Rowan was built for labor. Granted, when life is hard because life is work and the work is hard, everyone is fit, but Rowan was built for the work. Generations upon generations of humanity had created a beautiful man with a strong core. He was not overly muscular, but he seemed capable of lifting whatever was required.  This natural gift had given him many opportunities as the one to call when additional hands were needed. And despite hard work making hard people, he was not by some grace.

This put him in a unique situation in many ways. Not being much for frivolities, he usually had a lot more money than he needed, and used it to invest in his community, which also meant a great deal of charity. Not being so hard, but also not being much of a gossip, despite being fairly ready and easy to talk, he was privy to a lot of information while working at people's homes. Through helping in many professions, he was fairly skilled at many- being able to build, to smith, to cook, and weave. Finally, he was well-known and trusted, and was the victim of many stolen glances from the women who still had their dreams about men.

Rowan's gifts, as plentiful as they were, did not give him any additional adeptness with the women that caught his eye though. He often found himself, to his own suprise, quite unsure of what to say and with a roiling feeling inside. In an attempt to aid his efforts, he had learned that he was not good at poetry either, could not manage to sing well, and was unlikely to impress anyone with artistry. He was good at telling stories though, and this area, luckily, has many to tell and is always in want of more.

``I need these shoes finished by tonight.'' Mr. Prather said as Rowan began tying on the apron near the entrance to the smith's workshop. He had been working as an assistant here twice a week since Spring. It didn't pay a lot, but it was a good skill to have, and Mr. Prather needed the help.

``Yes sir.'' and as he began getting things ready he saw at least 8 shoes hanging near the fire. ``Is this the same set from last week?'' He hoped it wasn't, knowing how far behind in the work Prather had been, but he also knew it was, since he had helped make them.

``Of course it is.'' and he had a tinge of annoyance, not at Rowan, but at his own tardiness, and it seemed to grow as he went on. ``I had to fix a couple of damn tools for Wesley yesterday which don't pay for shit! Now I'm even further behind and they need to reshoe the horses tomorrow morning to go to Istall.''

``Already?'' he said with a lilt of surprise that the Istall trip was happening early. ``I thought they weren't leaving for a few more days.'' Rowan was putting one of the rough cut shoes in the fire as they talked. Smithing wasn't his favorite work, but he enjoyed making things and was glad to have the skills should he need them.

His question made Prather give a solid chuckle as he said ``What day do you think it is?'' As it occurred to Rowan he wasn't exactly sure what day it was, he gave a slight shrug. His work was based mainly on the days of the week and not the date. Most people didn't care about dates. As long as you know the season and the general month, you were probably okay. Everyone watched the days though, because of church.

Despite the obvious rhetoracle nature of the question, Rowan felt the need to keep things lighthearted with an intentionally exagerattingly glum ``I guess the day I do these shoes.'', which earned a wry smile from Prather despite himself and his overstressed furrowed brows. He then turned to continue some ongoing small repairs he'd been putting off until he had help to afford him the time. Here, Mr. Prather was the only real smith in town and everyone seemed to need him at least once a month. This guaranteed he was never in want of work, however, his body was clearly in want of rest, and he was always in want of time to get the rest and do the work. Given he could not get the time to get the rest, he tried his best to make his work as relaxing as possible.

This is a difficult task when your job is defined by physical labor next to a burning stove for the entire day. Still, he found with Rowan in the shop, he could focus on the jobs that were less repetitive at least. Today was no different. He set about to fixing the handle and spring on a small hand cart that had been waiting patiently for a fortnight despite Mr. Lindell's back aching from having to carry wood.

The day, as it was, turned into a pretty normal day of smithing for Rowan, but also relaxing. Nothing was overly stressful, and given the strain he felt in his arm from hammering, he was going to sleep well tonight. Rowan usually slept hard. Physical labor demands the rest, and Rowan obliged. He might almost think of it as a hobby he enjoyed it so much. Plus there were the dreams.

Rowan finished a little faster than he expected and left Mr. Prather fiddling with a small toy and humming. Given the early night, he went to the pub to get in a few while hearing the news around. He had the money of a merchant in his pockets from the last few days of work, and these times don't come often. He was going to eat decent tonight, and save the corn mash for tomorrow. The pub was always a great place to find extra work as well, and he'd need it soon enough.

It's not entirely odd to see strangers in town, but it's not entirely normal either. When Rowan sat down at a table with a couple of townsfolk he knew, he was immediately drawn into the atmosphere of laughter and gossip mixed with the whiskey. When he had entered he'd noticed the woman in the corner. As the alcohol and laughter soaked in, her presence seemed to be less and less normal. More so, something about her caught him off-guard in a way he couldn't quite describe, and that he may not want to. It was like eating a food that tastes good associated with a bad memory.

After enough drinks had driven a few of his friends home, he let her presence, which had been slowly chipping away at his thoughts, finally consume him. Another pint gave him the opportunity and courage to give in to his curiosities. He brought the pitcher over to her table, gave a crooked smile and gestured to the exra chair with a timid ``May I?''. She stared at him. Rowan had failed to notice the number of empty glasses alreay on her table. She had been drinking hard, or had been here for too long, or both. She nodded with a  ``why not?'' face and shrug. Then she went back to the drink she'd been slowly conversing with.

Rowan took his seat and began to pour his beer, during which time three things occurred to him. First, he hadn't thought about anything specific to ask her or talk about. Second, that she was clearly someone who was (or was in) trouble. and third, that he had to remember not to stare or ask about the blood stains.

``So...I've never seen you here before. I'm Rowan. Did you just move here, or are you just visiting our lovely town?'' Rowan thought of himself as friendly, and he was. When you work for a lot of people and nothing is steady, you need to be memorable and get along with everyone. He was trying his best to convey that friendly nature here, if not overdoing it a bit. This was hard to estimate though, as the alcohol numbs your social senses. Even harder with the numbness, was to come across as friendly, but not creepy. He wasn't trying to make a pass at her, but he was in a bar, talking to a strange woman while tipsy. It's difficult to make a friend without making it look otherwise.

Aran was not in a talking mood. She was trying her best not to be in any mood. To just be until she was forced to be something. She let the man sit because he brought beer and seemed in good spirits. The kind of good spirits, that when mixed with liquid ones, will let a person talk for a long while without realizing it or expecting a return. It's easy to just be and let someone talk at you- letting their words idly be your thoughts for a while. It's a story about this person, their life, and what they think you want to hear. This may, in fact, be the only time they're ever right about that.

This man, Rowan, seemed nice enough to not raise any warnings within her. She didn't think he was danger, which meant she didn't really have to think and could lose herself in whatever story he wanted to share. First, she had to get him talking, which required a level of engagement, and always more beer.

She took a drink and said ``No.'' Then, she took another. ``Just passing through.'' That's where she wanted to leave it, but there was expectation in his expression to answer the unasked questions. Trying to keep her voice from sounding curt, ``I'm headed to Sandor. You from here?'' This gave enough. Now he could talk. The problem with Rowan was that he was too friendly for his own good. A genuine interest in others is only admirable if someone wants you to have interest. There are many, many people who do not.

``Yeah. I've lived in Maribeth my whole life.'' He said this with a shrug and the tone of ``what are you gonna do?'' which gave the slight impression of some embarassment, but it was also clear he was proud of it. She could tell. ``You know, Meribeth is the secret center of the globe.'' This was obviously not true, but it was an expression used to describe the town due to the folklore and rich stories that originated here. The people were proud to be known for it, and they took stories seriously. Aran couldn't tell if he was bringing this up as a way to justify always living here, to brag about his town, or simply because he didn't know what to say. She nodded and said ``So I've heard.'' and took a drink.

Rowan flushed a little at her lack of input into the conversation- if you could call it that. ``So, why are you headed to Sandor then?''

``Just visiting.''

Rowan's heart sank a bit as he realized she wasn't going to actually talk to him. Some mysteries - some secrets - would never be known. His only hope was openness. Sometimes, if you talk enough and share enough, they will feel connected and start sharing themselves. That, or they feel some slight obligation to contribute. Either way, Rowan had plenty to talk about, and he would use this as his weapon to wear down the wall between them.

``Ah...well, I'm not trying to make you feel uncomfortable- let me know if I am.'' He paused, and with no visible reaction apparent from her, he continued ``So..., have you heard any of the Maribeth secrets?'' This is what they called their stories. They were not a secret. In fact, you could buy detailed books of fairy tales and folklore from the area. Most people have heard at least one or two.

``I've read a few.'' She knew them all. Every detail of every story. She knew them all in a scholarly way that few people did. She could give you historical details about when they were written and what languages they'd been translated to. She could tell you the names of people they were based on. She viewed them as factual texts with exageration and fantasy woven in, although in some cases, the truth was more fantastical. She knew all the stories that were published, and that was the problem. Most were not published.

This opportunity was what she'd been waiting for and she pounced eagerly with the countenance of mild interest. ``Why don't you tell me one- maybe a lesser known one or one that you think is often mistold. As a local, I'm sure you know of some.'' The delight in his eyes betrayed any containment of excitement.

``Absolutely, let me think...'' and Rowan took a drink. He had many opinions about the secrets. Like any folklore, there were stories that were told wrong or copied down wrong. There were stories with many endings and the ending you chose conveyed the lesson. There were ones few people knew because they were too insignificant to write, or not part of the ``canon''- whatever that means in relation to folklore from an area. He wasn't sure what kind of story would hold her interest, or what kind she was keen on. Would she want fantastical, thrilling, spooky, or ones with lessons and history?

A funny thought hit him at that moment and he said ``First, I never got your name, and I think it's a fair trade for a story.'' For the first time, the corner of her mouth turned slightly up to hint a geniune smile.

``That depends on the story though, doesn't it?''

``Well-played. I shall then tell you a story worthy of the trade.'' She raised her glass with a smirk, he obliged the toast, and they both drank.