Recruitment

Title: Recruitment
Time Period: December 22nd, 134 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Recruiting the right man for the right role can be difficult.

The sun has sunk and dark has fallen, dropping the temperature of the already chilly day, though not so cold that those with a mind to don't step outside for a breath of fresh air.

Beisdean is just such a soul. Having checked himself into the Albatross and Iago into the nearby stable, the interiors of the room are too small and confining and the pub inside much too crowded. Already the whispers and stares have started — his mother's named murmured and not meant as a drinking toast, the mention of ghosts or the phrase 'not right in the head' accompanied by a swift glance his way.

He's hatless, despite the chill in the air; his hat is upstairs with his scant belongings, though he had the presence of mind to bring his coat. Gloves are a different story, and he brings his hands to his mouth to blow on them as he stares out at the water, leaning against a post.

The waterfront gulls usually keep close to the buildings when the chill winds come along too hard, like web-footed pigeons at an otherwise lovely park. The gaggle on part of the walk down the ways from the inn suddenly scatters when they are disturbed from pecking the ground; Jorn walks briskly this evening, rounding a far corner with a look of utmost determination upon his brow. He is dressed in his usual layers- the hide armors with its inner plating, the boots big enough to stomp through a door, the long white cloak about his shoulders, the sword and pistol on his waist. For all the more that he appears The Law-

-he also appears to be running from something. Albeit less running, and more- hurried walking. The northman's face seems comfortable, though the cold has since tinted his cheekbones and ears red, and his hair is windblown by the harbour breeze that was coming in during twilight.

Even hurried walking cannot keep a young woman from a mission. Bundled up in warm clothing, the white skirt and light blue shirt she wears in combination with a tan coat and her fair complexion means she's just a perfect image of winter. It is, most definitely, a form of camouflage so that Constance can ambush her intended targets while they are unsuspecting. She's cheerful in her pursuit, even laughing as her shorter legs try to keep up with Jorn.

"Everyone needs a little fun! Even you! It is not asking a lot, I could even try and get you less lines… you'll have fun and everyone else will enjoy it as well. I won't take no for an answer. Why is everyone so stubborn about this? It's fun!"

The young man leaning against the post watches the pair coming, brows lifting in some amusement as he catches the words caught on the wind as they drift toward him. Tall and lean, his legs stretch far in front of him, and Beisdean draws them out of the way so that Jorn or his small blond predator won't trip on them.

This brings him from his slouch to his full height, and he dips his head in a polite nod to the two, not recognizing either from his childhood and glad of it — the longer people don't know him, the more at ease he is.

Jorn does not want to be a constant stick in the mud, but there are some lines to be drawn in the sand. He takes a quick look around before he stops near the front of the Albatross, blue eyes lingering on the bystander Beisdean before turning down to look at Constance. Another girl that he's known half a life- and though he is not as close to her by a long shot, she is still practically a niece to him.

One gloved palm lifts up to silence her, and the gesture he makes brings his thumb up to his other fingers. Pretending to pantomime holding someone's mouth shut is not as successful, generally.

"Dear girl, you mistake me again." His eyebrows lift at her, and his mouth pauses a moment while it is still open, as he looks for a word or two. "I am not a dancing bear.. how many people are you asking about this?" He pauses a longer second time, looking suddenly offended when he straightens up. "And what do you mean 'Even me'? Am I not fun?"

"Oh, you're fun, I assure you. Just…" Constance hesitates, like about to deliver a blow. Then she smiles instead. "You just aren't fun enough, that's all. Everyone could do with a little more in their life." It appears that the young woman will not be silenced, even by Jorn. "You don't have to be a bear, I promise. You can be a great king! The script isn't even finalized. You can stand and look noble and nod at your subjects."

She appears about to continue when her eyes fall on Beisdean standing stoically (at least to her) against the Albatross. She nods back, but she does not move on. Not when she's discovered someone new. Instead of offering him a strange look like some of Dornie's residents have, she offers a warm smile. "Hello!"

There is another lift of brows at the words dancing bear, and Beisdean chuckles to himself at the hand gesture for the girl to be quiet. His eyes drift over to her when she greets him, and he gives a low dip of his head, almost a bow.

"Feasgar math," he murmurs in the mother tongue, as he raises his head once more. "Pardon me, I didn't mean to eavesdrop," he adds in English, the accent seemingly local but tinged with something that muddies it a bit. Beisdean nods to Jorn. "I could see you as a king. But beware, heavy is the head that wears the crown."

Not fun enough. It's a small blow, even if small. He frowns at her before anything else. The notion of not actually being a dancing bear looks to make it leave his mouth, but it lingers there like an unwanted crease in a newly ironed pair of pants. Constance sees the bystander, however, and Jorn is unsure of if she actually noticed such a look. She is fifteen, after all.

"Jeg vet…" Jorn mutters back, in response to the young man's rather wise words. Seeing as he has never seen this man either, Jorn straightens further and all but puts his boots together, thumbs hooking under his swordbelt. He also looks hesitant to continue now that the girl has engaged Beisdean. "If I allow you to put me in, how long will it be until you heckle me about something new?" Blue eyes narrow suspiciously at Constance. Because he has good reason to ask.

Sixteen now and she would be more than happy to remind everyone of the fact should they hold her age against her. The young woman's focus is on Jorn for but a moment—she's recognized when someone is caving. Constance beams at his words. "Only once a season. Festivities are always important. I promise I won't bother you for anything lesser. You will do wonderfully."

She expects no more protests from Jorn and hardly gives him a chance to. Instead, Constance looks back towards Beisdean. "Wise words. You, sir, are a gentleman and a scholar. I am surprised that we have not met yet. Have you just arrived in Dornie? Your accent is strange." She pauses for a moment, brow furrowing at her word choice. "I do not mean strange in an unkind way. More like unfamiliar. I'm not very good at accents." She doesn't want to accidentally insult this new acquaintance by not being clear, of course.

"Wise they are, but they're not mine. I'm just a mimic," Beisdean says, glancing from man to girl, though his eyes seem to crinkle at the corners with the praise. "You've not met me because I've just come into town today. And I don't find my accent strange, but I suppose that's because I'm quite attached to it, and it me."

A sudden dark shape darts across the way from the water line, brushing by Constance's legs and then up Beisdean's side to perch upon his shoulder. "I was once a local, but I've been living in the south for some years now," Beisdean continues as if the wild creature hadn't just made a nest out of his shoulders. "Beisdean Skye. You may have met my mother Slainte." This might be more addressed to Jorn rather than the proper seeming teenager.

The taller man settles in to watch Constance attempt to begin an introduction, which he finds her to fumble just a little much. Jorn's eyes trail to the young man as he does his own studies of them. Darting movements are one way to surely capture Jorn's attention, and he immediately spots the quickness of shadow and follows its course up onto Beisdean. A cant of head is more proper greeting than the master of the familiar got, perhaps because of such accidental eavesdropping. Otherwise, Jorn listens closely, mouth creasing again when he goes on to mention his origins, and the name of his mother.

"I am sorry for your loss." Is an almost immediate reaction, making up in sincerity for what it lacks in tact. Jorn's eyes cast down, and back up again, expression one of trepidation. "She was a lovely person."

"But you know the words and likely their meaning, which takes some thought," Constance protests. "And I do mean no harm about the accent. It's quite nice." It's the wild creature that catches her attention, a sudden smile spreading across her features at its presence. Perhaps a knowing smile. The creature is given a slight nod of greeting.

While she was nearly distracted by the sudden occupant of the man's shoulders, the words that pass between Jorn and Beisdean draw her attention back. Her gaze turns sad, her entire demeanor momentarily changed. "I heard what happened to her," she murmurs. "I did not know her, but I had only heard good things about her. It's… good that you're here."

Beisdean lowers his head in response to their comments, a nod to each of them. "Thank you. She was," he says to Jorn, and then to Constance, "Too late, perhaps, but here. For a season, at any rate, as I don't fancy the idea of making my way back in the winter storms. January, not April, I think, is the cruelest month."

The marten peers at Constance, blinking before scurrying down and into Beisdean's coat for warmth. "I've been gone far too long to recall you, if I had the pleasure of knowing you, mademoiselle," a smile is tossed to Constance, and then a nod to Jorn, "nor do I remember you, sir, though I was young and not often in public."

Jorn refrains from telling Beisdean the dangers of planning to stay in Dornie for a planned langth of time. It never ends well. Maybe if he doesn't say anything..

He lifts his brows when the address comes to him again, coming around to realize that he must have been mulling too hard, and his silence had taken him mentally elsewhere. "Ah." Jorn gently shakes his head. "Likely that you would not have known me. If my math is correct, I think that I was cutting my way through the Schwarzwald at the time."

Dornie's the only home Constance has ever known and likely will ever know so any thoughts of Dornie as a dangerous place are foreign. "I still think it means something great that you are here all the same," she says softly, though it only takes a few short moments before the glow returns to her face and countenance.

"I am Constance," she introduces. "And while you did not know me before, you know me now. Do stay in Dornie longer if you can. It's so nice to have fresh faces around."

Recognition dawns in Beisdean's eyes upon the name 'Constance,' and he raises a brow. "Of course. You were but a bairn when I left," he remarks, a hand held down by his knee to indicate her size thirteen years ago.

As for staying… "Thank you. It's nice to be welcomed, miss. I've work back in England if I can get back to it. I'm not sure if there's any opportunity here for me, but I'll see what I can do to earn my keep for a couple of months before the country dries out again." There's a touch of uncertainty in his tone.

To be polite, or more likely, to change the subject, he nods to Constance. "You're putting on a pageant of sorts? For the holidays? Is your friend here to be King Wenceslaus, perhaps?"

"She is still a bairn." Jorn's teasing reply comes as an aside to no-one but himself. "I think that you seem able-bodied enough, to stay for a time and earn such keep." Whatever fun he was having at her expense earlier flies off his Joy Wagon when Beisdean mentions a certain King. The warrior's eyes widen in his head, and he looks in a near-panic to Constance, hands falling from his belt. His light eyebrows furrow downward.

"Tor ikke." It kind of sounds like a threat.

"Not so small now, am I?" Constance asks, an eyebrow raised just slightly. She shoots a glance to Jorn, clearly one of displeasure at the suggestion, but when the large man suddenly looks like a frightened doe, her smile returns, broader than before. "Well, that's a thought, perhaps I could do that." Her eyes stay on Jorn for a long moment before turning to Beisdean once more.

"I try to make sure there's something whenever there are festivities. Not everyone is as willing to step on the stage as I am. You have a look to you… I'd bet you'd make a fine actor. You wouldn't be interested, would you?" The smile Constance offers Beisdean is one of her sweetest.

The younger man chuckles at Jorn's aside and low threat before his brows lift at Constance. He coughs and runs a hand lightly through his hair, the silver hair at the temple parting to show a touch of red, swollen flesh beneath. "That's kind of you to say, Miss Constance," he begins, and there is a bit of the peacock puffing at the praise to him, "but I'm not that clever at performing, these days."

As he speaks, his gaze wanders from her face to something just to her right; Beisdean gives a slight head shake and lifts a hand as if to tell something to still or wait. Returning his attention to the girl in front of him, he coughs again. "I'm sorry. It was nice meeting you both. I find myself a little tired from the trip. You'll excuse me?"

Despite the polite intent of the words, Beisdean doesn't wait for their response to his question, instead turning on his heel to head into the Albatross, door thudding closed behind him.

Jorn groans just enough to be heard, lifting his hands up to tug the hood of his cloak up over his head. Obviously, so that he may hide under it. It grants him a good view of the young man's quirk of unrest, and his subsequent move to get away. Hm. Jorn is silent on that matter entirely, looking towards Constance and fixing her with a warning.

"You cannot be serious."

The young woman studies Beisdean until he's entirely out of sight. Once Constance and Jorn are left alone, she meets the larger man's gaze. There's an innocent quirking of her eyebrows as she regards the man. "Serious? Why, I'm never serious," Constance says, off-handedly. "You should know that."

There are no words that pass from Constance's lips as she starts to walk again, heading past Jorn, but there is a familiar carol hummed loudly as she goes.

Good King Wenceslas looked about…~