Beren regarded the man solemnly, the smallest bit of rain sprinkling on his clothing and skin. The water was frigid, scattering the light frost that clung to Beren's jacket and cloak, clinging to his thick head of dark hair. The dwarves similarly stood there for a brief moment, sharing in Beren's melancholic sense of respect for the lost elder. It was a cultural sense for dwarves to treat older dwarves with respect, and it somewhat extended to other peoples as well. Beren wasn't sure if it was his dwarvish upbringing or his sense of empathy that had him take a moment in pause, but either way, Jocasta stepped forward as the wind picked up again. Beren almost felt he heard a wail of anguish in the wind, but his thoughts were muddled and pushed aside when Jocasta cleared her throat. 

"Master Morelocke, might we come in? It's erm, dreadfully cold out here." She temporized, trying not to sound too rude stating the obvious. Even the dwarves seemed ready to come in out the wind, though they hid it well with typical stoicism. Beren glanced behind him, but even with his sharp eyes all he saw was the road fading into greyness, and what might be the obscured shapes of distant mountains miles into the wilderness. 

"Hrm? Yes, yes," Martinus Morelocke said, slowly coming back to reality. His arm shook as he pushed the door further ajar, glazed eyes gazing at them past overly bushy brows. He sounded exceedingly weak and quiet in comparison to the weather just beyond his doorstep. "I have forgotten my manners, forgive me. Yes, come in." 

The decrepit master Morelocke took a few long moments to step back, and Otar strode in first, followed by Buri, Muragrim, Gurin, Radsvir, and Varin, and Beren stepped aside for Jocasta to enter. She cocked an eyebrow at the dwarves, as they had almost run into her like a rolling boulder. Beren gave a helpless smile. "They go by age," He said, shrugging. She began to nod in understanding, then her eyes whipped back to Beren, sharp as arrows. 

"Oh and you think I'm that much older than you?" She asked, and though it was clear she was having a bit of fun with Beren due to the barely suppressed smile and the cheek in her words, he could tell the wrong answer would still give her an excuse to get him into a bit of trouble. 

"No!" He said quickly, his face screwing up incredulously. "I'm just trying to be, ya know, chivalrous. What?" 

"This is why I get the hat," She said as if it was the most obvious thing in the word, ruffling Beren's thick head of moistened and cold hair. He batted her hand away, and she laughed as she walked in. 

"Yeah yeah, I'm onto you witchy woman." Beren retorted playfully, following her and closing the door for the old master, who did not seem to understand Beren's motives first and stood there a long moment, unwilling or unable to let go of the door until he abruptly turned, mumbling something incoherent to himself. Beren closed the door gently, and locked it. Inside wasn't very warm, but compared to the road it was lovely. Down the corridor, a light glowed and wavered against the hallway wall, showing the way to the great chamber of the manor, where a great fire was lit. The paint on the walls looked old, much of the pillars and corners were partially peeled, bare from misuse and years of wear.   

Ahead of him, Martinus continued to mumble. At times Beren thought he heard the name 'Marelda,' but he couldn't be sure, and he decided it was none of his business. He carefully passed the elder before making it to the room. The dwarves sat on the floor, a bit too short for the old, cushioned chairs. Jocasta had found a seat on what was once a nice couch, warming her hands by the fire. Beren sat beside her, clearing his throat. 

"So," the elder asked as he stepped into the room. "Why have you come so far out here? It's been....it's been...the roads have not been with talk or movement since last year, I think."