With a nod, a bright grin, and a sure-enough pep in his step, Lars obliged— lifting back off of the wooden wagon he'd been pulling, and passing the barbed fences into his family homestead. "We're makin' tracks, then! First stop, my old man— he'll probably be down by the silos, this time o' day, I reckon... Oh, watch'er step where y'go, would ya? We get field rodents."
That dreary little detail noted, the group proceeded down the beaten road that led through the cornfields— Lars making sure to stop and have a quick "Hi and bye" with the stalks as he did— before they made their way past the majority of the crops surrounding their humble little abode, emerging near the center of the farmland. True to Lars's word (as well as anyone's eyes even at a distance), a series of silos stood just a few skips east of the farmhouse— 4 rows of 7, painted cornsnake red with steel domes.
It was a rather peaceful sight to take in— not that Ven had long to take it in before everyone's favorite alarm clock broke the silent atmosphere again.
"DAD!!! Y'OUT HERE!? GOT SOM'NE WANNA MEET YOU! NEW FRIEND O' MINE!" Lars practically screeched, ensuring that all of Serendipity knew he was there.
"YEAH! Damn, boy— lungs on you. A'ight, gimme a sec'n, I'm comin' round." Came an older, more gruff than not man's reply, sounding from behind one of the nearer silos. Lars's heart jumped with joy; Gourdy seemed to simply be simply counting his blessings that he wasn't carved with ears.
Sure enough, from around the bend, a large man stepped forth. Had to be about 6 foot, maybe 8 or 9 inches, with a strikingly familiar tone of skin, and a full head of buzz-cut ginger hair, a few weeks due for another touch up. Stone gray eyes and a thick, rugged red beard with a couple touches of silver gave him a resoundingly tough appearance— and that was ignoring the fact that he looked like the human equivalent of a godsdamned brick wall... with a little bit of belly for added support. His overalls and button-up plaid shirt, however, helped to even out that intimidation out with a semblance of belonging. That, and a proud smile on his lips— the kind that belonged to a father.
"Well, well. Yer mother's gunna put a fine leather boot on yer ass, she see you just gettin' back. Ain't you—" The larger man began, his eyes instinctively driven to Lars so quickly that he nearly missed the fact that he wasn't alone. The smile faded from his lips— shortly afterward replaced with a rather slight, yet all-the-same concerned grimace, and an impossibly knowing look as his gaze fell on Ven.
"...This your friend, boy?"
Lars, disregarding the threat to his life for the time being, nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! His name's Vem! Vem Pyre, I think I got that right. Found him getting knocked around out in the forest by Northwatch, some thugs or some thin'— he's lost, sounds like, so I figure we can help out a bit!"
Unsurprisingly, the older man's gaze only narrowed further— though no hostility was raised, in spite of that. Here was a man who was more than in control of his emotions— a boon and a deadly, deadly weapon if he needed to wield it such. "Uh-huh. Well, y'ain't my boy for nothing— wouldn't expect less. But how 'bout you tell me your side of the story... 'Vem Pyre', was it?"
It was a loaded question, of course. The REAL 'Mr. Lars' seemed much, much more intentional about his words than his son, that much was for certain.
"Don't worry. Y'ain't gotta fret about boring' me. I'm real curious 'bout your... particular circumstances."
...As well as his 'demands'.