<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/c/c0/Ginny_Avatar-01.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Whateley Family<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 4rd, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Scene of the Crime<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>The Event, Open<br/><hr/><br/>Perhaps it was a tad disturbing, but Ginny was quite pleased when she arrived at the scene.  Not at the sight of blood scattered about like someone had liberally filled a bucket and spun around in dizzying circles.  No, that sight made her cringe a bit; despite having grown up in Gomorra, this level of violence was not something she was accustomed to.  The metallic tang and sour odor of the puddled blood saturated in the air in a way that had her skin crawling, her flesh prickling in goosebumps.  No doubt she would want to strip out of all the clothes she was wearing and probably burn them.  They would never smell quite the same with what was in the air.<br/><br/>Nor was she particularly happy to pick out from the murmurs of the crowd that the wounded was no other than Elisabeth Boyle.  While she wasn't close to the Englishwoman , Ginny did frequent her store with some regularity.  In fact, the young Whateley hoped that this wouldn't interfere with her shopping expeditions; she was expecting a package that she had ordered from the London Royal Apothecary, a poultice of blended aloes that would assist in protecting her fair skin beneath the murderous rays of high noon.  It would be terribly off-putting if Miss Boyle was indisposed from what had taken place this night.<br/><br/>No, Ginny Whateley was happy simply because this had been well worth her time.  After all, she was still quite put out at having her poker table interrupted.  Initially meandering over to where the people of Gomorra were gathering, she had been worried that this would be something mundane, something ordinary.  Like some generic shootout between two drunken men that scarcely knew one end of a pistol from another.  Those had been exciting when she was at the tender age of ten; now, it would scarcely warrant a second glance from her.  Life in the Fast Country had a person growing up rather quickly.  And Virginia Mary Lou Whateley had also had her share of aging experiences, much like anyone else who lived in Gomorra, though an onlooker would have scarcely been able to tell by looking at her.<br/><br/>But this?  Gore and chunky bits?  Buckets of blood?  And the only apparent survivor, a notable shop keeper hailing from London?  This was promising and would provide hours of endless chatter from the locals.  After all, all the women needed something to gossip about over the Sunday luncheon after their usual worship service at St. Martin's.  And Ginny was more than willing to be the one feeding wood into that particular stove as she lingered around the back parts of the crowd.<br/><br/><strong>"Virginia!  Virginia!"</strong>Her name was hissed as the young Whateley turned to look to who was calling her name.   An angelic smile came to Ginny's lips at the sight of the gaggle of women, gathered around to one side, whispering among themselves.  She recognized the crowd and associated with them on a regular basis, the God-fearing, church-going group.  Led by Mrs. Howell, an older, middle-aged woman with a sharp, shrewish expression, they were a fearsome bunch.  More than one woman had been brought to tears by the viper-like whisperings and chatter that circulated in the town on their lips, all too eager to repeat whatever they had heard.<br/><br/><strong>"Mrs. Howell,"</strong>Ginny said perfunctorily, even taking a moment to sketch a brief curtsy, which admittedly looked quite odd since Ginny was dressed in leather chaps and not her usual Sunday dress.  And she noted with a bit of glee at the askance glance of some of the women in the group; no doubt they also whispered about her as well when she was not around -- about her gambling, her drinking, and scandalous behavior.  However, those whispers never grew too loud; after all, she was a Whateley and that name afforded her protection from the predatory nature of the vultures hovering around this fresh kill.<br/><br/>Besides, Ginny understood all too well how the balance of power worked.  And she was<em>good </em>friends with Mrs. Howell, being always such a<em>dear </em>and more than willing to flatter the older woman's ego.  By virtue of that, anything too salacious leaving another girl's lips would have the infamous arched eyebrow of Mrs. Howell directed at her before she shamefully flushed and apologized for acting so unladylike.  After all, the younger ones wanted to be married, and the best way to get a fine, upstanding man was to have Mrs. Howell do the introductions.  And the older ones, the married ones, needed to curry favor with her.  If a woman got on the older woman's bad side she would be a social pariah among the masses.  And no one survived too long at St. Martin's by being an outcast, a literal black sheep among God's flock.  So much for the parable about leaving the ninety-nine behind to seek the one.<br/><br/><strong>"Virginia, you would not <em>believe </em>what is going on in our good town!"</strong>Mrs. Howell hissed in hushed, but excited tones.  And at the tilt of the young Whateley's head, an indication that she should keep speaking, the older woman's hand shot out and grabbed her to haul her in closer.<strong>"Witchcraft!"</strong>The word was said as a collective gasp went up among the women, a few of them signing themselves, a few more bowing their hands to murmur a prayer against such evil.<br/><br/>To help fan the flames, Ginny put her right hand up to her lips, her green Whateley eyes widening in shock.<strong>"Yuh dun say!  'ow turrible!"</strong>Another look was given to the grisly scene where she realized that the girl she had met at the Golden Mare, was busy actually trying to do something, trying to direct people to help rather than just stand around and whisper and gawk.  She also recognized the infamous Spooky there, cutting a fearsome figure with his guns drawn.<br/><br/><strong>"I know, dear.  I know.  We must hold a vigil to pray against such horrific things!"</strong>A quick, sharp look around had all the other women bobbing their heads along in agreement.   Though Ginny knew that the words spoken about the vigil were just for show.  No one would really bother holding a prayer time; it was just empty words in this case.<strong> "Then, we also need to ensure that others are <em>warned </em>about Miss Boyle's associations with Satan and his followers!  I always knew that woman was <em>trouble</em>!"</strong>Now, that was the real heart of the matter, rich gossip to be spread, and something all the women would eagerly do.  There was a hint of smug, self-satisfaction in Mrs. Howell's tone; Ginny was quite aware that the older woman had been rebuffed by Elisabeth before when the older woman had tried to play matchmaker.<br/><br/>Of course, that wasn't important.  Oh no, Mrs. Howell was simply looking out for the welfare of Gomorra and its women.  The older woman wasn't the petty type, to bear a small grudge against Elisabeth Boyle and want to see her reputation stained and have her humbled.  No, Mrs. Howell was an upstanding citizen and a beacon for women around the town of Gomorra.  Sometimes, the hypocrisy wanted to make Ginny laugh out loud though she hide her mirthful expression with a solemn one.<br/><br/>After all, she understood her role as well in this case.  She was simply to be another follower, another sycophant, willing and eager to spread hateful things in the town.<strong>"Ah'll make sure all muh friends 'now 'bout this,"</strong>Ginny agreed with Mrs. Howell even as the older woman gave an indulgent smile and patted her arm again.<br/><br/><strong>"Aren't you just such a good girl, Virginia?  I knew I could count on you..."</strong>