Go In Grace

Title: Go In Grace
Time Period: February 6, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Jorn pays a visit to Sorcha's shop to fetch an order for someone else.

Jars of buttons line a counter, holding the small and large wooden discs in preparation for being used or being bought. spools of thread in varying shades sit on their dowels, ready to be plucked up by the owner of the shop. The walls barely seen, most of it all taken up withbolts of fabric that occupy shelves, every square inch of the place carefully utilized to store the needs of the perpetual resident. There's even baskets of spun yarn, dyed and waiting much like the buttons to be used or bought by others in the town of Dornie.

In the back, is a screened off area for individuals to try on their bought goods, a very very old singer sewing machine - Metal body, and operated by a paddle that would have been old by even a hundred years ago - well cared for and likely as old as the building itself. A wooden dummy with a half finished project on it, a winter coat from the looks of it if the panels of utilitarian grey wool are any indication. or the woman in her dark skirt and button up blouse with dark hair held back by wooden hair sticks who works at pinning things in place. Two little birds, colorful in nature, trill off in a large wooden cage in the corner. Likely Sorcha, if the singing of bawdy sailor songs is any indication, and given that she and only one other live above the place - Three if her husband is in town.

Jorn dislikes shopping, as a general rule; it does not help that while winter is in, he is often set upon to do grunt work. Most of the time it happens to be those that work in the manor. He has a soft spot for the maids, even though they enjoy walking all over him. Finger-wrapped nature aside, he does favors because you'll never know when you'll need one of your own. Plus, it gets him extra kitchen access. Possibly other- ah- accesses.

"Hello?" As Jorn pops the front door open, he can't recall if there is a bell attached until it does or does not ring above- or perhaps beside- his head. He lets himself in rather quickly, nudging the door closed again with the heel of a boot. "Frue?" The man is hesitant in moving forward into the shop, if just because someone may have seen him sneaking about to it. He has an image, you know.
Little birds twitter at the sight of someone else besides Sorcha, who looks over and up… up… up at Jorn when he enters.

A last pin sunk into a pillow filled with others like some fabric hedgehog, she plants her feet firmly on the ground and with her palms, pushes herself up. Coming likely only up to his chest, she's flashing a toothy wide smile. 'Come in! Close the door behind you, I am not heating up the whole of Dornie!" Nuh uh, she isn't. Hands wiped on her skirt, little bits of thread sticking to it, and fluff, She strides forward, away from the dress form to size up Jorn.

'Well?" Well? "Sweater? pants? Jacket? What do you need?"

From the look of his fur, the tall man may not need a sweater; he hardly has time to mull this fact over before she is approaching him. Flinching is out of the question, as she can't be coming too close — but he does give her a bewildered little look, backing into the doorframe with a dull scratch of boots. Brow knitting down at her, Jorn attempts to rectify his chance to make nice with the woman sizing him up. Is it that obvious he has problems with clo — no, no.

"I-" Jorn looks from the birds, to her messy skirt, to the air over her head, voice lowering perhaps too much. "Here for a parcel. Newell…"

her own husband a tall and brawny thing, she's used to imposing men. They're in the bar all the time, and it's not unheard of who this individual is. There's very few like him in the town as it is. "Newell!" She has a name, for a package. "Just a moment!" fingers fluttering individual as she turns on her heel witha swish of skirts and disappears past the screens and machine to a door. One that presmably elads to more storage and the rest of the building that this store front occupies.

Though she runs into it with a thump that jostles her. "Bloody He-" She shifts to the side, and gives a none to gentle shove with her elbow which forces the door open, on incredibly screechy hinges. 'Sorry!" Calling ove rher shoulder in apology and disappears into the back to rummage.

Jorn blinks and shifts his eyes about in mild relief, once Sorcha turns away to look for the package. He breathes out through his nose and decides that standing away from the wall is safe again. He can't help but watch her move about, however, which means narrowing his eyes in a wince when she comes to blows with the sticky door. She seems fine. Yeah.

"Take your time, frue, I am not in a hurry…" Jorn lets his voice carry only as much as it needs to, not wanting to be too loud in here- for some peculiar reason.

Jorn blinks and shifts his eyes about in mild relief, once Sorcha turns away to look for the package. He breathes out through his nose and decides that standing away from the wall is safe again. He can't help but watch her move about, however, which means narrowing his eyes in a wince when she comes to blows with the sticky door. She seems fine. Yeah.

"Take your time, frue, I am not in a hurry…" Jorn lets his voice carry only as much as it needs to, not wanting to be too loud in here- for some peculiar reason.

It's a sticky door, requires a little elbow room. "I can't hear you back here" Catching the whiff of something said but not the particulars. The birds continue to twitter in their cage, hopping about their little pegs and levels, watching Jorn from behind the safety of their bars. A shelf adjacent to Jorn carries ready mad shirts and pants, other bits of clothing for any who can't wait or don't have anything in particular in mind.

Like the customer that Jorn is playing fetch for, who's package is in Sorcha's arms, wrapped in muslin as she emerges from the back and heads for the counter. "Two skirts, four pairs of socks" She's pulling them out as she calls them out to prove that they are there. The socks the handmade variety and one can imagine took her some time to do. "A sweater and a new jacket. I added some ribbons in there for her hair, jsut because. Did she send payment with you or will she be bringing it in herself?" With the counter between them Sorcha looks up up up again expectantly, leaning against it, elbow propping up her chin.
"My, you are tall"

Jorn takes a second to look back at the birds when he crosses the floor a few more steps, prepared to repeat when Sorcha comes piling back out. He is able to shift out of the way, hands staying at his sides yet taking up a bit of a twitch. Jorn takes his eyes from the shelves of clothing to the package she is showing the contents of, looking and listening in awkward quiet. His mouth finds a smile eventually, if just for a moment, when he finally finds himself looking down at Sorcha looking all the way up.

"That is what children have been telling me, yes." The Nord fishes around a pocket or two before rooting out a folded envelope from between layers of leather cuirass and worn wool at his chest. Even Wartooth is wary of pickpockets, apparently enough to forget where he stashes things. "She gave me this, for you, I would assume it is complete." He gently offers it out to the seamstress, light blue eyes falling in study on the ribbons that make a brief appearance.

"Likely, if it's not, I know where she lives and i can send a few men after her to ensure that it is"

Told so straight faced as she takes the envelope between slender fingers the tips of which marked with flesh speckled by fibers of thread and yarn that she'll spend hours likely, picking out of her skin.

"One would hope she not be so bold." He's the one doing the errand, it looks bad when it is on him. Jorn doubts that it would come to something like that- the Newell maid is honest enough. Or, he thinks so. Whatever was in the envelope was probably worth bartering for the clothes, in the end. He straightens his gloves, only to slip them off instead, and tuck them into his belt. "Do you get many men in here?" The inquiry is simply said, without much prelude. "Or do you do more women?"

"Men drop their trousers just as much as the women do in here. Though the women are more apt to just flip their skirt" Sorcha winks at him, teaching the large man for his choice of words. "I make clothes for either, sturdy or dainty alike. Why, are you in want of something? Perhaps a sweater?" Sorcha leans over, gesturing to the baskets and shelve with the myriad of yarn all wound in skeins and waiting to be wrapped into balls for use. "Or are you hoping to have me fit you for some pants?"

The bridge of his nose gets a liberal rubbing with fingertips. Ugh. He tries to look elsewhere when she gets to skirt flipping, but there is not much else to be painlessly looking at except Sorcha, the birds, or the clothes. "I knit, some." Jorn forces this out, at least to dissuade her from trying to pile sweaters on him. Not that hers aren't nice. "But you do lovely work. Much better." Okay, maybe he's not doing so good with the dissuasion.

"I don't really-" need pants. Jorn stops, however, and purses his mouth closed. "My inseam is awkward, I digress." With normal pants.

Whack, goes her fist, bumping against his shoulder. "Spit your words out, no slouching, look me in the eye Mister Awkward. Worry not, I'm a married woman" She lifts the palm, wiggling her fingers where the appropriate finger is adorned with a band of some shell polished and built in a way to form a circle. "Inseams are always awkward, but you're not the tallest that I ever did measure or deal with." Ahh awkward foreigners.
"Where do you get your wool from? For your sweaters" Another smile is flashed, and she offers her hand out. "Sorcha, Sorcha Ferrier"

In fact, such a little thing like a ring does make him feel better. Now he knows that she is just like this, and not because of his presence there. Why this makes him relieved? Could be several things. Jorn sighs and clears his throat, glancing again at the shell ring before he shakes her hand. His grip is firm, but his manner still quite gentle. "Jorn, Wartooth." Name familiar, even if his being there is not.

"Here and there. It is a hobby, which I have not had much time to spend on as of late." While he speaks, the less anxious his reactions to her playfulness seem to get.

The ring, one can imagine, does a great many things besides put some men more at ease. Makes others think twice about touching the woman as well, when she's out in the tavern or otherwise not working. "That's a shame, Jorn. One should always find some time to make something with ones hands. She flicks her wrist towards the shelves. "Pick two. point them out to me. If you do not have the time to make something for yourself then I think that I can find some time to make something for you instead. Pop your foot up there" She pats the counter, in all seriousness.

"What?" He asks, in the same seriousness. A little incredulous, to boot. "I couldn't ask you to. You must be incredibly busy as it is." Jorn resists all over again, shaking his head. He probably won't just take wool from her, either, for the same reason. A bit like pulling a dog along that doesn't really want to go for a walk, and just wants to be outside.

"You're no asking me, I'm deciding to and whether I am busy or not, is none of your business. I am sure that you'd find a way to compensate me for them. Maybe a night, when I am at the tavern and some fresh thing think that they can pat my rear, you can pat their for them. Or, do like you are doign now and picking up something to be taken over to a customer hmm? IS mr. Jorn Wartooth too fierce looking to do something as make sure someone doesn't get fresh with me" She tilts her head, raising a brow at him. "Picka color, before I pick the pink wool"

"By no means." He smirks, holding down a laugh. "The fresher they are, the more I like to teach them to be less so." Jorn's voice lowers for a few seconds, and something intangible warps in the back of his gaze. A shade, flickering dark between otherwise cheerful words. It passes soon, letting him resume his weary smiling, hands folding behind his back.

"And what if I like the pink, frue Ferrier?"

"Better a beast than half a man, I'd wager." Jorn shrugs lightly and bundles the package up in his arms. "Pink, then. If it suits. Go as big as you want, I'm sure you know how." Woe be the day that Jorn has pink socks. Socks are not terribly size-different, so he has faith even without showing her his boot. The last thing he wants to do is take one off, as his current socks are probably not- worth keeping.

"You have a good evening.. Hopefully, next I see you, it is not at a pub with a mongrel crawling up your leg." Jorn quips as he shifts and turns to go, fingers alighting on the door to tug it open.

"One can hope!" Sorcha chirps, easing around the counter, grabbing up some blue wools as she goes more pale than anything, fingering the skeins. 'Walk safe! Return to me in one piece!" She can guess his feet, she's done enough things for the people in town, she can guess a pair of socks. "Go in grace!"