<hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/25/Doggie.png)</div><strong>Name:</strong>A stranger.<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>(n/a)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 12th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Midday<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Jones’ Mercantile & Trade<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>open, Jaelyn<br/><hr/><br/>He licked his lips, noting her silent sympathy, the look like pity that crossed her face.  Many a men in Gomorra would have flashed angry at the thought of being pitied, but he had grown used to it.  He considered it for a moment, then looked around the store.  He gave a small shake of scraggly white hair when she inquired about the blacksmith.<br/><br/>He jumped a little when the door opened behind him, the slight creak of hinges as the diminutive Chinawoman slipped within.  They were a pair, at least as far as the dirt which clung to them, and he stepped away from the front counter.  There were not many who would move out of the way of a Chinese woman in Gomorra – their social status was the first rung above dirt, and the girl’s look suggested that she had just climbed up from it.  He moved back to the shelves, absently straightening things, his fingers moving over small sundries and making neat piles absently.<br/><br/>It was something to do to keep his hands busy, not an attempt to ingratiate himself with the owner.  He looked back keenly when she said Thommy Jones was her father, a half-smile crossing his face for a moment – and then it faltered.  For a moment, his eyes were haunted, as he bit back the question about her father.<br/><br/>His head dipped.  There was a flash of shame, and he tried to offer a smile that came up a little short.  “I… I’ll check with the blacksmith,” he murmured, barely audible.  He dug a hand into his pocket, fishing for something, and dropped it behind a stack of playing cards.   He let it go and gave a small nod to the little errand girl and the shopkeeper, then went to the door.  He shoved it open and staggered out into the street drawing a deep breath, pushing a hat onto his head and blinking rapidly.  The brim of the hat covered a tear that ran down a weathered cheek.<br/><br/>“Sorry, Thommy,” he murmured.  “Sorry.”<br/>