<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f2/Beardycox.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Avery Burnman<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Law Dogs (1)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 11th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Babel's Tower bar<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Letty, various noticed in passing; Open<br/><hr/><br/><br/>A country of rootless men.  That was how Avery thought of the American West, and it was still strange to think of himself as one of them now.  It had not been by choice.  He'd had roots once but they'd been pulled up, and there was no returning to his native soil now.  Perhaps when he'd made his fortune he could enjoy a triumphant homecoming, but he was smart enough to know that for every hundred men who came to this country seeking wealth, ninety-nine likely ended as poor as they started.   Maybe he would be that one who bucked the odds.  Maybe not.<br/><br/>Hunting buffalo had already proven to be less than advertised.  He'd made enough, just enough to land himself here anyways, but not enough to linger at it long.  Particularly once his old military mates had had their fill and tucked tail for home.  No doubt they were all back in England this very minute, spinning colorful yarns about what in reality had probably been the vilest most uncomfortable six months of their lives.<br/><br/>His own sojourn here remained a practical one, and the Englishman had yet to develop many fond feelings for his adopted home.  He found Americans crass and astoundingly ignorant as a whole.  There were exceptions of course; there were exceptions to everything when it came to people, he'd long ago learned.  Judge Warwick for example had not only been welcoming but was surprisingly bright, a learned man who could actually hold an intelligent conversation.  That was a rarity though.  If you could find one man in twenty who could read or even knew the title of a book outside the 'good' one, you were lucky.  And Avery hadn't been lucky very often so far.<br/><br/>One thing he could say about this country though with genuine respect is that it was full of novelty.  It continued to surprise him with new sights and experiences, and for a man of his unquenchable curiosity that was a very welcome thing.  For example, the celestial at a nearby table talking to some handsome jack of a rancher.  She was dressed up like an American cowboy, and he wondered idly if it was an adopted habit or if she was born here.  Had she ever even seen the Orient?  He had, and sometimes almost missed it.  He had mostly liked the Chinamen and their peculiar ways.  The thought of them sailing here and witnessing the spectacle of their daughters dressing up like cowboys was an oddly amusing one.<br/><br/>Another novelty -- the proprietor, the man with the pearly smile yet steely eyes, offering barbeque and cornbread and something called cheesy grits.  Avery couldn't rightly say if it sounded good to him but the crowd seemed pleased, and he was always one to try new things.  He was listening in on a pair of miners debating the relative merits of glazed ribs and pulled pork, when a hush suddenly fell over them.  The effect was brought about by a strikingly pretty blond in an elaborate dress of lace and pearls as she swanned up to the bar for a glass of wine, looking almost like a proper lady to his eyes.  Another rarity, another novelty.  Avery was very nearly as entranced as the rest of the men, although for a slightly different reason.  This was someone important, and not just in her own mind, judging by the general reaction.  That was very much worth noting.<br/><br/>Eventually she moved on though and Avery found his gaze shifting back to the Mex next to him.  Given the speed with which she'd been knocking back shots of whiskey, she was lucky she hadn’t chipped a tooth yet.  It was none of his business and she didn't look to want any company that didn‘t come in the form of a bottle, but he couldn't help but return to a comment she'd made earlier.  Curiosity was ever his downfall.  Or one of them, anyways.<br/><br/>"Fancy letters…I suppose I did do rather well in penmanship, actually," he offered with a disarming smile, clearly not understanding what she'd meant.  "I hope you don't hold that against me though."  Reaching up, he removed the black felt derby from his head, placing the hat on the counter.  He kept a protective hand atop it, however, having had the crown of his last one flattened by some rowdy yank who thought it a great lark to play on the English swell.  "Avery Burnham, charmed to meet you, no doubt.  You do realize that it is physically impossible to drink all the whisky they serve here in just two hours though?  You might want to pace yourself.  Or at least eat something.  I'm given to understand they'll be serving bread with corn in it."   His brain did the math.  Pretty girl + a simmering anger set to boil over x whiskey = a man, nine times out of ten.  Also trouble.  Mostly trouble, actually, but it was a bit late for that.  "Who is the cad at fault if you don't mind my prying?"<br/>