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Will is doing a little better. There are so many new people and things that he's found himself spending most of his time outside in his tree or with Kate.

The ache in him that's missing Sherwood and home is almost painful as he sits in his tree and watches the world below.

(OOC: I EP finally, the headvoice got shy on me. Fair warning for angst with the outlaw.)

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Oliver looks first surprised, then pleased; someone on this world knows how to exchange greetings properly.

His neutrally-friendly smile becomes warmer. "Godsworn Oliver Wycliffe lately of Mansfield Abbey - at your service, Mr. Scarlett." He feels compelled to give a bow back. Due to the pain in his ribs, it's a shorter one than he'd otherwise give.

Will turns a little bit paler thinking of how Tom has spoken of the Godsworn but hides it with a polite smile.

He has much practice with hiding his own feelings around nobles and he will treat this man as a noble,

"Pleasure to meet ye, milord. 'ow long 'ave ye been in this place?"

"The pleasure is no lesser on my end, young sir. I have been merely a week at this residence, though I traveled for at least three since I was brought to this world. And yourself?"

"Few months, I believe, milord. Time feels strange 'ere, am used to Sherwood's moods, dinna know those o'these plains."

"Oh, you live by a forest?" Oliver asks, rather delighted.

Oliver likes forests. They're good for rambling and writing ~~bad~~ poetry in.

"In a forest, milord, Sherwood that surrounds Nottingham."

He just won't go into his reasons for living in the forest though there's a strange green light in his eyes at the mention of Sherwood.

"It sounds delightful," Oliver replies sincerely.

To some people, a wood is just a wood. Not to Oliver.

"Oh aye, milord, miss Sherwood so much, 'urts some days. Knew where I fit there."

The older man sobers, and nods in acknowledgment. "And now there are men of metal and women that grow wings." He feels the same way.

Oliver's voice is compassionate when he says, "If it does not hurt much to speak of home, perhaps we might share details of our lands? I know no Nottingham, but it seems our lands - worlds," he corrects himself, "have much in common."

Will is quiet for a long moment before he answers as he fiddles with his sleeve and thinks about what he can say to keep himself and Tom safe,

"Oh aye, milord, believe they do, but my time is earlier in many ways."

The long moment of silence makes the awkwardness rise in Oliver's chest, makes the little voice in his head start hissing, It's Barty that was good at this, stick to your animals....

"Has gunpowder been invented yet?"

"Nay, milord. It 'asna."

Its not Oliver's fault that Will spoke to Tom first and is very much a peasant.

"Yes, well, we have that. Along with gas-lights and other things that...I wish I could point to to explain, but none of them are here." He gives a sheepish, embarrassed smile, then clears his throat and starts again.

Take two.

"My world is Fremmanland, year of 1861 in the reign of King Marcus."

Now Tom never went into that detailed a description, perhaps this Godsworn is from another period in time,

"My land is England, milord, in the reign o'King Richard, year o'our lord 1196."

Perhaps!

"And what do you do in Nottingham?"

Oliver would volunteer some more information about himself, but he needs to think of how to sum it all up. He's not had to explain his world much.

"I aid my father in runnin' our stall by the marketplace, milord."

"A good thing, to help your father so. I'm afraid I rather broke my father's heart when I decided against the army. Tried my hand at poetry for a while." A nostalgic smile follows.

"Do my best to na disappoint me father, milord."

Will's hand strays to his sleeve where he twists and pulls at the cloth though the scar is still hidden.

Oliver notices, but will not draw attention to it. One doesn't point out another's nervous tics within moments of meeting them.

"Do you have lay-priests in your England?"

"Aye, milord, those who work for the Abbeys or travel with the Crusaders."

"Ah, yes," Oliver exclaims in sudden realization. He was never the world's best history student. He opens his mouth to ask which Crusade Will's England is at now - before determining that that's not a terribly kind question.

"A dark time for the church and country," he replies soberly.

Again his hand twists at his sleeve and for a moment the manacle scar is visible,

"Aye, milord, tis a 'ard time for England, we do all we can."

This gets noticed, but again passes unremarked. Oliver does, occasionally, try not to say the first thing that comes to his mind.

"The reason I asked if you have lay-priests is because I am a certain version of a priest: one with magic, called a Godsworn. God gave His Chosen magic to defend normals against demons and the world's sins.

"Does your land have any magic in it?"

"Nay, milord, only in tales."

And he won't mention Tom for Oliver will think him a demon though luckily he hasn't seen Tom for many a day.

Tom would thank Will, were he there.

Oliver smiles, having no idea that there's any sort of conflict going on with Will. "It is much more fun in the stories, I assure you.

"Magic seems a real force in the lands of many others, too," he comments.