<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/5/5a/Agatha-avi.jpg) </div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Agatha Dunwich<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Unknown<br/><strong>Date:</strong>August 11th, 1875<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Bodega de Goni<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Onneca<br/><hr/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://[url=http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a5/Agatha.png]http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a5/Agatha.png[/url])</div>It had been an irritating morning for Agatha, like many irritating mornings it had been brought about by an intense lack of anything resembling rest.  The night had been hot and sticky, the kind of ick that made night clothes grasp and tug at knees and elbows and hips like mummy’s cloth.  Sometime before dawn she extracted herself from the sweat soaked shroud of linen and tossed it across the room with an unwomanly curse.  Not even the sweat that beaded her naked body cooled her fevered skin.  When sleep did come it was fitful and offered little in the way of rejuvenation.<br/><br/>This made Agatha irritable.  She had snapped at Maria twice already and the poor girl had barely deserved it.  Agatha had apologized of course, but that didn’t stop her from being surly and it affected her work.  She had miscalculated the timing on Mr. Solomon’s self-winding cuckoo clock.  It now chimed on the half an hour and for some inexplicable reason played Glory, Glory, Halleluiah and at an octave that she was sure was the cause of Mrs. Torrey’s hounds plaintive howling every half of the hour.  But the real topper had been getting one of her skirts caught in the cogs of the rotor shaft she was testing.  Only some very quick thinking and a nearby steel rod saved her lower half from a very unpleasant and potentially fatal chewing.  She now had a ruined metal bar protruding from what was left of the sophisticated turning mechanism she had been crafting for her flying machine.  That was going to set her back a pretty penny.<br/><br/>And so it was when a somewhat defeated and rumpled looking Agatha Dunwich decided that the entire day could just hump off and kiss her arse.  Agatha ripped the hem of her dress extricating herself from the ruined contraption.  She didn’t even bother to change back into the dress she had worn to work that morning.  It was just to dang hot. Agatha hiked up her skirt and strode out through the shop floor of her modest store in clothes to immodest to be wearing out on the street.  She was covered, mostly, but worn no crinoline and her chemise was of a thin material to keep her from over-heating, but the corset was still confining and not easy to sit at a work bench for long periods of time.  Agatha’s hair had been tied up nicely, but in the aftermath of saving herself from deadly embarrassment some of it had come undone and once undone it could not be redone without major effort.  So it trailed along behind her like a wildfire as her shoes thumped down the wood covered walk of main street towards the one person that she could count on to brighten her day some and hopefully help her out with a new clothing dilemma.<br/><br/>“Hola, Senorita de Goni.” She called out in her lilting accent.  She tended to slip into it from time to time like an old comfortable pair of shoes.   She spotted her childhood friend staring into a mason jar and drawing in her note book.  Momentarily forgetting her earlier irritations she hurried over to see what she was looking at.<br/><br/>“Oh he is a right feisty git, ain’t he?” She observed as the beetle rolled back over and gnashed his mandibles.  “What is he?” She followed up.  Indigenous flora and fauna of the Maze was not Agatha’s specialization she knew much more about human anatomy than about that of the local critters.<br/><br/>