— approach, greeting her with that little nod one would offer a stranger just to be polite.

She would find Marcus hunched over a small plate at a small table in the field hands’ mess tent, surrounded by small company and smalltalk.
“…It was some years after that, I think,” he said with a bite of his meal couched in his cheek to the man sitting across from him.

He noticed Lorelei’s —

— each other.
“What kind of room will that rent me?”

“Jesus Harold Christ,” Marcus huffed under his breath as he surveyed the settlement, a place that now seemed to have outgrown that description by leaps and bounds.
“Cheap is still too expensive.”
Marcus shook a small Brahmin leather pouch on his belt where two, maybe three caps clinked against —

— A small smile was always playing on his lips, now it grew a little wider with a mischievous twist.

“Well, Oliver,” Marcus said with strain in his voice as he lifted the duffel bag from his shoulders and let it hit the ground with a thud and plume of dust.
“Rest is number one on the agenda, then maybe some trading. Settling down all depends on how attractive the folks here are.”
—

His eyes were intensely blue like a clear Mojave sky, and his thick beard seemed to jump up and down with every movement of his jaw.
“And your name, friend?”

— grumpiness.
“Marcus,” he said. “Just Marcus.”

The newcomer to Haven Lake was tall, but not shockingly so. He hovered somewhere around six feet, even with his thick-soled boots adding to that number.
He had short sandy-blonde hair that looked as if it had been trimmed with a knife well and often.—

— He stepped through the opening only for the gates to beging closing again just as he stepped through.
This place was touchy about new faces. Duly noted.

Now that Oliver (with all his lack of depth perception) could see him better, the man shot him an easy smile to counteract the potent —

The grinding of gears and the hum of motors as the gates sluggishly dragged themselves open surprised him. He had assumed that despite the rumors of a new jewel in the Mojave that this place would be a tad more primitive than this. Still, even the gates seemed hesitant to welcome him. —

The man reached for the left side of his belt slowly, keeping his eyes on Oliver as he removed a single small hunting knife from its sheathe and gently dropped it to the sand.
He held up both hands as if to say ‘show’s over, folks.’

“That’s it!”

— out as an unintentionally harsh bark.
“And willing to work for it!” He quickly added, trying his best to flash a big friendly smile to meet the scowl pointed down at him.

The attempt to be intimidating certainly wasn’t working. The display worked so poorly that the man attempted to stifle a smile by disguising it with an itch on his nose. This wasn’t one of their guards, not if the rumors had been true.
“Looking for shelter!” He shouted back up, his voice coming —

— bellies and in a good mood.

He raised his hand to beat on the gate, thought better of that, then rapped the thick gnarl at the end of his walking stick against the wood.
“Hello?!” He called up and out, his voice carrying over the walls.

— The gate was just a few more yards up the hill, its thick lumber and unclimbable height were intimidating to some and reassuring to others. The guard tower was empty as well, and it was easy to surmise that they were on break too.
He would hopefully catch the settlement with full —

— food and water was here.
The field hands were likely on break, the heat of midday ushering them to the shade behind those high walls.
His calloused hand brushed over the sharp, rough leaves of the cornstalks, the way the fibers snagged his skin almost pleasant in an alien way.
—