<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/originals/6d/94/78/6d94780d4f325fd25f394f6d107cd949.jpg)</div>Backing her way through beaded, dressing-room curtains that rattle like a dozen snakes, a blonde-haired girl seems to be waging a tug-of-war with one of the stagehands.  "No, you prick," she scolds him, her Cthondathan accent clear as she speaks, "these are not weapons, they are for the show.  Gods curse your fucking BALLS!" she growls as she snatches the bag away from the burly, tall guard, the rattle of metal within unmistakable, and steps up to press her forehead just under his nose.  Her jaw is set so hard that her teeth grind, and her breasts, under a layer of fur and leather padding, bump against his ribcage authoritatively.  "See?  I<i>tell</i>you, this is where I<i>work</i>, and these are for the<i>show</i>, so go back to busting up drunken-headed<i>dondahars</i>or something, ok?  I have enough of your bullshit now."<br/><br/>The sack she's carrying falls to the wood-slat floor behind her and she slaps her shoulders with her open palms in an invitation to fight.  "You have a job, I have a job.  Go do your job and leave me do mine!"  She drops the overcoat of tanned hide and furs, and underneath her arms and shoulders are chiseled and taut like something carved from wood, protruding from a reddish, leather vest fight tight over her full, statuesque bust.  "Yes?  You are done?"  The guard's shaved scalp tightens as his eyebrows go higher, and his mouth moves like a gasping fish.  "You are done.  Fine, ok.  That's good."<br/><br/>For just a moment, she covers her eyes as if fighting away a migraine.  "Look, I am... I apologize, this is my first night, I am on edge.  You are just doing your job.  You keep us safe here, so... I am sorry.  Here, please.  I make these, take it as my gift, okay?"  She digs into her bag and produces a small pouch, then fishes out a leather cord and a simple iron trinket-- not a religion's emblem or sorts, but a simple mark of good luck and success.  "I'm sorry, I--" and as the bouncer turns away, he pockets the trinket, supposing that it may be worth a few coppers, leaving her standing there and feeling like an idiot.<br/><br/>Turning to face the others in the dressing room, the blonde woman seems suddenly more embarrassed about the whole display, and simply dips her head in greeting with a faint smile, before hurriedly busying herself with her bag of gear and coat, seeking an empty peg to stash her things and an empty corner in which to dress, contemplate, and hide.