<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/72/Chestnut.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Nell Robinson<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>25 December 1875<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>evening<br/><strong>Location:</strong>On the streets of Gomorra<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Tommy Flanagan<br/><hr/><br/>Snow crunched under her feet, and it still fell, driven by the wind.  It was nice, the quiet on the street, as most had retreated into the dining rooms and saloons, or to their homes and rooms to celebrate.  Celebration was something she really hadn’t done here or in America at all...too many memories of home clouded her mind and that was never good when one wanted to start fresh.  There was nothing left of home that she could hold.  This was home now, and she was better for it.<br/><br/>Her breath hanging in the air as she walked, she moved on toward the hotel, her home now, to while away the evening with a good book and maybe a little pick-me-up.  Any more than a little and she’d regret it, she was sure.  Maybe none at all, and an early retirement or some piano.  Always possibilities to entertain her new friends.<br/><br/>Christmas crackers and paper crowns and puddings and overzealous mothers were always the order of the day, but here it was oddly a day with less gunfire than normal and a night off.  No Christmas crackers or paper crowns, no puddings.  She wasn’t even sure the good citizens of Gomorra knew what a pudding was.  One never knew what traditions were important until one left them behind...how strange.