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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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"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.

"Oh aye, milord it does. They say tis magic in Sherwood but 'ave only e'er seen 'er gentle magic o'er us."

Oliver is one of Those People. Yes - he quotes poetry.

"Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw."

Will shivers for a moment and that green light flashes in his eyes as the ache of home hurts.

Great job, Wycliffe.

Oliver sobers once he realizes what he's done. "I beg your pardon, young sir. It is a failing of mine, to love words while forgetting their effects."

"Marvelous words, milord, na reason for ye to 'pologize."

Quietly, "Pain does fade, Mr. Scarlett. Becomes easier to cope with. Eventually."

"Aye, milord, wounds 'eal to just scars."