<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>()<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 6th 7th & 8th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>(avoid precise timing)<br/><strong>Location:</strong>stagecoach drop, St Martin's Chapel, Jones' Mercantile & Trading, etc<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>closed - information only<br/><hr/><br/><br/><br/>She stood in the back, exhausted and filthy with dust, a satchel resting on the toes of boots peeking from under the ratty hem of a dress that had seen better days.  Still there was curiosity in her slowly wandering gaze.  Her arm hung numbly at her side while the fingers flexed, working out the curved grip formation they had taken over the past several days.  The endless miles of walking, the coach ride that tossed her from stem to stern, the aching in every inch of  her body; Jaelyn Scot-Jones had never looked so wretched in all her life.<br/><br/><br/>Even so, she didn’t feel half as bad as all that, hadn’t since she’d taken communion in the desert Maze under the watchful gaze of John Malta.  It was an experience she wasn't likely to forget.  The sickness it brought on wracking her body for hours until there was nothing left to expel.  He insisted she eat after that, the simple meal was delicious and she ate far more than was lady like.  Abashed, she apologized and laughed at her uncommon behavior and then slept deep and dreamless through the night until the sun's rays lit upon her cheek.<br/><br/>Jaelyn drew in a long, sweet breath, knowing the journey was near a blessed end.  There was a strange sense sneaking up inside her, unnamable just yet.  She was less unsure of the future now that the recent trip through The Maze, what with it’s terrifying memories to haunt her sleeps, was at an end.  After the waking nightmare with the Guardian Angle and the cleansing communion that followed, the preacher had traveled with her for a time and while they put one foot in front of the other for hours on end, his conversation was both soothing and sane.  He told her of many things, horrors that she was glad to escape from and truths her mind found difficult to accept.  And then one morning when she woke, blowing sand dust from her lips, he was gone.  It was later that same morning that the stagecoach happened upon her.  By then her destination had changed.<br/><br/><br/>Upon arrival in Gomorra, the stagecoach driver, who had claimed nearly all the precious coin she had, pointed her in the direction of St Martin’s.  The arduous journey wasn’t quite finished yet, so she dragged the dreaded bag - her poorly housed, blistered feet crying for relief - to the chapel.  When Father Esteban Ortega came to greet her, she recognized him - sort of.  Not his kindly face or the soft spoken Spanish lilt, but the essence of him.   It was with tremendous relief that Jaelyn found this gentle man to be less like the Reverend Grimme back in Lost Angles and more like John Malta, the preacher who’d found her in the maze.  It was evident in her small, tired smile when she handed over the sealed letter.  “I believe this is for you, Father.”<br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/>The aches and pains of her body were all but forgotten.  It was her heart now that was broken and aching.  Father Ortega had himself walked with the newly orphaned arrival, a consoling arm around the trembling shoulders as he introduced her to her new home.  He had wisely asked for assistance from a lady parishioner, who helped the still stunned Jaelyn settle in to the rooms above the store.  Her store.<br/><br/>The news of her father’s death was too fresh for total comprehension of her new status.  Even after a night of fitful sleep and racking sobs, Jaelyn was not ready to reconcile the sudden change in her circumstances.  The next day, was more terrible still as Deputy Charlie Flatbush escorted her to the body for identification.  The sight would haunt her dreams, as would the smell of days old death.  It filled her nose until she had to rush for the door to puke empty-belly bile onto the street.  After that she was able to return on shaky legs to the body, wincing at the mauling injuries.  It had been years since she saw her father, but she knew the ring on his pinky for certain.  Trembling fingers tore it from his cold, dead one to read the still familiar etching on the inside.<br/><br/>Love...  everlasting?  Anger began stirring somewhere under all the sorrow.  “It’s him,” was all she could manage, overcome with layers of sadness that some how never found her in Lost Angels.<br/><br/>“I know this is hard, Miss Scot-Jones, but perhaps you should see the banker while you’re in town.”  The good deputy waxing efficient.  She shook her head, fingers wrapped hard around the cheap wedding band.<br/><br/>“Not today, not… just yet.”  The pain was too great to care about that.  Her father, her hero, the one sure love of her life, had abandoned her to the hell of Lost Angels.  It was near enough to soul crushing  that she considered carrying out the mission just to be done with it all.  How could he have done this?  Love everlasting be damned!  And with that thought, she ran, tears streaming, back to the rooms above the dead man’s store.<br/><br/>The woman from St Martin’s soon returned with food, few words and a helping hand.  The two of them found a clean suit of clothes to bury the body in, taking time to pack the rest for charity.  A stewing anger made this job an easy one for Jaelyn, her fingers caressing the small piles of folded cloth.  Her father was rich.  Okay, not rich, but money enough to eat well and dress well.  When did he stop loving them, she and her mother?  When did he stop with the everlasting love for his wife and daughter who were near to starving and wearing rags just a few days ride away?<br/><br/>The burial service was short and sweet.  Even her anger at the unfairness of it all wasn’t enough to stem silent tears.  Here she stood in a borrowed dress crying for the father she knew and loved, nearly blind and deaf to the consolations of strangers - her father’s friends - in attendance.  Father Ortega held her icy hands in his warm ones for some time at the graveside, speaking of “mysterious ways” and “paths”.  She nodded numbly, knowing full well that she didn’t care a hoot about a God whose plans would be so cruel.<br/><br/><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote"><strong>Thommy Jones' service was packed.  Evidence that he owned the fairest general store in Gomorra, took requests, was personable and relatively generous.  Besides his friend, Deputy Charlie Flatbush, and a few members of the Collegium, the bulk of the shop owners in Gomorra attended, as well as a half dozen working girls from his favored pleasure places.  On top of that, there were more miners than could actually see the service and not a few Whippersnappers looking quite forlorn.</strong><br/></blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div>