Chapter Text
Owen had never been much for the town, much for people at all really. But between his profession and his illness, it helped keep the villagers from being completely terrible to him when he did come to town. As he entered the town with his latest cart of wood, carved meats, and pelts to trade out for supplies before the winter hit, which would assure him his desired isolation, the villagers only parted way as they saw his bandaged limbs, disgust and hateful looks on their faces at the sight of him. As it really was hard to miss him in the crowd, as his form was… large from his line of work to say the least. The closer he got to the market, the more his senses were abused; the smell of fresh food, the sound of bustling peoples, and the looks of hatred filled his senses. Though he ignored the latter the most, simply drawing up his hood to help keep his discolored face hidden as he traded.
He heard some of the townspeople murmuring secritively, well, they were always gossiping, but usually it was mostly of him and his… illness, or the small and petty slights they all seem to keep, and they weren’t half so kind as to keep themselves quite as he walked past, but usually did restrain themselves from spitting at his feet, lest they find themselves short in lumber over the upcoming winter. But instead, their quiet voices spoke of the new mayor. To prefect, to nice, so handsome, so darling, but that… white witchlike hair. Owen couldn’t help the snort that left him, complaints and blowing things out of proportion, that’s all these people ever did. Louis, he heard, echoed quietly through the town in the emotions of many; from hatred and suspicion to swooning and appraising. He went straight to the market, intent on getting in and out of the town as fast as possible.
As he traded around with pelts and firewood for the upcoming winter in for food, medicine (that will hopefully work this time), and basic supplies, in what felt like a dance through the crowds of people and children playing, he was surprised to see the newest Mayor of Oakhurst watching him through one of those beautiful stained glass windows when he looked up at the new(ly rebuilt) townhall on the top of the hill the town was built upon. Entirely built of wood (stupid, he thinks, not to mention that its built upon the remnants of that cursed castle), wood he easily recognizes as his cut, likely from last spring when the town bought an absurd amount of wood off him. He hesitates, step faltering at the look in the Mayors eyes, intrigue. Thats never good. He gives a short nod, lest he get on the bad side of the new Mayor and get kicked out of the town for good. He came close enough to it a few years ago with that stank Marcos after that… incident. But he kept walking, trying not to dwell on it, or the shapely face that had watched him so carefully, or the delicate-looking white hair tied up in a working bun, or the black as obsidian eyes that hardly changed even with the glasses tint.
The more he thought of that simple glance from the mayor, the more unease he felt. In the end, he skipped a few stops to hurry his trading and left town.
He hummed softly to himself with his hoarse voice, listening to the whistle of the wind, the soft howls of the wolfs migrating east for the quick approaching winter. Nearby, he heard the soft chirp of a… a bat. He pauses and looks around, confused. A bat? Bats only stick around Oakhurst for the summer. His brows furrow in confusion, but he’ll be damned if he stops or investigates the sound off-trail. With arms full of supplies? He scoffs at the thought and continues to his small cabin two valleys over from the town.
He kicks open the door to his dark cabin, letting his supplies fall onto his lone bed and taking to striking up a fire. After a few trys, the fire finally caught, and he spent some time setting up a proper fire for what will surely be a cold night. So he stands and takes in his lonesome cabin, his seclusion evident in the small bed, the single wooden stool by the table, and his belongings both carefully set in their places as well as carelessly strown about at the same time, to any of the rare onlookers’ confusion.
Owen can only glance out the only window of the cabin, looking out to the undercover it’s beneath (he had to install it after it leak during relentless storm that made the lonesome house creak and groan, causing an unpleasant excursion to fix it, not wishing to repeat it once more) and than further so, seeing the dull grays and blacks of the night and his cart full of more supplies than he was able to carry inside in the first place, than the forest beyond filled of chattering leaves and shifting shadows, and sigh. He had patched the under cover a few days ago, and bandits know better by now then to roam so near to his cabin, not that it matters, because so few did in the first place with him being so far from the road.
Yet even as he starts to turn away, he pauses to glance back to the forests edge once more, but at the sight of nothing different than a single missing shifting shadow, he just rubs his temple and swipes the supplies onto the ground, flopping onto the bed, and gently unwrapping the bandages from his body, revealing the welted and the more dramatically discolored skin. Before laying down completely, staring at the ceiling with that constant companion of a hollow in his heart and falling asleep to the gentle crackle of fire.
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