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It's been raining for a good few days straight, with strong winds. It'd be a miracle if the boat arrived to the island safely, all things considered -- but it was due any time today, if the most recent telegrams from the islandbound ship were to be correct. Terrible weather or not, it would be impolite to not wait for the vessel, would it not?

A man with a black umbrella makes his way down the beach, wrapped up tightly in a heavy brown overcoat, as he approaches the docks. Every now and then he glances seaward for any sign of the ship, until he paces down towards the end of the dock. He puts a hand over his face to shield his already-fogged glasses, clinging to the umbrella in case the winds try to steal it away.

"Ah, there it is," the man says to himself as he catches sight of the boat on the horizon, "amazing it's still in one piece." He doesn't yet see what all is happening on board, much less who is there - his glasses are too fogged up to permit seeing such things. A strong gust goes by, threatening to blow the battered old umbrella out of his hands as he struggles to keep hold to it.

He stands at the very end of the dock, having stopped pacing, to wave his arm in the vain hope that someone on the ship will see him and not get directed towards the rocks and sink. That would be quite ugly and something he wouldn't want to take reponsibility for.

The boat's pitiful creaking can be heard from here. That, and the sound of its animal cargo -- good, good, the man kept to his promise of bringing the animal to the island with him. One of the deckhands tosses the man a rope, which he grabs with one hand and secures to the dock so that nailed-together piece of driftwood wouldn't accidentally float away (and he almost loses his umbrella in the process).

Now, he sees the 'man' standing on board. Although the man with the umbrella can't exactly make 'him' out (or even the fact that 'he' is actually a woman), he can tell that this person - while dressed rather unusually - is rather drenched. "How long have you been standing out on board, you a**?" the man calls, cupping a hand around his mouth, "You'll catch pnuemonia and die! Do you think I want my men to die upon getting to the island?"

He helps a deckhand lower the ramp to the dock, tying it in place and motioning for the 'man' to come down once the ramp is secured.

"Too long, says I," the man replies, "even if you're used to hellishly cold temperatures, it's still too much of a risk. Rain creeps into the depths of your lungs, unlike dry, cold air and snow. It's the moisture that gets to you, not the cold." He shakes his head disdainfully, motioning for her to get closer and stand under his umbrella.

"I may be a doctor of sorts, but I don't cure diseases, I only know how to prevent them," he quickly adds, "I'm more of a surgeon, as you know. I almost want to drag you back to the boarding house first thing so that you may dry off and not expire due to your callous stupidity."

"Good man," the doctor acknowledges with a nod, pushing his glasses up his nose with a finger. He squints, his glasses still fogged up -- he can now see this 'man' up close, albeit still rather blurry. "If I must comment," he begins rather awkwardly, pointing at the woman's skirt, "you Norsemen wear some rather unusual garb. It honestly looks like you're wearing a dress, now I want to lend you some of my clothes out of pity once you're dried off!"

The man laughs, then catches himself in a sneeze as he fumbles with the umbrella. "And honestly, sir," he reaches over to give his fellow 'man' a hearty pat on the back, "you look like a woman!" He pauses to let that sink in, smiling rather pointedly before dismissively waving a hand and sneezing again. "Ha, I should probably drag myself inside after this as well. I'll let the deckhands handle the animal, I'm sure they're skilled enough and if they do so much as hurt it I'll beat them like the asses they are."

"Well, if you say that you're severely addled to be wearing these clothes, you'll fight right in on this lovely island, here," the man laughs, before realizing the particularly stiff bit of fabric and wire he's brushed his hand across. "Severely addled," he jovially repeats, "a corset, sir? You're clearly madder than I thought." Yes, he's still that clueless.

"I'll help you with the wretch if you wish," the doctor offers, "since I'll be working on him too, I get the feeling I should learn how to get along with the beast. The stables aren't that far up the beach, and after we get your animal we'll dry off." He chuckles again, shaking his head.

"I agree with you on that," says the man with a smile, "back in England, they all said I was mad. But as you know, my work is brilliant - madness heralds that, I suppose."

"I'm hoping so as well, so far most of the animals I've worked with have been rather recalcitrant--" The doctor cuts off his sentence upon hearing the deckhand interrupt the woman beside him. "Miss--?!"

Almost dropping the umbrella on the spot, the man reaches for his glasses and wipes them off on the sleeve of his jacket, replacing them over his nose to make absolutely sure...

"Oh, Hell," the man croaks out in a tiny voice. If it weren't for the cold making his skin so pallid, his face would be beet red right now.

"I knew it all along," says the doctor stubbornly, "I was just playing along with the joke. I am not an entirely humorless man." He grunts as he pushes his glasses up his nose again, forcing a smile and mentally congratulating his brilliant save.

Now he can clearly see everything Alva has to offer to his once-foggy vision. He's not entirely sure what to make of it, and while he feels something stirring he decides to hold his tongue for now. It would be impolite to chew the lady out just as she's stepped off the boat - the good doctor will lecture her on her improperness and choice of undergarments later once she's inside. That corset line is riding scandalously low and it would be awful for something to pop out, the damage would be unholy! The only thing that could possibly make this worse was if the woman hiked her skirt and showed some ankle.

"Right, right," the man says with a gulp - it certainly feels like there's a hairball caught in his throat as he speaks - and he starts to make his way up the ramp.

His first impression of this woman is not a good one. The fact that Miss Borghild is actually a woman isn't the thing that bothered the doctor the most: It was the fact that she was a harlot, and not only that, but she came to the island under false pretenses! He was convinced that she was a man when he corresponded with her in those letters!