Manners

Title: Manners
Time Period: july 5, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: As Dina looks on, Wartooth finds Deckard's to be less than satisfactory.

It's mid-morning by the time Deckard makes it back to the Ross estate, irregular drizzle faded to naught under oppressive cloud cover. He's still sodden without any sun to help him out, garish blue hoodie better off for its water resistance than the rest of him.

He's carrying his boots under his arm — also wet — and his pants cling close to long legs and bony waist. Looks like he went for a swim. Unexpectedly.

He doesn't look at the guards when he comes back in, anyway, head kept down while he pauses to plot out a course from the front lawn. Somewhere around back, maybe. Where he can slither in without getting creeched at for dripping.

Somewhere around back isn't where he'll be able to avoid notice, that much is clear- once he rounds the corner and picks his head up just enough to see his chosen path. There's a man there, that he hasn't formally met, with a lit pipe between his teeth, and one shoulder up against the side of the tall, open doorway of the back door. Watching the rain is a national pastime. The pelt at his shoulders is also drizzled upon, but it seems that this and his large boots are the only things wet. Whereas Deckard looks rather like a cat that was sloshed through a puddle. Or a dog. What have you.

"Hva er dette…?" Jorn murmurs to himself, pale eyes lighting up a little more. "…Morning."
From a window above, a balcony that overlooks the back garden, Dina is standing with her cup of tea. Probably good that she's up there because somewhere inside her is that worm of fear, kindled by curse, slowly taking root in the would be benefactor to the werewolf below. The woman remains - for this moment - silent, observing, the nose and head of a mouse watching from the balstraude.

Flint locks down in place as if caught, eyes bugged deep in their sockets. Sunk into himself the same way shadows sink into the hollows around his long face, shoulders tightened in and elbow close around his boots. 'Sloshed through a puddle' is an apt description at first glance. At second, he shows no fresh sign of struggle and his hair has begun to bristle up coarse on one side where it's had time to dry.

Jorn's an unknown. Big and broad and wearing a polar bear. Some of the dryness swallowed out of his mouth, Deckard looks to the skin for a little too long before he looks back to find the man's face. Re-calculating.

He forgets to say good morning back.

"You must be… the new gardener." The words come pointedly and knowing, though not at all barbed. Not with the fluidity of a cat, not with the jerkiness of a dog- Jorn shifts, lifting a hand to pry the pipe from his teeth, for just a moment. His movements are not lazy- just patient. Blue eyes meet blue eyes, after that accorded moment of awkward staring from Deckard. "I find it typical of the Scots to give a greeting in return. You may want to get yourself used to the notion."

"I'm Jorn." The name floating about, attached to voice, face, and manner.

"Deckard," says Deckard. This feels insufficient after a beat, so. He adds, confirms and clarifies: "The new gardener."

Jorn seems nice, he thinks, size accounted for still again in an effort to quash his sometimes catastrophic impulse to mouth. Where the things he thinks of to say come from — he can't always figure. Or remember. It's disconcerting, anyway. He appears disconcerted accordingly.

Still holding his boots, he also holds his ground, evidently unsure of how to proceed. Water drips from the tail of his coat, vanishing into the earth between his feet. "I need to change clothes," he decides, looking away.

"Among other things, I take it." Giving a sniff of the damp, drizzly air, Jorn smiles thinly. "And yes, you do." The taller man shifts again, taking a few lingering paces back into the house to allow Deckard entry through the back door. He trusts that there will be no undue mud tracking.

"You should kill yourself a kelpie. The skins are wonders in this climate." Helpful- or less helpful- advice to attack something else. Jorn's advice can be ill-met, if well-intended.
Dina doesn't go in yet, remaining on the balcony to see if Deckard will indeed enter. Though she does motion for a servant in the room behind her to come and quietly instructs dry clothes to be fetched for the wet man below.

"I'll keep that in mind if I ever meet one." The fact that Jorn might have a Thing for killing beasts and then wearing their flayed hides around as jaunty capes keeps Deckard where he is for a solid minute. Boots. Old faucet drip. Hollows at either clavicle bare beneath the half-zip of his jacket.

Eventually he works up enough courage to take the first step. The rest come slightly easier after it, however uneven in pace and length. More of a reluctant meander than a true approach, and once he reaches the open door he slips sideways through the threshold.

Mud inevitably follows, smashed to bare floor beneath the balls of his feet as he tries to keep on sidling. Onward. Quick-like. With his boots.

Perhaps it was intended that way. It's hard to tell if Jorn is being friendly or purposefully intimidating. Or at least, in some passive way. He doesn't stand with the posture of a guy that wants a confrontation. He watches the mud follow footsteps, mildly displeased. This fellow still has some things to learn about courtesy, it appears. If anyone asks where it came from, Jorn is no doubt going to jerk a thumb in that direction.

"You're really making friends with the other help, aren't you?" Not including himself- Jorn sounds off his sarcasm, wagging one hand down towards the trail of mud. "I'm sure Mary will love that."

The worst of it is worn through after the first few steps, well-defined prints winding down into indistinct smudges the further along Flint gets. He adjusts the sit of his boots under his arm in turning half-back to keep one eye on Jorn as he goes, a quick up-and-down checking him as less of a threat now that he's officially made it in without being demolished. Mud and all.

"She won't say anything," he says, bleakly confident. On account've the fact that it's not a secret he's a big mangy werewolf. Also there's a good chance she wouldn't like him anyway.

"Shame about the weather."

"Just because she hasn't the courage to say something, does not mean you can tramp all over her as well." Like he so blandly did to the floor. Jorn puffs once on his lit pipe. Seems that his words had a lesson to them, if a simple one. "Shame about your manners." Shaky start.

"But if I can learn, so can you, I suppose." Once upon a time… Jorn was tracking in mud too. He can give the wolfman the benefit of the doubt, though- it isn't often one goes from goodness knows what, to working for a House.

"How many times did you wander through my home as a bear before you learned not to?" This from Dina who is making her way down the hall towards the pair, a servant in tow with fresh clothes, presumably for Deckard. "You were not…." She searches for an appropriate word. "Housebroken so fast Mr. Wartooth. Be easier on the man. He's had a …. trying day" If the front room is any evidence with it's floor.

She gestures to the servant who scurries forward and puts the fresh clothes down on a sideboard, at home here in the back and thus working part of the house.

They are not so much a pair as they are two men in vaguely the same part of the house at this point. Flint's well on his way to vanishing when Dina's approach coaxes a short turn of his head and a pause. Her stride is familiar before her voice is and he spurs off for his quarters before he can be caught in the act, rebuke or no.

Hey! He did say- if he can learn, so can Deckard! Jorn laughs to himself.

"Just a few. And you're right, I wasn't always this dashing." Something like that. He casts Deckard a semi-forced smile. "I'm sure he'll adapt. Or get his feet cut off by the maids. They can be so mean, you know this, right?" Jorn asks this of Dina, but again, it is that joking tone. Ribbing the new guy. No slack given just because he's got a Little Furry Problem(tm).

"Funny. They are never mean to me" Not to her face at least. But then, she's the one who keeps them fed slash paid. Dina watches Flint scurry off like a mouse - bigger than the one that sits at her feet watching - and gestures to the clothing then to Jorn. "Be nice. I may ask him to take on the task of helping guard us, like you do. Bring him his clothes would you, I have other things for her to do" The serving girl who originally brought them. "French twits have made a mess of my sitting room." There's an aggrieved sigh as she turns on her heel, trying to shove down that frisson of fear that Flint seems to have started kindling in her.

"Why do I have the feeling that you intend to have me help him, help you?" Jorn's mouth flattens across his face, somewhat. He takes up the clothes, looking them over once before tucking them under one arm.

"French twits… yes, sounds like most of them. A couple are only twits because the red one makes them act so…" The nord counters as Dina moves to walk away, and he forces out a heavy sigh of his own before he goes off to deliver the bundle of clothing.