The wayward bed warmer found and laid by the stair, Victor stumped back out the the porch in time to see the trio approach the steps. The Alderman looked as though he were about to explode from the way he gasped and wheezed as he struggled with the lady's baggage; Victor offered him no sympathies or help. Even if he had, the Alderman was the type to refuse and possibly even take insult at the idea that he was no longer a hale and fit farmer. Feather was... Feather. There was no changing that. The woman from the city was another matter, for she clearly was attractive and poised in such a manner that no one would ever mistake her for a local. His eye caught the the way the pinstriped waistcoat fitted to her torso, the skirt about her hips, and there beneath that ridiculous hat was a face fresh and angelic, framed by the the black dreads. It made the former soldier regretfully reflect on how long it had been since he'd lain with a woman.

"Ah, Master Vinegar!" panted Brown as he mounted the steps. "Allow me to... to present Miss Kijani. Ah, Miss Kijani? This here's Master Vinegar. He'll see to your lodgings and safety." He nodes enthusiastically again as though it was because his words made it all so. He directed Feather inside and up the stairs, following after with the luggage and calling back over his shoulder, "I'll leave you two fine folks to become acquainted like! Me 'n' Feather? We'll set this all to rights, so we will!"

And then it was just the two of them. Victor felt slightly uncomfortable as she looked up at him, then angry at himself for feeling that way beneath her scrutiny. His simple workman's shirt with its low collar and buttoned sleeves was far from being the same white as her impeccable blouse, and the faded forest green long pants with their leather patches and sewn up rents was definitely a far cry from the rest of her finery. Those and his stained leather vest of were all of local make. Only his knee-high black boots marked him as having any city connections; the were the boots of a rifleman and cared for with a soldier's pride. Leaning on the stout hickory cane, he gave Kijani a curt nod.

"Mistress Kijani," he rumbled flatly. "You're as welcome as you may be. My salt and hearth are yours, your health and safety mine."

The traditional country greeting done, he eased himself into his chair with out regard for offering her one. "Strange place for a holiday, if I might say. Not many folks stop in Arbordale." His accent was a strange mix of lower class city life and rural argot, a blend that tripped off the tongue and marked him as an outsider to either place.