<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/1/1e/Christian_Bale_Cowboy_4.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Christian "Spooky" Specter<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3rd, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Dinner Time<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Agatha's House<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Elisabeth, Agatha, Onneca<br/><hr/><br/><em>Damn she smells good.</em>That was the only thing Christian could think as she leaned towards him. Though his stony face would not reflect it, his heart sped up just a bit as she got closer and his breathing quickened slightly. Elisabeth spoke of her plans for Agatha and this Onneca woman, and Christian processed it quickly.<em>Long as she can’t hurt Aggy, I’ll be happy to stay outta the way.</em><br/><br/>Her accent stirred something in him as well; something about the exotic sound caused his eyes to narrow and hard lined cheeks to soften with the smallest of smiles. Elisabeth learned something about Christian then, something very important: when he was in the presence of women, Christian preferred to listen, rather than speak.<br/><br/>Christian nodded his head a few times when she showed him her weapon, the small revolver raising his eyebrows a bit. Gomorra was a dangerous place, to be sure, but it was just like every other hell-hole in the West. Most women did not go around armed up like Elisabeth, and that pointed to a situation direr than Christian had assumed. The death of the sheriff must have frightened people more than Christian knew, that or something more dangerous was going on. That latter thought caused Christian to drum his fingers along the handle of “Reaper.”<br/><br/>“Pleasure ta meet ya, ma…Elisabeth,” Christian bowed his head slightly out of respect, his deep baritone voice graveled  as he rumbled and stumbled a second introduction.<br/><br/>She advised him to wash up before dinner, more specifically before Agatha came back, and Christian suspected this woman was far clever than most. She knew to make sure<em>he</em>knew she was armed, and she knew how agitated Agatha would be to find him all filthy again. He stepped to the sink, and with not just a little hesitation as she gave him that smile, taking off his duster and Stetson as he did. Once he was by the water basin, he set them down with incredible care and unusual reverence. They were both in incredible shape, at least compared to the rest of him. Both had a well-oiled look to the leather and fabric, and as he set the Stetson down it almost looked as if he had said a prayer, or words to the dearly departed.<br/><br/>With his regular shirt now exposed, it became very clear just how trail worn the man really was. Christian’s shirt had not a few holes in it, located in the elbows and one along the back shoulder. In the gap of fabric on his shoulder, a puckered scar could be seen, the obvious exit wound for a bullet. It was presumably not the only one of those covering him. His pants were as worn as his shirt, though because of the tougher denim, no real holes existed. The buttocks and back of the knees were faded from constant wear. His gun belt was the last thing left on him that had a cared-for look to it. It was well-oiled as well, and the buckle looked as if it had been lovingly replaced a number of times.<br/><br/>Without the duster covering his form, he was revealed to be a lean, muscular man. He was used to the trail, and the way he stood and walked it was obvious he found the saddle easy enough. Even while drinking or bathing, he kept an watch on the horizon, eyes narrowed and lips pursed as he searched out all the dangers of the West. While his face had hard lines, giving him a sharp look, those ice-blue eyes held a certain kindness to them, a gentleness one might not expect from a grizzled gunfighter who made a reputation of gunning men down.<br/><br/>“Reaper” and “Doc” were also among the gunslinger’s few possessions. “Doc” was a well-used, well cared for, Winchester ’76, and “Reaper” was what made the man famous: a Colt Peacemaker that supposedly had taken almost as many lives as Death himself. They looked as though they were worth more than the rest of his gear combined. Both had meticulously details engravings along the stock, “Reaper” boasting images of death, while “Doc” seemed to depict angels from on high. “Reaper,” save for the quick cleaning he gave it with a frown, never left his hip. “Doc” was resting not far away, easily within arm’s reach.<br/><br/>He cupped his calloused hands and dipped them gently within the water, slowly bringing the cool liquid to his face. He took a few moments to clean his face and hands, running a bit through his hair to tame it from the lack of a hat. If he were dining with ladies tonight, he would not have the benefit of a head covering. When he had cleaned himself up a bit, though his clothes were still filthy and worn almost ragged, Christian sauntered back into the kitchen.<br/><br/>“Smells good,” his rough, husky voice commented on the carrots and the rest of the meal, or perhaps he was talking about her. He grabbed a few plates and began setting places for four people. Once the table had been set, he made his way to stand beside Elisabeth and she chopped carrots. He leaned against the counter and just watched her fingers move, deftly cutting away. Maybe he was showing off, or maybe he was not thinking, but as the knife came up from one slice he swept his fingers in and grabbed the piece, placing it in his mouth just before she brought the knife back down. A very small, almost unnoticeable grin rested on the gunslinger’s lips as he crunched on the raw carrot slowly.