back off." He sighs. "They don't want the hassle and politics. They just want a place to live, knowing that there is someone to take care of it. So I own the land in title, but I... The reason I have my own room in Millinocket is so that I'm a visitor, not anyone's master. I want them to feel like this is theirs. Only now the landlord is trying to get some of them to push for it so that they can swindle out the rest and sell it off. Sarah told me earlier."

Serendipity smiles slowly, and nuzzles Martin a little. "'s 'bout what I thought, the first bit," he murmurs. "...I'm sure this guy can be made t' see reason, sooner or later. Don't worry your pretty head too much 'bout it," he half-teases fondly, and gives him another kiss, as lingering as the trader will let him get away with. He even tries to keep the ensuing grope covert, though he fails to mask the wicked grin. "Y'know, you make me wanna find a shed."

Martin lingers a little longer than is perhaps required for such a kiss, but the grope gets a scolding look, made milder by the covertness of it. Then he gives in and hugs Ren to him, scolding forgotten entirely as he says morosely, "I hope it works out. I can't... it's just not right for me to menace him into backing off." There's almost, one might even have imagined it, a slight emphasis on the word 'me' in that statement. He pauses then, glancing at Ren as he asks, "Oh? I take it -not- to sort out some old building tools?"

Serendipity's grin only widens. "I dunno, your old buildin' tool need sortin' out?" he murmurs, arching a brow suggestively, running his hand slowly -- and more chastely -- down Martin's side. "'less you'd rather hurry up and see this ex-landlorda yours..."

Martin laughs, sudden and scandalized. Though his cheeks color, he isn't so prude as to fail to look amused. "Mmm, we really should get it taken care of as soon as possible." He glances toward the sky though, and the low hanging clouds promising rain. "Or we could go first thing in the morning. That might be better. He'll be in his office then. By now, he might already have left."

Serendipity follows the glance to the sky. "...mmmhmm," he agrees utterly innocently, "...an' it kinda looks like it might rain, that'd slow us down gettin' back in time even if he hasn't quite, yet. Plus, maybe you c'n tell me more about 'im t'night, so I can consider the best sorta argument t' make." Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Martin arches a brow, regarding Ren thoughtfully for a moment. He then gives him a nudge to gently ease him off his lap, so that he can rise from the chair. "It is getting rather late," he admits. "Let's go make our good-byes. We'll come back again before we leave Millinocket. If we don't promise that much, the children will probably blockade the road."

Serendipity allows himself to unseated, and stretches rather more thoroughly than strictly neccesary once he's on his feet. "...mm. Sounds a'ight t' me -- the promise, not th' blockade. I like kids, but all th' same..."

Martin points out, "Kids and small animals can sense certain qualities about certain people. I bet puppies and kittens love you." On that note, he heads inside to say his good-byes. These take so long the rain is already starting to pitter-patter by the time the cart is ready to head back to town. There are rounds of hugs and hand-claspings to be given, children to be placated, parting words to listen to (Martin listens to far more than he gives). Ren is embraced, clasped hands with, tugged, poked, kissed on the cheek, and at one point climbed by an insistent little one who wants a huuuuuuug. Lucky him, to have been accepted so thoroughly. Eventually though, eventually the cart is brought around, and the pair are able to leave, in time to get back to Martin's room before the worst of the downpour, if they're lucky.

Serendipity gives the little one a hug, and toddler-sized 'airship ride,' which promptly inspires a brief clamour among some of the others who are only grudgingly placated by promises of a turn when they get back there next. He returns most farewells like with like, and eventually escapes with Martin, doing what little he can to help beat the rain. This mostly consists of not doing anything to actually slow them down.

Once in the cart, Martin unpacks a rather large canvas draping that is probably meant for one person Martin's size with packs, but manages to give them both some coverage -- he's willing to get a little wet to keep Ren dry. Still, they're both damp, cold, and shivering by the time the horse and cart are taken to livery, and the pair get upstairs and into Martin's room across the street from the stable. The rain is coming down hard, pounding on the roof, and sounding so much better now that they're inside, out of it. The window's light is fading, and with numb hands, Martin fiddles with the coal stove, striking matches to light it, and from there a few kerosene lamps, turning the hazy grey of overcast dusk into the golden glow of firelight.