"Oh, no, no, no, this simply will not do." Akeldama sweeps on Lord Maccon as he exits what Akeldama will probably forever think of as his third best wardrobe (after all, this is only a temporary arrangement). "My Lord, please tell me which of my dearest boys it was who had a hand in your dressing. Why, look at your cravat! It's positively askew!" And without so much of an apology or a pardon me, he applies himself to said cravat, straightening it with pale, cold, (dead) fingers.

"And really, the tartan waistcoat with that jacket?" He tsks his tongue as he works, apparently not concerned that he's so close to the werewolf. After all, propriety is one thing, but when you are in a three way parenting situation, and said werewolf is living in your closet, rules go out the window. What if Prudence saw him in such a state? Akeldama couldn't live with himself. "I'm surprised my darling cornflower didn't swoon at such a sight." Said cornflower, of course, being Lord Maccon's wife.