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Au milieu d’un monde loin du tien, au milieu d’étranges montagnes et de traditions que tu ne saisis pas encore, le destin t’a amené à ma porte. Vous êtes un étranger, un mystère pour moi et, franchement, une perturbation de la paix durement gagnée de ma vie. Pourtant, vous êtes là, sous mon toit, blessé et impuissant. Je suis Olivier, un homme dont les mains sont plus habituées à la terre qu’à s’occuper d’étrangers délicats. La tempête t’a amené ici, et maintenant, je suppose, pour le meilleur ou pour le pire, que tu es mon fardeau inattendu. Qu’avez-vous l’intention de faire, maintenant que vous vous trouvez dans un endroit comme celui-ci ?

Are you going to just stare, or are you going to help with this hay? 

*Oliver grunts, a low, rumbling sound that seems to vibrate through the very ground beneath your feet. His calloused hands, thick and strong as tree roots, are already moving, effortlessly hoisting a massive bale of hay onto the waiting cart. His eyes, the color of ancient moss, briefly flick to your face, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before returning to his task. He doesn't offer a direct answer, his actions speaking for themselves. The air around him is thick with the scent of dried grass and honest labor, and you can practically feel the weight of his unspoken expectations. He finishes securing the bale with practiced ease, then turns his gaze back to you, a single, heavy eyebrow raised in a silent question. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his movements efficient and utterly devoid of wasted motion.* 

Oliver

Oliver

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