<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane5_zpsfbdee107.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Deacon Sloane<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Early evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>In front of the Casino Morongo, Main Street<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Marguerite, Nicodemus, Open<br/><hr/><br/><br/>“Many a true word has been spoken in jest,” Sloane replied dryly, offering up a quotation from the same Shakespearean tragedy that she had used in an attempt to school him.  Despite his manner and demeanor, he was well read.  Lots of time along on the open range with nothing else to do had offered Sloane a rather varied education. But her open praise of his countenance and demeanor, along with a wistful summation of her assessment of his judgment and limits almost made him laugh out loud.<br/><br/>“The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman,” Sloane deadpanned, continuing to look to King Lear for inspiration as she tried – unsuccessfully, he might add – to stroke his ego. Her behavior only confirmed his early opinion.  This was a woman used to banking on her looks to get what she wanted – and she<em>was </em>pretty.  More than pretty; downright beautiful, if he was being honest, even if there was something about her that seemed a little … worn.  But it would take more than a pretty face and a few compliments to motivate him to move away from his place of business just as the nightly traffic was heating up.<br/><br/>At the mention of propriety, one corner of Sloane’s mouth tugged upward.  “I don’t give a damn about what’s proper,” he said, eyeing her again, this time with more care.  Her hands looked a little rough to his eye, even in the low light, as if she’d been doing hard work, despite the eastern drawl in her voice.  And it was clear the dress she was wearing hadn’t been made for her. “And I’m guessing you don’t much care about it either,” he added, taking a moment to savor his cigar.  There was a story there, he was certain.  He just wasn’t sure he cared enough to find out what it was.<br/><br/>Letting the smoke slip out of his mouth and nose, Sloane glanced up the street, happening to spy Nicodemus Whateley coming towards them before turning his attention back to the girl.  “Northwest,” Sloane said, correcting her, before raising his voice just enough to carry to Nick.  “But if propriety is your concern, you might be best considering asking Mr. Whateley here to take you back to your hotel.  Better one of the scions of the town matriarch than the owner of the largest casino in Gomorra, yes?”  He turned towards the man in question.<br/><br/>“Evening, Nicodemus.”<br/>