<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/74/Marguerite_Tuerny_14.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Marguerite Tuerny<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 4, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Scene of the crime<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Nathan Hunter, Open<br/><hr/><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div>Nathan pushed ahead of her as they grew closer, giving her hand one reassuring squeeze before dropping it and then shouldering through the throng of people that had gathered around the scene.  He barely recognized Elisabeth amid the blood and gore, and if there was some sign the gruesomeness of the scene got to him, it was hard to pick up on it – there was a brief, warm spark of compassion for her, and then his voice took on a practiced authority.<br/><br/>"Everyone, back.  Give her some room to breathe – " his eyes traced to the long claw marks that scarred her legs, her arms, and his gaze snapped up, looking over the rooftops.  The pistol still in his hand was clenched just a little tighter, and his thumb tightened<em>just</em>so on the hammer of the Peacemaker.<br/><br/>"Everyone get back in your homes.<em>Now.</em>" There was the crack of a whip in his voice, an authority most didn’t expect from Nathan Hunter, and those gathered began to back away, unnerved by the urgency in his voice.  Some of them looked to the rooftops, too, uncertain what they would or wouldn’t find there, and some were already backing towards the homes they’d just come out of.<br/><hr/>Marguerite followed close behind Nathan, traveling the easy route left in his blustering wake.  She wasn't sure exactly what to expect, but the crowd only mildly congested the strip of yard between the two houses that defined the southern edge of the enclosure.  It was an excited crowd, but not one in panic.  The sort of folk that arrived after a train wreck rather than folk that experienced it.  She finally broke into a small courtyard defined by the the sides of three houses and a couple of fences.  A semi-private shared yard which normally hosted family activities and children's laughter.<br/><br/><em>“ - Is that the witch?”</em><br/><br/>Well now, that was one hell of a thing to say.  Marguerite thought just before pushing through the last of the crowd to arrive in a scene of bloody horror.<strong>"Au nom du Père, et du Fils, et du Saint-Esprit, Amen!"</strong>She gasped with horrified reverence as she quickly completed the sign of the cross to forehead midriff and shoulder-to-shoulder.  She grew up in Maryland, her Father spoke French, but very badly, and most of her friends spoke only English, but it was the tongue of her Mother that came to her at times like this.  Times like...<strong>"Beatissimae Virginis ora pro nobis, Clementissime Pater noster, qui tueri nos a malo."</strong>She chanted out, Latin this time.<br/><br/>After hastily doing another sign of the cross, again speaking the words in musical French, Marguerite looked to the living woman, a blonde girl, in clothing so tattered she was effectively nude.  Her face, so twisted in horror, was still lovely, and also familiar.  As was the voice so vocally calling for a doctor.<strong>"Elisabeth?"</strong>She asked, wondering at seeing the woman she'd shared luncheon with in such a situation.<strong>"Here...."</strong>She snatched a sheet off a nearby line, jerking it free of the pins before rushing forward to drape it over the brutalized woman.<br/><br/>She hugged the blonde girl briefly, though gingerly as she didn't want to further harm her.<strong>"Where are you hurt?"</strong>She asked, looking to limbs and body for signs that any of the copious blood came from her acquaintance.  The sight of so much blood, the sight of so much gore, the sight of limbs and skin removed from unidentifiable bodies didn't seem to shake the pretty young woman.  Or maybe she was just putting on a brave face as she helped her new friend.<strong>"Can you move everything?"</strong>She asked, aiding the blonde woman in testing how well her arms and legs worked.<br/><br/>As she worked, she noticed the bodies - at least two - though things were such a mess that there might well be more.  And then she saw a hand gripping a sword hilt.  The sword was still sheathed in the ornate scabbard of a Confederate Cavalry Officer, though three scant inches of blade shown bright against the red gore.  So... Lieutenant Baldrick was among the dead.<strong>"Poor Edward, I did suspect he wasn't much of a bladesman."</strong>She spoke softly, low enough that even the woman beside her had trouble making out the words.<br/><br/>Marguerite wondered, as she turned back to helping Elisabeth, just what it said about her that she could make a sexual double entendre even in the current circumstances.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Translations</div><div class="spoiler_body">In the name of the Father, the son, and the Holy Spirit.<br/>Blessed Virgin pray for us, that our Merciful Father protect us from evil.<br/></div></div>