<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>May 2nd, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Pre-dawn<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Agatha’s Home<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Christian Specter<br/><br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/>The lantern that sat at the end of Agatha’s workbench was nearing the end of its oil.  Sure she could have cranked up the generatinator and her workspace would have been flooded with a glorious electrical glow, but so would her neighbors’ house and their neighbors’ house and maybe even their neighbors’ house, not to mention the racket it made.  All of the howling ghost rock and clanking gears would have caused a stir and used more ghost rock than she cared too.  Sometimes even Agatha had to admit that old tech was the better way to go.  She didn’t have to admit it out loud mind you.<br/><br/>Agatha was busy sketching the jumble of thoughts she had throughout the day into a coherent blueprint for a new water filtration system for Beth’s greenhouse.  The pretty English flower was having a devil of a time with the brackish filth that was pulled out of the Maze.  A winding tube of a copper still, the paddle wheel of a maze raft, brass rails, explosive combustion, silk stockings…all inspiration from the day.  All were snippets and fragments of a greater idea waiting to be placed on paper. So that was where she sat.  She hadn’t finished getting out of her day clothes yet.  Her corset was undone, but hung loosely like a vest.  She had kicked off her shoes and her stocking’ed feet dangled from the tall chair on which she sat sketching away at the large sheet of paper before her.<br/><br/>She knew everyone considered her scatterbrained and she was, but it was because the entirety of existence was an inspiration.  Ideas were everywhere you just had to know where to look.  What most people didn’t know was how focused and precise Agatha Dunwich could be.  Once an idea called for paper or a blueprint called for construction she rarely stopped until it the idea was realized or the project complete.  She was dogged in this pursuit.  To the point of not eating or, as it was tonight, sleeping until something dragged her away kicking and screaming or she finished.<br/><br/><em>“Knock. Knock. Knock.”</em>Three loud precise knocks.  It was the precision of the knocks that pulled at her attention.<br/><br/><em> ‘Three precise knocks means all clear.’</em>The thought rang from the past and her las-inater focus turned towards the door to her home.  Agatha’s eyes narrowed.  She grabbed a shawl off of the back of her chair and wrapped it around her shoulders covering any indecency that might be showing.   Her silk clad feet made little sound as she crossed the floor and retrieved the derringer from her purse.<br/><br/><em>‘Couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.’</em>She thought pulling the door open quickly and leveling the small pistol at the man outside.<br/><br/>“Heya, Aggy. Good ta see ya again.”<br/><br/>It didn’t take him speaking for her to know who it was.  He was shaggier and his hair was long, but she would recognize him anywhere.  Christian Specter, a gunslinger, a quick draw artist and a stone cold killer.<br/><br/>“Spooky!”  The copper-haired woman practically squealed it in delight and practically jumped into the mans’ arms wrapping him in a warm friendly embrace.<br/>