I. Ah, snow. Lorne is lucky to arrive just before the town is so heavily blanketed that the roads are impassable; otherwise he might not have been able to return home until spring, which would be several stripes of unfortunate. Still: he is home. With his primary order of business being introducing himself to the Watch captain for (hopefully) completing his transfer, Lorne joins those shoveling their way out of their houses. The streets are going to be a mess of slush and ice soon, not that anyone can do much about that but be careful of one's footing and try to clear as much as snow possible. For now, though, it's nice to see children taking advantage of the snow to spread some fun and laughter.
And snowballs. It's an eternal impulse, making and throwing snowballs, and adults are by no means fully immune to the charms of fluffy snow. Lorne is trudging along towards the Constabulary when a winter projectile smacks into his shoulder from behind and sprays his neck with a fine dusting of snowflakes. He jumps, only a little startled, and controls down a laugh in favor of turning, slowly, to give the children responsible an exaggerated glower. It comes complete with hunched shoulders. This produces a spate of giggles, perhaps nervous ones, until Lorne dips to gather snow himself. He does not, however, hurl the snowball back at the children just yet. Instead, he tosses it up and down, catching it again in that hand, and arches an eyebrow.
Were he not attending to business, he might engage in some volleys with them. His point is made well enough, anyway; they know he's 'armed' if they try to hit him unawares again, and Lorne treks onward with snowball in hand.
II. Lorne has had occasion to visit the village a few times over the years he's been living elsewhere, but that's hardly sufficient to keep up with all news. The tavern is the best place to reconnect with people and hear stories of what's been happening (although some recent events Lorne expects will not be welcome topics). Plus, there's minstrels who are trapped here, which means there's musical accompaniment to the revelry. Lorne isn't one to get drunk, but he's decent enough company for conversation even if he's more reserved than many people here. He's watching and listening, mostly, which suits him. He'll learn plenty just by observation.
You know, from the table at the edge of the room, or the far corner. He's prime pestering material
OTA!
And snowballs. It's an eternal impulse, making and throwing snowballs, and adults are by no means fully immune to the charms of fluffy snow. Lorne is trudging along towards the Constabulary when a winter projectile smacks into his shoulder from behind and sprays his neck with a fine dusting of snowflakes. He jumps, only a little startled, and controls down a laugh in favor of turning, slowly, to give the children responsible an exaggerated glower. It comes complete with hunched shoulders. This produces a spate of giggles, perhaps nervous ones, until Lorne dips to gather snow himself. He does not, however, hurl the snowball back at the children just yet. Instead, he tosses it up and down, catching it again in that hand, and arches an eyebrow.
Were he not attending to business, he might engage in some volleys with them. His point is made well enough, anyway; they know he's 'armed' if they try to hit him unawares again, and Lorne treks onward with snowball in hand.
II. Lorne has had occasion to visit the village a few times over the years he's been living elsewhere, but that's hardly sufficient to keep up with all news. The tavern is the best place to reconnect with people and hear stories of what's been happening (although some recent events Lorne expects will not be welcome topics). Plus, there's minstrels who are trapped here, which means there's musical accompaniment to the revelry. Lorne isn't one to get drunk, but he's decent enough company for conversation even if he's more reserved than many people here. He's watching and listening, mostly, which suits him. He'll learn plenty just by observation.
You know, from the table at the edge of the room, or the far corner. He's prime pestering material
IV. Wildcard!