Somewhere Far Beyond [Hyacinthus]

[Nightcrawler]

"Mr. Lars, I wouldn't — "

He should have expected it. He did not know why he was surprised. The man had, after all, confidently approached a deadly skirmish between a contingent of skilled hunters and a dead man walking. Ven had at first chalked this up to Lars' confidence in his own magicks. But now, as he watched his odd farmer friend stray closer and closer to a heavily-armed highwayman with the same inane chatter as before, he realized that Mr. Sycamonia-the-Seventeenth simply approached everyone he met like this. Regardless, it seemed, of their intent.

There came an almighty crash through the woods behind them. No — to their left. No, Ven realized with a grimace. Of course. This wasn't just some lone wolf trying her luck. It was an ambush. They were surrounded. He counted three — no, four — men. "Mr. Lars..." he warned again. His grip tightened around his staff. He started forward. The demon stirred, sensing prey. Something cold bit suddenly at his neck: a sword. He stopped in his tracks and followed the glinting blade to meet the eyes of the man who wielded it.

"GAH! Fuck!" The man stumbled back, now looking him up and down in equal parts horror and disbelief. "Zale. This one's not right. He looks...dead-like."

The woman snorted. "Quit making excuses. Get your head out your arse and pat him down." She closed the distance between herself and Lars, still all swagger and confidence. "And you." She smiled. She looked him up and down like he was a prize turkey. "Well. Mighty kind of you to offer," she said with a mocking twang. Without warning, she grabbed him, spun him, pulled him to her, and pressed a dagger to his throat. "But I think I'll just take your coin instead." Zale jerked her chin at the man nearest her. "Bartrand! "Inspect" the nice farmer's cart, would you? We wouldn't want him to accidentally forget anything. Would we, darling?"

[Hyacinthus]

The sudden exclamation of surprise from behind him— and of a voice he wasn't familiar with, what's more— was the cue that tipped Lars off to the possibility that something wasn't cracking' up to what it should've been. Lars turned his back on the lady instinctively, still not fully aware of how much trouble he and his potato-discriminating partner were truly in at the moment, only to find that they were no longer as alone as they'd been a few moments ago. There was a new fella— though he was right and proper on his bottom at the moment.

What was going on? Ven didn't seem particularly plussed, so neither was Lars— not immediately, anyway. Pat him down? "Ven? These some friends o' yours? Er, yours, ma'am?" He couldn't help but ask as he turned back to the taller woman, confused as to why the new guy had his sword out— having missed the blatant attempt on Ven's life. He didn't have much time to query it in his own head, unfortunately— as before long, he'd turned around once more... Except not by choice this time, and with a knife at his neck.

"Wha—!?" Lars started, only to be silenced by the fear that the dagger at his throat brought. What the heck was going on, here!? One minute these folk were talking about taxes, and the next they were attacking him! "Y'ain't gotta be so rough! I was just tryin' to be nice— hey! Watch the wheels!" Lars complained, seemingly still not fully grasping the situation he was in. Who could blame him? He'd traveled these dirt roads once before, and it was nothing but silence and songbirds... so songbirds.

Now he was being threatened about money and— Wait. Wait...

"...Wait," Lars, with a sudden onset of realization, spoke up once more, mostly to the lady who'd been holding him hostage now— but loud enough for just about anyone to hear. "Could it be... y'all are them, whatcha call'em— bandits? Highwaymen? What come around extortin' folk and beatin' up on 'em?" His voice, as surprising as his rather late eureka moment, was not frazzled at all; In fact, he sounded more curious than anything else. Which... definitely strange, given the knife thing.

[Nightcrawler]

"No. They are decidedly not friends of mine," Ven replied crisply. He scanned the scene. The woman — Zale — had ordered the man behind him to ignore his fear, but he still stood at a distance. Good. The second one, Bartrand, hung back by the cart and kicked at the wheels along with a third. The fourth crouched across the path on the other side of Zale and Mr. Lars, an arrow nocked and at the ready.

As for Mr. Lars, he did not seem to grasp the seriousness of their predicament at all.

Ven sighed. He did not want to kill. If he wanted to keep Mr. Sycamonia-the-Seventeenth out of trouble, however, he might have to. He eyed the knife still pressed firmly against his friend's throat. One wrong move and that blade could slip. For now, he would stay his staff. He tucked it into the crook of his arm and raised his hands slowly. "Mr. Lars," he called. "Perhaps we should do as she says — "

CRUNCH.

Ven winced. He glanced over his shoulder just as the cart toppled, now less a wheel. "Nothing here but bits of cabbage," Bartrand grunted. "Damned peasants. Whatever they've got is in their pockets. Check 'em."

[Hyacinthus]

CRUNCH.

A wave of shell shock washed over Lars as his body, mind and spirit stilled at the abrupt, almost violent noise. A dull, reverberating silence fell over the forest clearing for the red-headed farmer, the only sound reaching his ears being the echoed symphony of shearing and shattering wood. His eyes hesitated to trace the noise, though his mind knew it well, and his heart would not be quelled by simply averting his gaze. Slowly, in spite of the knife at his neck, his gaze turned toward the source of the noise...

His cart. His now toppled cart. A wheel, under needless scrutiny and strain, having snapped from its wooden axle; A handle, splintered slightly from the force of the impact from its fall. His cart... Vandalized.

A crawling blackness seeped into his mind— into his very sight, blinding him to all but the visage of the treasured wood his father had proudly entrusted him with so many years ago. A dreadful cold flushed his veins, his guts, his lungs— and yet his heart blistered with a thereforeto unforeseen emotion from the young man that threatened to consume even the deluge that he'd been plunged into. It raged from the shadows of his chest, consuming his very being 'ere long, leaving little more than the physical likeness of the cheerfully naive Lars in its place— yet the kindly soul was all but gone.

His skin warmed to the touch, the many nicks and scratches he'd acquired over his twenty-some years of life beginning to seethe and smoke, as if a heat unnatural to any living being was soon to burst forth. Perhaps that wasn't so far from the truth, as only moments later those self-same scratches began to glow— a dull gleam, then a deep red, and then near-blindingly white with an intensity that rivaled the striking of blades. Something was changing... something was coming.

The fauna felt it first— the few prey animals in the area evacuating post-haste. What followed was only natural, then, given such a sight— the land began to tremble beneath everyone's feet, escalating horrifically swiftly in magnitude. The trees and bushes by the wayside swayed unnaturally— the winds not nearly strong enough to elicit such motions, and the ground below the group's feet quickly began to give— as if decades of footfalls across the beaten path had been brushed aside and replaced with the most fertile, gentle, and yet non-comforting spreads of soil. And then it happened.

There was no warning— no verbal one, at least. The highwaymen willing to withstand such unnatural conditions were rewarded for their foolishness in kind— for from the very soul that bore no life moments earlier did massive, earth-blackened roots rip and rise forth, lashing and snatching at the legs— and even arms in some cases— of those foolish enough to remain. Like serpents, the trails of life from the very earth coiled and constricted around anything and everything that they could get their hands upon— living or otherwise. Fonts of green vibrantly spread forth across the beaten path as grass near-miraculously sprouted forth and spread like water across marbled plains— and shortly thereafter, weeds followed the grass, and throned, ivy-like vines followed the weeds. The setting itself was awash with life—unbridled, unburdened... and all too willing to ensnare and swallow all who were present within the newly-birthed emerald garden, as the overgrowth of grass quickly coated the entrapped souls within, and the ivy vines climbed the still-growing, uplifted roots, threatening to capture them all within Eden's embrace... permanently.

[Nightcrawler]

The woman, Zale, was very quick to decide that the two unlikely friends were much more trouble than what their pockets could pay for. Unfortunately for her, Mr. Lars' magicks were quicker. A vine whipped forth and coiled up her leg, spreading its nodes like accelerated cancer across her chest before diving into her throat. Her screams did not last long. Nor did her body. The earth swallowed her ravenously and grass rolled over her, until in a matter of seconds, she was but a verdant hill. As, it appeared, were her comrades.

Ven beat the ivy from around him with his staff, until it, too, sprouted and threatened to strangle him. He threw it to the ground in a hurry, where it seemed perfectly content to grow a little Oaky. "Mr. Lars?" he called, now fully in a panic. "Lars! LARS!"

But the man was in a trance: his skin like the veins of a mountain erupting, his whole being cloaked in fiery rage. He did not hear his own name. He did not seem to know the terror he had unleashed on this once peaceful forest. He was lost within himself — and it was a place Ven knew all too well.

"Aah!" Something hard and unforgiving grabbed his ankle and yanked. He stumbled, grasping for handholds, but even those turned green and betrayed him. He had no choice. It was all he had left. With as much control as he could muster in his panicked state, Ven opened the gates of his mind and set the hunger free. He focused, razor-sharp, on that which the demon found the most repulsive: all things green and lush. A neat, crisp circle spread forth from beneath him. It crept at first, but as his confidence in his precision grew, it rolled along the earth in a challenge to Lars' incredible magick. Leaves and vines and blades of grass yellowed, shriveled, and crumbled into ashes before him. The roots around his ankle fell free at last, and he clambered out of that premature grave to safety. He scowled at the nausea that surged and wrenched his gut into knots. The demon loathed this. It was like eating fistfuls of dirt. But he had to try and stop this.

"LARS!" he bellowed. "LARS — SYCAMONIA." He stumbled forwards, making his way towards the man, his feet sinking into the soft soil with every step. Before him: the stark barrier between his curse and Lars' primeval force. He stood on an island of rot in a sea of life. But his shield of death would not last forever. Not with how the demon strained towards the smell of his friend. "Argh. LARS," he called again. "Stop this! Remember yourself!"

[Hyacinthus]

Ven's voice did not reach him— it could not. Lar's mind— his very soul— was elsewhere occupied. The unchecked verdant flood of wild, raw magic into the land had all but erased mankind's from the surrounding land. All but... for with every fiber of his being, one presence stood in defiance of nature's overbearing grasp. Lars's friend... though he could not know the desperation of his circumstance, nor the consequences of his own actions.

He heard a voice... but it wasn't Ven's. It wasn't the subdued, familiar voice of a friend— it was something... different. Foreign. Alien to Lars's own very-much-human mind— as if the concept of the sounds he heard weren't comprehensive by the ears of men. And yet, he heard it... no, "understood" it.

It was... arithmetic? No... logic? A sequence of recurring loops, with slight deviations and occasional aberrations; Divergent tones which formed new, recurring loops of their own, which branched from older, more robust patterns. The loops of the recursions always lead back to the main node from which they spawned, before beginning another loop; and with each loop, the sequence became more profound... more robust, as if etching its existence further into the greater design that it was a part of.

It was... it was beautiful.

And it was gone— just as suddenly as it came, as Lars's mind was sent reeling back to the waking world in which it belonged. What force could've broken his enraptured concentration, one might wonder, if not even the voice of his friend could not?

Quite simple; a flying pumpkin, of course.

The flood of green ceased; though it did not recede, ivy and brush no longer fought to overtake the dying domain that Ven had created around himself. Lars's eyes flinched closed— primarily out of pain as he slumped to the ground, holding the back of his head with a barely audible "ouch", as the large pumpkin came to a graceless landing near to his side. But perhaps the sudden appearance of a veritably-vast vegetable wasn't as shocking as the fact that... well...

"Cor blimey, lad! What'r ye doin!? Making a right mess the road, ain't ye!? Hells— let ye out o' earshot for a bloody bell 'n a half and lookit y've done, mate!"

"Ow... sorry, Gourdy."

...It had a face carved into it... and that face could speak. And not just to Lars's nature-attuned ears; even Ven would've been able to hear it.

[Nightcrawler]

TW: barf

The wild magick stopped at last, though not by his own doing. Past whipping vines and swirling leaves, Ven thought he'd caught a glimpse of something round and orange hurtling towards Lars. Something like a vegetable. A squash, or...

"Hughhh — "

He doubled over before he could even think to make sense of what he'd seen. He heaved violently. Nothing came forth. His empty stomach roiled and nausea crept like insects beneath his skin. His knees were jelly. Suddenly, he fell forward into the detritus and heaved again, this time spewing black bile and rot. He watched, shuddering, as the stuff soaked down into layers of dead leaves. He could not recall feeling this way...so repulsed and weak. Was the demon truly so unfit to consume as he'd consumed?

Ven closed his eyes, still on all fours, and listened to it. Yes. It was weak, too. As weak as he was. It still wanted Lars. It simply lacked the will to lash out and take the man's life...for now, at least. "Hmmh," he grunted. Much as he did not wish to repeat this experience, perhaps it held the key to keeping this monster at bay. He opened his eyes again and stumbled to his feet, wiping the bile from his lips with his thumb. He glanced about him. His staff was gone entirely, as were their attackers. The orange thing, though — the squash —

Spoke.

And he understood it.

It shouldn't have surprised him. After all, "Oaky" had shown some ability to reason. But this was a vegetable, and one disembodied from whatever plant that grew it to maturity. And something about that was quite unnerving. It seemed rather like bringing a dead man's corpse back to life. Ven wasn't certain he wanted to get any nearer, even if his own circumstances were uncannily similar.


He cleared his throat. "Ah...Mr. Lars? Are you...alright?"

[Hyacinthus]

Lars sighed, still not fully feeling very much 'himself'. The world was still a mild mire of shapes and color to his eyes; His location, his circumstances, all of it was still little more than figments of a dream outside of a dream that he wasn't sure he'd had. He couldn't quite remember what he was doing before Gourdy snapped him out of it... or even why Gourdy was snapping him out of anything.

"A right bloody mess, for certain. What're ya even doin' out these parts, lad? Yer mum's been lookin' for ye half a morn'. Yer da sent ye east, not 'weast'!"

"Dad was...?" The confuzzled farmer's eyes slowly started to focus, though the surroundings were no less unfamiliar to him in his sharpened gaze than they were prior. Nor was the situation. He DEFINITELY wasn't home. That was certain-- his old man would've killed him if he let the fields get this overgrown. Shuffling through the thicket of brush and grasses (one half roll at a time), 'Gourdy' as the pumpkin was called by Lars let out a relenting sigh of frustration, more than aware of the circumstances-- even when Lars didn't seem to be. Or pretended not to.

It was more than clear that Lars had lost control. Again. And bad things happened whenever Lars lost control. The lantern-like Gourd observed the viscinity-- eying bushes and root-reclaimed landmarks that looked eerily to it like... humans. Yes... bad things happened when Lars lost control.

"Yeast, lad... well, what's done is done. Pick yourself up 'n--"

He-- and Lars's slowly recovering train of though-- were interrupted by a voice. A familiar voice, at least to Lars, as his eyes immediate shot over to a certain very-much not floral friend who, if only to Lars, equal parts more weary and pale than he could very clearly recall. The young man's heart leapt through his chest in surprise-- nearly out of his mouth as, with a shocked and pleasantly surprised cry, he yelled,

"VEN! YOU'RE OKAY!"

Work on the farm and on the road had built a decently solid core set of muscles for the farmboy, which he readily demonstrated by standing, dashing through knee-high foliage, and nearly tackling his companion with a deep, powerful bearhug that he was almost afraid to let go of-- as if the man would dissipate in his grasp otherwise. "Oh, thank goodness you're alright! I remember now, there were bandits, and they had you, and the cart and-- Are you okay? Here, lemme get a good look at you. You look like a ghost! Ghostlier, at least..." He relinquished his hold on the man, only to take his face by both hands-- a practice his mom had practically beaten into him with her fussings-- and bring his face closer to Lars's own, before touching their foreheads together.

"You're freezing, aren't ya? That'll be the shock setting in-- We definitely have to get you by a proper fire, and put some food in you, yeah?"

[Nightcrawler]

The vegetable continued on, and Ven, in turn, continued to be able to understand it. He wondered briefly if he'd been struck upside the head by some errant, lashing vine, and if he was now hallucinating this chatty squash altogether. Or perhaps the entire thing was a dream. It would certainly account for how strange the day's happenings had been. It seemed that, imaginary or no, Mr. Lars' formidable power was kept at bay with an even temper, and was unleashed when that very dam broke.

Well. Frightening as the man's magicks were, Ven could not find his way to being afraid of Lars himself. After all, in keeping a beast contained, the two of them had something in common. Didn't they?

His musings were cut abruptly short as his strange friend cried out to him. "VEN! YOU'RE OKAY!"

"I — yes, I'm fine, I — " But before he could finish, Lars-Sycamonia-the-Seventeenth barreled towards him like a charging bear, picking up an alarming amount of speed in a very short distance. "Lars," Ven warned as he began to step away. He held his hands up, motioning for his friend to stop. "Lars. Wait. Lars. Don't. No. No, no, no, nonononono — LARS — uff!"

The impact would have sent Ven flying if Lars hadn't wrapped his arms around him and trapped him there in a crushing embrace. His spine popped from the pressure. He squirmed. The demon squirmed, too, but it was still so weak, and it felt more like a worm in one's hands than a clawed and toothed beast. "Mister — Lars — " he managed. "This is — not — ergh — "

But Lars was busy babbling and fussing and did not seem to hear him at all. At last, he released Ven, and Ven made to dust himself off and back away, but then he was back in the man's clutches again. "Wait. No. No — " he coughed as Lars intently pulled his face closer for what very much seemed like a kiss. It was not — thank the gods. It was something else entirely. Something parents did with their children, in fact. "Mr. Lars, I really must insist that you — "

But he was interrupted once again.

"You're freezing, aren't ya? That'll be the shock setting in-- We definitely have to get you by a proper fire, and put some food in you, yeah?"

"Mr. Lars, I am dead!" Ven exclaimed, hoping that now, finally, the man would hear him. "I am a corpse walking. Now, if you would please — release me — I really don't think it's wise for you to be — this close." He raised his own hands and tried in vain to pry Lars' calloused fingers from his cheeks. He winced, anticipating the hunger that never came. This newfound freedom had him on edge. He wondered when it would fade. "Please," he implored again. "I don't know how long this will last."

[Hyacinthus]

Dead?

Lars, a bit stupefied by the sudden outburst from his friend, was all sorts of confused by the proclamation. Dead? Like... dead, dead? Even Gourdy seemed a bit taken aback in the distant foliage, though the oversized, animated pumpkin saw fit not to respond-- not immedaitely-- without having a solid understanding of the situation at hand. Silently, Lars listened as he was lectured on the particularly unique state of being that his friend existed in, allowing him to remove his hand from his face, before taking it all in and...

"...Well, I gotta tell ya, that don't make a lick o' sense to me! But I don't know much 'bout corpses and whatnot-- 'cept for the blackhill boars my old man used to hunt-- Doesn't hunt'em much no more since we put barbroot out in the outfield 'n they don't much like running through barbroot-- but I reckon them corpses ain't walk'n talk like people-folk do! Just kept runnin' on instinct 'till they can't run no more, tucker out and make for some o' the meanest cutlets ya ever did eat-- But definitely didn't get 'round talkin' and makin' friends like you do, I tell you what!"

Indeed, for someone so simple as Lars, even the bare truth of matters struggled to make it through the thick labyrinth that was his mind.

"Anywhat, my 'pologies for getting a little too touchy there-- I was worried, what with the-- well, y'know, you were there. But, I tell you what," He took a step back, leaned in a bit and delivered a deep, bountiful, toothy smile bright enough to turn the undead and deal a considerable amount of holy damage in another world, "If you ever need a little warming up, you know who gives the best hugs this side of Le'raana! Now c'mon, ma's probably worried sick if she sent ol' Gourdy after me! I'nnat right, sir?"

"Don't ye 'sir' me, ye radish-- Tha's MASTER GOURDY to ye!"

"Yessir, Master Gourdy!" Lars cheerily responded as he went to pick up the grumpy pumpkin from the ground. Granted, Gourdy was more than capable of getting around by itself-- but Lars felt it was the least he could do to carry it back home.

[Nightcrawler]

Lars released him at last, and Ven backed away, clutching fistfuls of his own cloak in a strange self-embrace. Somewhere far in the distance, the man chattered away, but it sounded to him like a voice at the other end of a tunnel. He could not discern the words, nor their meaning. The verdant ground beneath Lars' shoes went in and out of focus. His eyes burned as if they strained to produce a thing they no longer could. He suddenly felt so small.

He worked the cloak at his shoulders for a moment longer before snapping to. With an inhuman jerk of the neck, he met Lars' gaze just as the oblivious bumpkin finished a long-winded tangent about boars. He cleared his throat awkwardly and shifted his weight from leg to leg. "Ah...yes. Right. We should...we should be going," he managed. Why was his throat so tight? There was something about that simple act of kindness — and about being embraced — that had broken him down more than he would have expected.

Foolish, really.

He coughed. "Lead the way, then."

[Hyacinthus]

"Lead, I will, then! Come on, Gourdy— we've got a guest to feed, ain't we?"

Strewn shrubberies and bunches of bushes— Lars couldn't quite recall when they'd gotten there, but he did his best not to trample all over them as he ran over— moreso danced, given his every other step was plotted around the fervent foliage— to collect Gourdy from the ground. Said grumpy ol' gourd had been more or less quiet while Lars reunited with his friend, likely contemplating the absurdity of it all between every odd grumble or so.

The return from the watch to Lars's family  homestead wasn't short, as Ven would all too soon come to find out; Lars had taken the liberty of retrieving his beloved cart from Mother Earth— this time neither for Ven, nor for potatoes, but for his overgrown pumpkin partner. He could've carried him the entire way— he'd carried him pretty far before, after all— but Gourdy preferred to ride in style. He was a pumpkin who did more wheeling than he did dealing, after all... though the bumpy, beaten road toward the homestead made that seem a bit questionable.

"Bloody hell, lad— Ya tryin' ta throw me off the cart, ain't ye!? My grann'a could pull a bloody boulder up a moun'ain, ye can' never pull a pair a wheels!"

"Sorry Gourdy! I'll be more careful— but Y'know you talk about yer old man a whole lot, but I'un reckon I've ever heard o' no pumpkin da? Ya gotta pumpkin ma, too? Or—"

"Listen ta herself— watch ye grammar, ya lunkhead! Ain't yer ma teach ye ta talk proper Common, somm'at?" Lars couldn't help but giggle a bit at the reprimanding. It was as if Gourdy couldn't hear himself, the pot, calling the proverbial kettle black. For a pumpkin that'd probably outlived more folk than a pair of boots in a coal chute, he was probably every bit as funny today as he was when Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Great Grandad enchanted him.

Thankfully (for Ven), the banter didn't last much longer— a couple blinks out, down the old trotted road their were headed on, Lars could finally begin to make out what he was almost certain was—

"There she is! Home sweet home!"

Indeed it was. Even at a far gaze, the Sycamonia farmlands were a vast, yet quaint little paradise of slow life in the distant plains of Darken Vei. The tall grass lining the roads made way for barbed fencing a little ways ahead, and just beyond that, rows upon rows of crops— a sea of greens, which surrounded a collection of buildings— one particularly homey-looking. It was fun to travel, to see the surrounding lands and meet new people... but for Lars, there really was no place like home.

[Nightcrawler]

It was the strangest journey he could ever recall having — though, as his memory was largely lost to whatever void he had come from, this was not saying much. Ven was still not certain what to make of the animated squash corpse. He did not think he would ever be certain. As it was, what snippets of conversation he caught seemed to indicate that whatever soul lived within the hollowed confines of that enchanted vegetable was curmudgeonly and impatient. He thought it best to simply not engage the creature in conversation.

Finally, after what had seemed like hours of aimless back-and-forth between Mr. Lars and the squash, they broke free from the shadowed understory and stepped into a gilt and sun-drenched field. Ven could not help but smile at the sight of the quaint little farmstead that beckoned them in the distance. It was a beautiful sight — and a welcome one. For perhaps now, he would get some answers. "Gods," he remarked. "It is no wonder at all that you are so cheerful, Mr. Lars. I should be as well, were this my home."

But his relief was short-lived, as a thought nagged at him that he could not ignore. Mr. Lars had been very quick to draw too close and put himself in danger. And, as the apple did not fall far from the tree...Ven grew serious again and turned to his new-found friend. "Your mother. Your father. Are they home?" he asked. "I do not wish to put anyone in harm's way."

[Hyacinthus]

"I should sure as southern sunshine hope they're home, yeah!"

Lars, it seemed, still hadn't fully grasped the extent to which Ven took himself-- or at the very least, his condition-- seriously. Like a bolt from the sun itself, he seemed to exude exuberant energy at the idea of his new friend meeting his parents... and why wouldn't he? Lars didn't have many friends, after all. It was a rare enough occasion for him to bring someone home for any non-business-related reason, and rarer still for that someone to be a friend.

"I reckon my old man's probably out in the field, shuckin' corn-- or, is it huskin', I don't-- He don't really like getting the silks all over the kitchen table, yeah? Kinda funny, too, 'cause my ma-- and mind you, my ma's probably every bit a husker as my da-- now, she can make a corn silk sing seven ways to sundown, y'know?" He leaned back against the cart as he continued to explain a topic that literally no one asked about nor implored him to go into further detail on. "See, she does this thing with the silks from the corn-- makes a real nice tea outta 'em, then dip 'em in this here uh, what'd she call it-- liar? Lime? Somethin' like that-- makes the silk sharp, but real brittle-like-- well, more brittle-like than they are after the tea-soakin'-- then she heats 'em up, lets 'em sit for a bit, and I tell ya-- they get as thin as thread! 'Bout as flexible too! She makes these real nice hats and such outta 'em-- Sometimes she threads 'em up tight-like and nips 'em here and there, and we spread it out in the field-- the wild boars don't know the difference 'tween a corn husk and a case o' bricks, see-- And that'll save us a couple huntin' runs when the packs get a little too big, y'know? 'Specially the older ones that--"

"BLOODY 'ELL, LAD! I ain' got ears carved in'a me and yer still barkin' em off the side o' me 'ead!"

That powerful, pained outburst from Ol' Gourdy was enough to not only stop Lars in his verbal tracks, but also cause him to double over a bit in laughter-- amused as always with the gnarly old gourd's grumping about it. "Right, right-- sorry, Gourdy! Anyways! Don't you worry your pale pumpernickel-loaf, Mr. Vem Pyre-- My ma always says I ain't got much of a lick o' sense cause they keep it all safe with them at home-- So I reckon they'll be fine 'round you!" He explained with glee, almost giddy to introduce the man to his parents at this point. The pumpkin merely continued to grumble disconcertingly behind the two.

[Nightcrawler]

Mr. Lars gave Ven the answers to many questions that he had never asked the man. Many. Questions. He did finally manage to extract a grain of what he sought: that Lars' parents had more sense than he did. This, at least, according to Lars himself. Ven was not entirely certain that he could trust this information, but he did very much need to know where he was. He resolved that if these kind folk were as...touchy...as their son, to simply run away and create some distance. He would be ready for it. Hopefully.

"... Alright," he replied with a note of unease and a sidelong glance at the squash. "Lead on, then, Mr. Lars."

[Hyacinthus]

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'.

[Nightcrawler]

One thing was for certain: Mr. Lars the senior did not share his son's perplexing blindness and inability to grasp the danger he was in. The massive man peered down at Ven with the suspicion rightly owed to one of his condition, and Ven found himself craning his neck to return that steely gaze. "It...ah..." He trailed off almost immediately, taken aback by the sudden scrutiny he was under. He took a step back, cleared his throat, and tried again. "That is to say...my name isn't Vem-Pyre. It's Ven," he corrected, then thought a moment and added, quite uncertainly, "...sir."

Ven glanced between father and son. Their resemblance was uncanny, though he was grateful that Lars the junior had not entirely inherited his father's build, or he might have cracked several of Ven's ribs and broken his spine in that crushing grip. "Your son was kind enough to rescue me from an attack," he continued carefully. "I am...ah...lost does not quite cover it, I'm afraid. But to know where I am would be a start, at least. Mr. Lars — that is to say, your son — told me I might be able to look at a proper map here. If it wouldn't be too much trouble. Sir."

[Hyacinthus]

A single brow raised on the weather-hardened forehead of the mountainous Mr. Lars, a bit of a grimace forming on his lips as he took in the words of his son's newfound companion. There was a beat of silence, following Vem-- or rather, Ven's-- rather lacking explanation of his circumstances, wherein the younger of two present Sycamonia sons leaned back and forth on his heels with a rather proud grin on his face, quite pleased that he'd made himself a man of his word-- bringing his new friend home in an attempt to get him some well-needed help, whilst the elder closed his eyes for a moment (having taken in the aforementioned sight) and sighed heavily, mentally questioning what trouble Lars had inadvertently brought unto their humble doorstep.

He couldn't be mad about it. Boy's heart was always in the right place, that was what mattered-- that was what he always taught him, anyway.
 
"I reckon 'lost' ain't even the worst o' yer problems, by the look of ya. By the feel of ya, even. Hell on a headcollar..."

'By the feel of you'. A most concerning choice of words... Just how much was the elder Lars able to tell at a glance of the man? Was it intuition, or...? Another beat of silence... Before ultimately, Lars Sr. shrugged, opening his eyes once more, and beginning to walk toward the two. "Well, if my boy vouches for ya, probly ain't all bad. I keep a couple maps in the shed, for longer trips. Reckon' yinz'll see what yer lookin' t'see on 'em. Come on, we're headin' round the-- OH HELL--!!"

There was very little warning. Very little cause for panic, save Mr. Sycamonia's instinct-driven activation of every core muscle in his body as he made a last-minute dive to the side of the duo, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins in equal parts. And thank goodness that he did jump-- for in the same moment, from behind, his dearest son was struck full-force with a massive, wood-and-iron-crafted piece of farm machinery, at least twice his size. A wheat thresher-- and not just one that had rolled away from it's user, or slipped down a hill-- one that was thrown at him at the speed of a hunting bird.

To say that the younger redhead didn't see it coming was an understatement. In one instant, he was standing jovially next to Ven, head in the clouds. In the next, he was gone-- practically wiped off the face of the Earth as his body-- bound to the flying thresher by sheer force and wind pressure alone-- was sent on a short trip to the other side of the dirt roads lining the silos, before crashing to the ground, tumbling and rag-dolling to a stop-- Lars and the thresher both. Unmoving. Perhaps, lifeless.

The offender? The monstrosity that had both the strength and the cruelty to do something as horrific as throw a wheat thresher at a human being? Oh, she wasn't too far off. Manicured, sandal-protected feet stamping into the ground with every step she took, azure eyes filled with rage and tears alike, soft, high cheekbones just as flush, golden locks fluttering in the wind with her white and red polka-dot summer dress. From her dainty, petite 5 foot 5 inch frame, came forth the words no son ever conceived on Le'Raana's lands ever, ever hoped to hear.

"LARS HARTHSTON SYCAMONIA! WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT WANDERING OFF BY YOURSELF WITHOUT TELLING ME!?"

Truly, hell hath no fury like a mother scolding her son.