To Fill A Void

Title: To Fill A Void
Time Period: March, 127 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: Those of the household have a visitor, looking to once again find his fortune- even if it means that he must change.

With the edge of a brisk Scottish spring approaching, and the March month fast ending, Dornie is active with the common bustle that occurs when people are able to scent that winter is closing. Still, the sunshine does not come wholly until the month of May, where more will bloom than the buds that are currently on trees and vines, the grasses becoming a shade greener in the wet climate. The Manor lies amdist these budding trees, with scraggly vines on the walls seeming to get some more breathing room once the lawns have turned from a decayed green-gray of cold, damp winter.

It seems that March is a time for new beginnings not only for the plants, but also Jorn Wartooth. Weeks ago, he was found amongst the shore of the loch; it created quite the stir, for who would be able to win against such a person? Even more of a stir came over the knitting circles and barstools when they found out who he was. All manner of rumor flew about as to his reason for being in the isles in the first place, though Jorn himself refused to answer any questioning, or admit any of these rumors as true. It seemed, from many angles, that he was leaving whatever happened in the past. When the news came down that Edgar Ross had hired him on personally, many seemed to take it as a sign to cease bothering the stoic mercenary, and continue having wariness of him instead. Most seemed content with it. Jorn was.

Unfortunately, being hired on as a bodyguard means that he was to make it through the curious town in one piece, in order to start his duties. It was a trek from the apothecary for two legs, and his injuries only mostly healed. In his wisdom, he decided to not listen to sense and stay in bed or take a carriage. At first, he dared to attempt to walk his way down the waterfront. It did not go well. So when he finally shows his face at the appointed time at the appointed manor's grounds, it is not as a man, but as a great white beast. It looks like a bear, sounds like a bear, and walks like a bear- save for the awkward gait in his hind- but many in Dornie have never seen the like of a Polar Bear. Hearing of them is one matter, seeing is another. The same, perhaps, goes for Jorn Wartooth, the man.

The front drive of the manor is as any other- flat, and curving 'round against the front of the manor house. The clouds above supply little winter sunlight, however the white bulk limping its way down the side of the drive sticks out like a sore thumb, regardless of sunlight.

Which might explain where there is a woman, brown hair pulled back in a braid and pinned up, skirt, swishing as she walks and while she may have a wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the chill inside, it will do little to ward off the cold outside in the spring. Nor will the shotgun in the womans arms, shells being loaded into it hastily, thin gloves not allowing for good traction. The benefits of having a munitions factory in ones town.


Her Welsh accent having changed little despite coming here years and tears before. "Get you! Away from here, shoo!" There's a few others scurrying behind her. Very infrequently do large predators emerge onto the lawns.

"Fetch Adler! Or Edgar, find Edgar. Tell him there is a bear on the lawn" She doesn't want the children to come out and think it's something fun.

Jorn can smell them far before he lifts his head from inspecting some of the gardening along the drive; the giant white bear seems less harried than a predator might be when faced with being found, for certain. Rabies does that, right?

His apple-sized black nose quivers quietly at the air, dark eyes setting themselves upon the woman and her help coming down the path. He regards the shotgun with vague dislike, the whites of the bear's eyes showing as he cants his muzzle to the side and takes a half step backwards. It is what the woman says in her welsh brogue that does not make him simply turn tail; the name, rather. Jorn backs up a couple of steps, bends his hind legs at the knee, and sits himself down on the ground with a heavy sigh.

Maybe not what Dina was hoping for. Nor was she likely expecting the bear to lift one big paw into a peaceable gesture of greeting, before its shape begins to slide out of proper form. The face shortens, the fur gathers towards his spine, and the paw lifted in peace loses its pads and claws, and soon enough there is a hand- a very human hand- and a very human man, kneeling on one leg. His hand remains, as if in benediction. Jorn wears the bearskin cloak across his shoulders, the head down over his brow, and the end trailing the ground just behind him. Under it, he is still dressed in the simple clothes that he has gotten on lend during his care.

"Jeg kommer i…" Jorn stops midphrase, lifting himself to his feet uneasily, and shaking his brow as he does so. His hand lifts back to tug the hood down, the teeth dragging through his plain brown hair. "I am Jorn. For Edgar." The name in his mainland accent comes out as 'Ed-gard'. "He told me to be here."

Magic. Dina knows it well, she herself possesses it, hence the thin dainty gloves on her hands. But the transformation and eventual revelation of a man beneath all that magic gives her pause, causes her to lower the weapon in question. Just a fraction though. "Go find Edgar, tell him his guest has arrived" It seems, someone neglected to tell the lady of the house that there was a polar bear coming, though she's soon enough figured out who it is. Rumors and gossip do not escape her.

"Jorn." An effort made to speak it with the proper accent. "You will step forward, but keep your hands to yourself. I wish to see you for myself"

The tall man seems broader than he actually is these days, with the fur cloak about him. He has been recuperating for some weeks now, and there is still a haunted leanness to his body, and tired darkness just below his flinty blue eyes. The angles and pallid appearance will surely fill out again, in time. Politeness, although, becomes him- he tucks his forearm to his stomach, and gives Dina a small bend at the waist.

"I found that four was less painful than two." Legs. Jorn steps forward as she tells him, keeping his chin leveled and his brow somewhere between flattened and looking quite bereft. Dina tells him to keep his hands to himself- though he is not certain if that means he ought to hold them to his sides, or fold them; his fingers fumble a moment with one another as he tries the latter, only to fall back to his sides instead.

Needless to say, Jorn is not used to being scrutinized by housewives.
The philathropist in her will not come out for a few more years. So scrutiny and pursed lips are a very common thing as well as sharp eyes without quite that edge of kindness to them. That will come along with the myriad of crows feet that will inevitably develop. For now t hough, he shuffles forward and she's lifting her chin, passing off the shotgun to someone at her side so she can work the fingers of her gloves daintily and remove one.

And then place it on the side of his face - This requires her of course to go up, up, up on toes, but she does so with a murmur of words. She's looking, looking through memories for that of her son and his request to Jorn to meet him there. Presumably when she does find it, she disengages her hand with no small amount of gentleness and turns. "Help him in, someone find him something to use for a cane, set a room for him, in the back." She starts to walk, a look over her shoulder to him.

"Are you coming?"

It takes almost all of Jorn's willpower to not shy away from being touched- and perhaps, the memory of thinking that is the first on his mind. He is like one of the tall plowhorses- unused to a rider's contact, and nervous about someone new. He knows that this woman is important, somehow, so he resigns himself to finally looking down at her, however awkwardly. The memory is there, fresh as dew, same as the morning from where it had come. Let us hope that she dare not go much further than his time with Aislinn- she may not like what she sees. He is, after all, Wartooth, not just 'Jorn'. The Nord's furry jaw works slightly when she all but flicks herself from him. Not sure of what has transpired, precisely, though there is a curiosity in his blue eyes that was not there before.

"Ja, frue." That is an affirmative, as he trails at a rolling gait behind her. A cane, on the other hand- that grants him some wariness. Reduced to needing a walking stick? Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

She didn't see that business with Aislinn and even if she had, she wouldn't certainly speak of it. Slender fingers ease back into their gloves, breath frosting out in the air as they make their way back to the house proper and at a pace that he can manage. "None of that bear business around the girl. Not in the house either do you hear? Too much you could break. You keep that outside, it has no place inside" Brisk sharp words but cruelly so. "Edgar should be inside somewhere" There's a look to the side, she's fallen back to walk beside him. "Your whiskers need trimming"

"I do not have-" Jorn begins, abruptly, and stops just as quickly. "Oh." He follows up, sheepishly glancing away and putting a palm to his face and feeling the growth underneath of it. "Not in the house." The man parrots her, making a mental notation for this that it is 'unless told otherwise'. You never know. His hand trails down the scruff to rest a beat on the cloak clasped under his neck.

"Edgar- mister Ross- Told me that he had a wife and a daughter, little more. You are meaning her? I cannot promise that there will be no …'bear business'." Jorn slows his gait even more, finding the time to be up-front quite refreshing. "Especially so, if her own father has decided upon my protection."

"Yes. A wife and a daughter, there is Adler and myself and others in the house. But I mean her. Cordelia is a dear heart and I would not see any harm come to her" She's the heir, there is no spare, and in a town of rowentree's just because your son is married to one, doesn't mean a single damned thing. "Come. It's cold out here, it's warm inside, Edgar will get you set to rights and he will do with you, what he will" Which means she'll be washing her hands of him.

But watching him. Edgar may trust him, but Dina, perhaps, not so much.

"Cordelia." Jorn parrots once again. His pronunciation is slightly better than his saying the name of her father, inasmuch that he only manages to make it sound as if it starts with a 'K'. He tries, which is more than he can say about another man like him, in his strange situation. He picks up his feet to cross into the house, and waits until the doors have closed before giving a last full turn towards Dina, peering down at her from behind his tiredly ringed eyes.

"Do not worry about your little one." Jorn tips his head to her, in time to hear the patter of a page coming along to the foyer. Likely, to fetch him, and take him to Edgar Ross.

"I will always worry" Short. Precise. About Cordelia. About Edgar. About those in her family. There's a gesture to the coming servant, and just like that, he is passed on. "Good day Jorn Wartooth" He's Edgar's responsibility now. She'll be watching, from afar till she is satisfied. With that, she's walking off, shotgun having disappeared and likely in search of a fire to warm herself and get back to what she was doing before a polar bear wandered onto her property.