Title: Unraveled
Time Period: July 14, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: A meet and greet that, despite a few hiccups, is a successful one.

In the Albatross tonight, there's a little musical background noise. Idgie sits at a table, legs propped up on the table and slumped in her chair with a guitar resting in her lap. It isn't idle, as her fingers move along the strings, strumming out a soft tune. Her voice sings along, not loud enough to be commanding an audience, but just for her own enjoyment.

She doesn't seem to notice that she's gotten a big of an audience anyway. She and her drawl are too busy with the song, is all.

"Being good isn't always easy, no matter how hard I try. When he started sweet-talkin' to me, he'd come and tell me everything is alright, he'd kiss me and tell me everything is alright. Can I get away again tonight…" Her head bobs just a little in time with the music, a foot taps and she seems, for the moment, in her own world.

Sorcha is there, in her usual seat that she occupied prior to disaster occuring in her life. Her third pint, having escaped Mariah and the other womans well meaning attempts to take care of her. Slowly but surely, she's started going out. Mind you, it's to the Albatross and it's to get sloshed. But that has to be a step in the right direction. Right?

Full skirt, black light blouse, shawl, she's tipping back the last few mouthfuls of her pint before sliding it back to the bartender and turning to regard Idgie. Idgie and the afro.

Truth be told, Jorn has probably never heard the kind of music that this strange little woman is crooning and strumming. 'Not from around here' is probably an understatement, in his opinion; while her music is lovely, he finds himself also drawn to her curly bushel of hair. No fault of his own, right? He's seen the coils of African traders, not nothing quite the same. The northman is a familiar sight, sitting alone at a table, having his allotted time for people-watching, a drained mug nearby.

Jorn tries to avoid eye contact with Sorcha, unfortunately; widows were never his strong suit, and figuring out how to talk to one is not so much either. Rather, Jorn steals glances at her between listening closely to Idgie's chords and lyrics.

The song goes on for a bit longer, the odd little American not seeming to notice Patrick's widow at the bar, or she might have chosen her song a little more carefully. But she does come to notice Jorn's gaze flicking her way more than once. And it's right as she's singing a line about stealing kisses that she looks over to catch his next glance, so she can wink his direction.

Just a little signal. But from her smile, she isn't terribly bothered. But onto him none the less.

There's a trade for another drink - likely to be her last if the bartender and her ever shortening tab that she's been drinking her way through after building it up from sewing - and she's up then, the seamstress moving to the open space, or well, any open space so she can dance. Sway back and forth to Idgie's tune with one hand swishing her skirt too and fro, while the other holds her drink aloft in an effort not to spill any, a smile - drink induced - on her lips.

In line with being unable to express a great many things, Jorn's reaction to being caught looking(and winked at) is somewhat at odds with the rest of him, at least for someone new like Idgie. Anyone else that notices it, knows it as terribly normal. He sits up straighter, chin jutting just enough to be defensive. Guilty, yes, just as charged. He clears his throat, line of sight broken only when he notices that Sorcha has gotten to her feet, swaying to the blues. Her blues, perhaps.

He smiles soberly enough to himself, for all that he has drank a couple of pints.

"Hey, big guy," Idgie says, letting the music go on while she exchanges singing for getting Jorn's attention, "Why don't you come over and buy me a drink instead of just staring? The music's sure to get more interesting after a couple."

It's then that she notices Sorcha up from her stool and dancing; her fingers fumble over a few notes, but she corrects after a moment. "Or it could get interesting now," she says, mostly to herself. She doesn't pick the lyrics back up this time, though.

Sorcha bumps into a table, though manages to not spill, but there's a loud "oops" from the brunette and instead of going back to her seat, she backs up, turns, and spotting an empty seat, flops into one beside Jorn, looking to Idgie as she carries on playing.

And blinks. Hard. "Oh" Her voice falls flat. "It's you"

"I could buy you a drink from here…" Or there is that. Jorn's reticence is semi-legendary, but at least he waves down the nearest apron to make truth of his words. He does buy her a drink. From over there. His tongue runs over the inside edges of his teeth, and he clears his throat again before looking back. Seems there's company beside him this time, however.

"Watch your step, now." Jorn offers only this much, hesitance in his voice as he looks between the two women. Whatever this is, Jorn suddenly has the feeling he is about to find out the measure of it- even if he would rather not.

"Distance does make the heart grow fonder," Idgie says to Jorn's reply, a laugh on her words. When her table's bumped, it looks like she's going to ignore it, focusing instead on her guitar strings.

But then she's spoken to. The woman looks up to the widow, her brow furrowing a bit at that flat voice. "It is me," she says, thumb strumming as if testing the strings. Not that they need testing.

"How do you get your hair like that?" Sloshed sorcha is generally happy go lucky sorcha, but right now, she's just… the same kind of flat that Idgie is. "Miiiiiiiister Wartooth. This… This is the woman that my husband died for."

There's a pause.

"I think"

Inwardly, Jorn is turtle-necking into his cloak. Unfortunately, manner dictates he physically does no such thing. His upper teeth tug once on his lower lip, cheeks puffing out for a passing second. Oh, boy. Dry mouth and everything.

"I was admiring her hair as well." The nord begins, slowly, looking down to Sorcha, eyes darkened only enough to make the paleness lessen. "And her music…" Jorn enters social Panic Mode when Sorcha introduces Idgie as the woman her husband died for. He wasn't here- he has only heard secondhand stories of what happened that day. The beast swept in and started trying to pick people off, and the sailors put up a fight. Mouth firmly closed, all that finds its way out is an indistinct noise, deep in his throat.

"It does attract attention, this hair." Right now she might be wishing it didn't, especially as Sorcha starts to declare things out in front of God and everyone. Her head ducks for a moment, just until her own sorrowful expression gets under control.

"No reason to do this here, Missus," she says up to Sorcha. "And maybe you oughta have a sit down."

"Maybe I should do this here" Sorcha leans over, poking a forefinger at and on Idgie's guitar. "Maybe heeeeere is the best place to do this" Soecha hiccups then, drawing her hand back, putting the back of her palm to her mouth, looking momentarily sheepish.

Then abruptly stands, putting her untouched pint down and starts to weave her way around the bar, heading for the exit. "I'm going hoooooooooooome" Singing outloud, before launching into some bawdy salty sea song.

Watching with a mix of horror and concern, Jorn's eyes widen and blink when Sorcha starts into her insistence, and then departure. He gives a murmur of farewell, though that is all that fits in before she strikes up a song on her way out. Maybe he will go over there, after all. The man lifts onto his feet and rejoins a seat nearer to Idgie. There is a dip of chin for proper greeting, and the palm flattened to his stomach finds his other hand once he sits.

"She was free with her drink before all of… this. I do not think it is personal."

Idgie's eyes squeeze shut, bracing for the conversation that seems to be about to fall on her. And given that she has no idea what to say to the man's widow about it all, she's not been looking forward to it at all.

It takes a lot to hold back a relieved sigh when she changes her mind and decides to go home. She only risks a glance up when Jorn sinks into a chair. "Oh, it probably is personal, truth be told," she says, her smile not quite matching her earlier joviality, "But I make a policy not to hold drunken or mournful accusations against people." And she's got both. Still, when Idgie looks back down to her strings, it's pretty clear she's a bit shaken.

"She is upset that she has lost her husband, not that he was a valiant man. A little bitter, perhaps…" Jorn is out of his element, and he does look up to make sure there is not someone better suited. Nope. He rubs one set of fingers over the other set of knuckles. "Drink brings out the best or the worst." So little middle ground, isn't there?

"I think these Scots were enjoying your music." He may be trying to goad her back to it; music is music, and it seemed that she was finding it peaceful. "We don't hear things like that, around here."

"All fair things to be feeling, in her position." Idgie peeks up when he mentions the music, her lips curling into a crooked smile. "Ain't got the blues in Dornie?" All evidence to the contrary. But she straightens up a bit, plucking out a few random chords before she settles into an easy melody.

"Left a good job in the city, working for the man every night and day. and I never lost one minute of sleeping worrying about the way things might have been…" She looks over at Jorn, her smile more even, "My family's been passing these songs on down for generations. Might have to teach 'em to Scotland, too."

"Blues… maybe not… the blues? Is there a difference?" Jorn chuckles quietly. "So where are you from? From over the sea, yes, I know that much." Process of elimination was on his side this time, and having been around, here and there, seems to have given him that leg up.

"You could try. It might not have the same flavor, but there are many musicians here."

"Oh yeah," Idgie says with a smile, fingers moving along the song, but lyrics will just have to wait. "The Blues come from a place of harsh reality. Of things lost and hurts felt so deep it makes you weep. Makes your dog weep. Makes your roof leak."

There's a glance down to the strings, her voice taking on a bit of nostalgia, "Once upon a time, people like me were kept as slaves, put to work on land that wasn't theirs. That they had no hope to keep. And we'd sing the blues to tell the land about our sorrows. To tell the sky. No one else would listen, see? The Blues are for when your soul's aching." A sad topic, but talking about it seems to warm the woman's heart all the same. "Across the water, yeah. America. A wide place, America."

When something starts with 'Once Upon A Time', it either means a story, or it means from Before. That Once, upon a time ago. Jorn listens closely, sitting back in the chair and watching one of the young women in her apron stop by the table the two sit beside, two pints down on the surface. She gets a short thank you from the man, who seems more interested in the idea of a wide open place with soulful music than being terribly polite.

"I know that feeling. But I am no lyricist." Jorn lifts one hand to rub at his jaw, in thought and sheepishness. "I've read some things. Seen old maps. Heard stories." He leans in a few inches then, seriousness eking across his expression. "Are there really hares, with antlers?"

"You just say what you feel, when you sing the blues. The blues are for you." The music pauses for a moment, so Idgie can take a nice, long drink, but she gets back to it soon enough.

"The Jackalope, hell yeah. Grow big as dogs, they do. Out in the desert. Antlers up to my chin sometimes. Admire from afar, my daddy used to say. Ain't seen what sorta magic you got around here, excepts what's found at that fair over there." But for that sight, she lets out an appreciative whistle.

"Saying what I feel isn't a strong point." He knots his brows together at her description of the jackalope. There is a wide, tilted smile when she mentions that she hasn't seen anything they have around here, save for the faire. And dragons, of course. Jorn wonders just what kind of dragons they might have in America. Perhaps those Thunderbirds he heard of, are storm dragons, instead of birds? Or are they really birds?

"Fairy magic. Trolls. Seal maidens… Do they have stories like those over there? If you think Old World tales, there you have it." Jorn is full of questions- or at least, a couple that he can fit in. "Does America still have Medicine Men?" Native shamans, as it were, but terms are not always universal or politically correct.

"It isn't?" Idgie tilts her head at that idea, apparently it's as foreign as— well, as he is. "Why not? Feelings gotta go somewhere, otherwise they sit and fester. And that ain't pretty."

She chuckles at his examples, nodding a little. "Some. We hear about trolls what turn to stone in the sun. And your fairies, little scamps. But never seen anything like it." Her grin returns at the question, but she reaches for her glass again before answering. "Oh yeah. Got all that. Shaman. Sky Woman, the spirit of the Water. The Coyote and the Spider. Walk across American once, you'll see a lot of things out there."

"I wish that I could meet one of them." An odd thing to say, considering his capacity here in Dornie. Envy is a rare thing for Jorn, as he is often so content where he ends up. Then again, it only took one visitor to Fosnavag to plant the seed of legend in his little head. But he isn't about to up and disappear- "Perhaps another skinwalker, one from your wildlands. It always sounded like a curious place, to me. Oh-" Jorn's mouth forms a slack line, and his pale blue eyes pause on air. He's forgotten to-

"My name is Jorn." He is immediately self-aware, folding his hands between his knees. "My apologies. I am almost interrogating you." Hrmph.

"Curious is a word for it. And maybe you will meet one some day. I made it all the way over here, I wouldn't be surprised if others do, too. Plus, they say Shaman can travel the world in one night." Idgie laughs a bit at the sudden introduction, and she stops playing a moment to hold a calloused hand out his way.

"Idgie Scott. And glad to meet you, Jorn. No sorry needed, I don't worry about ceremony much. And I know my curiousness don't end at my hair," she says with a little fluff to one side. "Where I'm from, people just chatter at any ol' body that comes along. Old friend, new stranger, don't matter."

"I am not usually so prying." He assures her, shaking the outstretched hand with his own. "I come here to unwind, sometimes, but- unwinding sometimes turns into- ah- unraveling." Something like that. Jorn appears to regain some of that composure and reserve that he mentioned as he speaks of it, sitting up and keeping to his own little space now, instead of invading hers.

"Scott." Like destiny, isn't it? "Your name finds you right at home. Are you planning to remain?"

Idgie's handshake is firm, but then she doesn't seem like someone who's spent much time being delicate. "Places like this seem to attract unraveling. Side effects," she says with a nod toward the drinks on the table.

"You know, I never thought of that," she says with a laugh, "Maybe that's why I fit in with all your sailors so well." The question of remaining sobers her a little, smile turning a little bittersweet. "I'll be around here a while, I shouldn't wonder. For him. Because of him," she says, adding in that quick correction.

"Be careful, songbird. You may decide you like it here." And that's all Jorn will say on the matter, for now. "Let us hear one of your songs? Surely you know many more." His tone is expectant, and there is likely at least one person that has been glancing over to check the musician, periodically.

"Oh," Idgie says with a gentle chuckle, "I'll be on watch for it." Her fingers tap against her strings as she looks from that expectant expression and on to glance at other faces pointed in their direction. But it doesn't take long for her to pick up another song, bittersweet this one turns out to be.

"Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin, dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in, lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove… And dance me to the end of love…"