Situation

Title: Situation
Time Period: June 29, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: In the wake of a minor ordeal: uncomfortable questions.

To your quarters, Dina said.

IN DECKARD'S QUARTERS:

Deckard sits bent at the foot of his bed in torn pants and tattered shirt, one bare, bony foot drawn up under him. The bottom is black. He frowns at it for a while, hands kept to himself even though everything in here is supposed to belong to him. Bed and basin and pieces of variably more intact clothing scattered across the floor.

There's a boot, over there. Another one somewhere else. He hasn't been wearing them much.
It's not immediate. Dina's arrival. She had unwelcome guests to have evicted from her house, a servant to send riding fast as they can to relay the ridiculousness of what had just transpired in her front room. To try and calm her own self down because while others had seen nothing, what Dina had seen upon touching the armor had been unexpected and she needed to process.

So it's at least a good half hour or forty-five minutes before there is a polite rap at the door. This is Deckards room. SO she doesn't enter right away, waiting for permission or the need to talk through the door.

"It's not locked."

Flint doesn't always enunciate. His voice filters through the wood of the door at a mutter, silty and unpersonable. Might as well be talking to his foot.

Evidence by the ease with which she turns the doorknob. Eases the door open but remains in the doorway, taking in the man who not long ago was furry and growling in her livingroom.

"I wish… to apologize. If you would have it" Doorknob released, hands dropping to her waist and one in front of the other even as Greets The Sun is peering in from around the doorjam, having been sitting watch.

"For secretly being a werewolf and having a cult of insane witches after you?" Flint hazards, thumbnail turned along an old groove long since healed into the ball of his foot.

His pants are intact where it matters most, assisted by an unconscious curl of knuckle to belt band. The shirt is pretty pathetic. Looks like an ogre's been at it. Grass stains, split seams. Stiff with dried sweat around the collar.

"Oh wait,” he says. “That's me."

"So it would seem. But no. For allowing them in my home. For asking for your presence in the room. For that, I ask your forgiveness. I did not and would not have fathomed that they would have… done such ridiculousness in my home and I hold them responsible as opposed to you" But she doesn't exactly come bounding into the room. Not that she did before either.

"But it brings about the need for a frank discussion. Do you pose a threat to my family, that is above and beyond might happen if Jorn Wartooth were to loose his mind when he is under the influence of his pelt?"

Frank discussions are not a source of much interest for Flint Deckard. Neither are apologies, for that matter. He nods hazy acceptance of her effort anyway, passably polite despite the inevitable line of questioning that starts to follow. If only he had bags. Or the presence of mind to pack them.

"I dunno," he gruffs at long, long length. He's never met Jorn Wartooth. From a purely scientific standpoint it's hard to gauge whether or not he has the potential to be more disastrous than something he's never seen.

"The offer to leave still stands. You need not be bound here. You are healed enough. But as I told the woman as well. You are a member of Dornie, and we will protect what is ours. As it stands, I have sent word to the Rowentree's of their actions and my demands that they be returned to their boat."

She has something else too. "Silver. From her hair. You paid attention to it. Yes?

There are still black lines barred into Flint's shoulder where Thorpe made his mark; the hand that had been at his foot crooks up to feel over them.

Maybe it's rude for him not to answer her. At the very least it's abrasive, friction cemented gradually down into the hood of his brow the turn of his mouth down under his collar.

Which she takes as answer enough. "I will be consulting someone in the town, one of my people, with regards to your situation. What care needs to be taken to provide for you, should you wish to remain. There is a smithy, in town. Do you wish shackles to be made, of silver, should you ever feel that you need them?" Dina adjusts her hands, cleary uncomfortable with even broaching the subject of shackles.

Dina never really came into the room. She's kept close to the door and Flint has kept to the base of 'his' bed, where he can eye her in silence with a sense of false security.

The only kind of security that he has to work with.

It's enough. He a has a post to mull from and a post to rise off of once he's come to a conclusion, which is sooner, rather than later. Ragged and grey, pants still in hand, he crosses cramped quarters for the open door and — reaches deliberately to close it.

Not quickly or loudly or aggressively.

But definitely in her face.

Well.

Dina stands there, looking at the door that's been summarily closed in her face. Leaving him on his side and her on the other. She doesn't know how to feel about what's just happened and looks down to Greets The Sun from his vantage point way way way down on the floor. Who only turns and starts to trundle off.

"You are not confined. Life continues apace." This to the man on the other side of the door. And she does the same. Turns, trundles off, worrying her hands.

Slouched at the door, Deckard listens to them go, big feet and little feet through the wheeze of his own breath through his sinuses. They've been gone for a while when he stirs himself back to the present, mouth dry. They've been gone for longer still when he finally gets around to peeling off the tatters of his shirt and padding back for the bed.

The mattress sinks unevenly under his weight when he rolls himself onto it. Corpselike.

Ratty sheets follow forthwith, pulled plainly up over his head. So he can think.