Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)
<h1 id="title">Elliquiy Role Playing Forums</h1>
		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Small Groups =&gt; Topic started by: Ciosa on 05-03-2013, 01:13:51</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>05-03-2013, 01:13:51</strong>
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				<hr><div align="center">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e6/Reloadedbanner.png)</div><hr><br><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;" class="bbc_size">Gomorran History</span></strong></div><br><div align="center">This thread is for any posts which occur retroactively, prior to the game's start date of May 3rd, 1876.&nbsp; Please use the Tagging Header for all posts in this thread.</div><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Doomtown Tagging Header</div><div class="spoiler_body"><div class="codeheader">Code: <a href="javascript:void(0);" onclick="return smfSelectText(this);" class="codeoperation">[Select]</a></div><pre style="margin: 0; padding: 0;"><code class="bbc_code">[hr]<br>[floatleft][IMG height=200 padding=8]&lt;Link to your character's picture&gt;[/IMG][/floatleft] <br>[b]Name:[/b] <br>[b]Faction:[/b] (Unknown, or the associated faction rank.&nbsp; If faction rank is less than three, it is not required to note.)<br>[b]Date:[/b]<br>[b]Time of Day:[/b] (morning, noon, afternoon.&nbsp; Please avoid precise timing.)<br>[b]Location:[/b] <br>[b]Tagged:[/b] <br>[hr] </code></pre></div></div>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Wulfspire</strong> on <strong>05-03-2013, 05:07:16</strong>
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				<hr>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/20/Christian_Bale_Cowboy_3.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Christian “Spooky” Specter<br><strong>Date:</strong>May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Pre-dawn<br>&nbsp;<strong>Location:</strong> Agatha Dunwich’s Home<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha Dunwich<br><hr><br>Some men ride into town on a bright white horse, badge and teeth gleaming in the noonday sun. Other men ride their black stallion haphazardly through town during the full moon, firing their weapon into the air and snarling at every person they see. Christian was neither.&nbsp; It was the darkest time of the night, the moon hidden behind clouds, the wind swirling dust and dirt about town. The saloon was winding down for the night when Spooky pushed open both batwing doors with a creak. He glanced about the room making eye contact with all those present, sizing them up ready to gun them down at the slightest provocation. None provided that threat, and so the brooding gunslinger sauntered his way up to the bar.<br><br>“What’ll ya have?” the barkeep sighed at his new patron. It was not that he minded the business, any new dinero was good to have, but the hour was getting late and this man seemed completely sober, so the hopes of the poor man going home soon were dashed.<br><br>“Lookin’ for someone,” Christian spoke with a heavy Texan drawl, his voice thick as mud and sounded like gravel turning over, “red-haired gal, absent minded, likes to play with ghost rock.” Christian surprised himself with the description. He had played through this very scene many times in many towns. Every other time, he was looking for the gaunt man in black. The purpose to his journey across the vast West, and yet here he was seeking out a softer, kinder person from his past instead. <br><br>“Ah, yup, I know’r. Who’s askin?” the keep spoke with irritation, that the interruption to his closing activity was not going to at least result in some coin was too frustrating to make him cooperative any longer.<br><br>Christian finally glanced up far enough to allow the light from the dim lanterns to break the shadow of his hat. He gave the barkeep a glare, cold as the winter in the Great Northwest, his dark eyes narrowed.&nbsp; He dropped his pack to the floor behind him, the movement giving the barkeep a glance at the expertly engraved Peacemaker at his side in a quick-draw holster. “Name’s Christian, Christian Specter,” he leaned across the bar, placing his face only a few inches from the burly saloon keep’s own, a silence existing while the man processed the name. “You were tellin’ me where I can find Agatha.”<br><br>Whether the man recognized the name of Christian and the tales that went with it did not matter, he recognized a man who had killed before, and would again. The keep nodded stiffly, “Yeh…Yes sir, she…uh, she lives on the outside of town, east o’ here.” The man stammered through the description, his fear evident. Christian, having obtained his needed information, leaned back slowly from the man though his stare never broke from the eyes of the keep who showed such disrespect. He finally harrumphed and picked up his pack, breaking eye contact with the poor, frightened fellow. He sauntered his way back to the door, and just as he was halfway through it, he turned back to the barkeep halfway.<br><br>“If you see a gaunt man, dressed all in black, tell him Spooky is gunnin’ for’m,” Christian growled, before letting the doors swing behind him as he made his way into the dreary night. <br><br>The streets were all but cleared, the hour late and only the early shift miners would be waking soon to start their day. As Christian strolled the streets, he made note of the various locations, many of them saloons and brothels, places miners would find an easy outlet for what they made at their claim. He thought on the months and years that had passed since he had last seen Agatha, those few weeks they had spent together as he made sure she was safe. Why the fast draw gunslinger had decided to take her on as a charge remained a mystery, even to himself.&nbsp; Yet, he had, and over the years he had come to see Agatha as something of a sister, and the watchful eye he kept over her during that trip certainly seemed like one of an older brother. The memory of those times brought a tiny smile to his face, and a twinkle in his eye.<br><br>A few minutes later, he arrived at what had to be Agatha’s house. The contraptions that jut out from the abode randomly, at least it was random to Christian as he had no idea what they did, was easy to spot, and gave proof to the owner of the residence. Christian did something rare at the moment, and grinned a warm, hearty grin. <br><br><em>Hell, I coulda found her place without that ornery barkeep. </em>He thought to himself as he slowly shook his head. Christian swaggered up to the door, and dropped his pack from his shoulder and onto the ground beside him. He put his head down so that the brim of his hat would hide his face and gave the door three firm, precise knocks. <br><br>When, or if, she answered the door, he planned to raise his head up slowly, dramatically revealing who he was. He would give her a small smile, the largest of that particular emotion he gave anyone these days. Of course, the obsessive gunslinger had forgotten not everyone kept the same strange hours he tended towards, so he might have accidentally woken her, or worse yet, angered her.<br><br>As always, his facial hair was unkempt, though it held a hint of grey in the brown that covered his bearded face, different than the last time they had seen each other. His hair was longer than she might remember it being, as he did not find much time, or more likely attention, to get it cut. His clothes were filthy, as was he, as many weeks on the trail with no hint of a bath or laundry had dust caking his cheeks and hands. Yet, despite all of that, he held that smile for her, and the twinkle in his dark eyes bespoke of the fondness with which he saw the woman before him.<br><br>“Heya, Aggy. Good ta see ya again,” he drawled with his baritone, rocky voice.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>05-03-2013, 07:51:21</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; A week before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Harley<br><br><br><br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/30/Steam_baby.jpg)</div>“A glass of the Superior.”&nbsp; Agatha Dunwich sat at the end of the bar at the Casino Morongo.&nbsp; Her silk clad legs crossed properly where she perched on the soft leather covered barstool.&nbsp; Deacon Sloane spared no expense and that was why Agatha was here, that and it was the only place in town that supplied a top notch Irish Whiskey.&nbsp; A week ago she had brought Sloane a few new prototypes for the girls and their customers to enjoy.&nbsp; &nbsp;Today an invitation had arrived asking her to the Morongo to discuss future orders. <br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; It wasn’t hard to spot Agatha Dunwich around town.&nbsp; She was the one with sparkling emerald eyes and flame kissed copper hair.&nbsp; Her dresses and smocks often include little clockwork and science gadgets built right into her bonnet or corset.&nbsp; It could be anything from retractable mirrors to temperature controlled auto fanning devices, though tonight her dress held nothing of the sort.&nbsp; Instead it was her jewelry that was made up of copper and brass and silver and gold discs and wheels and tiny little cogs.&nbsp; Oh and the feathers in her hair.&nbsp; She thought they looked so pretty on the Indian woman outside of town that she had incorporated them into her own style. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Unlike most proper woman Agatha often wore her long copper hair down.&nbsp; She thought it was such pretty hair and saw no reason to bundle it all up and tuck it away, unless she was working with high combustible substances of course, but that was just common sense.&nbsp; Anyway, she saw no need to hide it, not even paired with one of the miniature bonnets that were all the rage with the upper class ladies of the day. Elizabeth would know all about that.&nbsp; Maybe she should ask her about it next tea.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha’s tumbling thoughts, they often got that way when she was idle or bored or it was Sunday, were interrupted by the arrived of a tumbler full of ice and the delicious nectar that was Superior Brand Irish Whiskey.&nbsp; She gave the barkeep a polite smile and slipped a quarter from the purse she held in her lap and set it on the bar.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Casino Morongo presented an interesting test for Agatha. She watched the tainted doves flutter from table to table, some landing on the shoulder of a lucky gambler some plucking little morsels from the crowd of ghost rock miners and card players and flying them off to their lovely little nests.&nbsp; Occasionally one of the doves would flitter near to thank her for the wonderful toys she gave them and she would smile and nod and send them on their way all the while wishing she could cup one gently in her hands and feel their soft feathers against her flesh.&nbsp; So it was again tonight, an exercise in restraint and a good old fashion shot of whiskey.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha sighed and raised the glass, bringing the amber liquor to her pink glossy lips (a purchase from The London Royal Apothecary). The whiskey’s heat felt good against her lips and on her tongue and she closed her eyes for a moment to savor it.&nbsp; A small satisfied smile touching her lips.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Phaia</strong> on <strong>06-03-2013, 00:05:08</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1217.photobucket.com/albums/dd394/Vithe_rothe/Doomtown/Doomtown364_zps8fc2f536.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Lady Elisabeth Boyle<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Member of the Collegium.<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Monday, May 1st 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Just after dawn.<br><strong>Location:</strong> Her bed and private room.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Open<br><br><br><br><hr> <br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">night terror</div><div class="spoiler_body">‘…the mist rolled around her and the eyes glowed green and red and circled and she felt the fear coil in her soul and the desire flame in her body. It had seemed like hours and she was tired and sore and soiled and her soul was filled with a terror that at times held her screams choking in her throat. She struggled again bound over the black altar as something came close in the mist, its cold clawed hands slid up her naked flesh and she screamed again straining at the black metal chains that held her…the claws reached for her and …’</div></div><br>Elisabeth sat up in her bed as the sun peeked through her drawn shades. She was trembling and sweat covered her nude flesh. Her bed was wet from the sweat and her forced desire as she held the light cover up around her. She took a dozen deep breaths that made her lovely breasts quiver as they rose and fell then shook the damp hair from her face and stood letting the cover fall away revealing that as many rumored she slept completely nude. She had always done so since she turned 12, it had felt more natural to her and somehow correct. She made her way to the wash stand and poured water into the basin and then took hand fulls to splash her face. It was wasteful she knew that but she needed to try and stem the fires in her body somehow.<br><br>It was Monday morning, so at least she did not have to again make an excuse as to why she looked haggard to the ladies of her tea group. Monday after all was the day she would go over to the other mesa and visit with the Collegium. She supposed that would be very useful considering the after affects her night terror always placed on her. At least there she could look for help in her relief without it becoming gossip fodder for the righteous ladies of the First Church of Gomorra.<br><br>She stretched feeling her body’s need and sighed. It was becoming harder to ignore and fight off. Ever since she had arrived in Gomorra the night mare she has had since she was 12 had become more frequent. Once a week now and sometimes even more and each time left her harried and ragged for 2 days afterward, the fear or the nightmare had dogged her for 12 years now and still she never could fully remember it… Glowing eyes in the mist or fog, altars of black rock, chains of black metal and her always helpless unable to escape…terrified at the things she could not see. <br><br>As she looked in the mirror she again wondered why she didn’t just leave. Before she had arrived in Gomorra the dream had come only once a month at worst, yet now she could not go a week without it influencing her. She should leave. Yet she did not want to. Something had drawn her here and she felt she had to stay to find out what that was. It was illogical, it went against all her reason and yet she could not find the will to leave.<br><br>So she fixed herself some coffee and a bite to eat and dressed in her nice skirt and blouse, making sure to slip her revolver into the special holster she wore. Checking herself and gathering her fedora she headed out and walked briskly through the early morning streets till she came to the bridges across to the Distinguished Collegium of Interspatial Physics. <br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>06-03-2013, 06:55:12</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Pre-dawn<br><strong>Location:</strong> Agatha’s Home<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Christian Specter<br><br><br><br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The lantern that sat at the end of Agatha’s workbench was nearing the end of its oil.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; All of the howling ghost rock and clanking gears would have caused a stir and used more ghost rock than she cared too.&nbsp; Sometimes even Agatha had to admit that old tech was the better way to go.&nbsp; She didn’t have to admit it out loud mind you.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; 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.&nbsp; The pretty English flower was having a devil of a time with the brackish filth that was pulled out of the Maze.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; All were snippets and fragments of a greater idea waiting to be placed on paper. So that was where she sat.&nbsp; She hadn’t finished getting out of her day clothes yet.&nbsp; Her corset was undone, but hung loosely like a vest.&nbsp; 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>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; She knew everyone considered her scatterbrained and she was, but it was because the entirety of existence was an inspiration.&nbsp; Ideas were everywhere you just had to know where to look.&nbsp; What most people didn’t know was how focused and precise Agatha Dunwich could be.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; She was dogged in this pursuit.&nbsp; 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>&nbsp; &nbsp;<em>“Knock. Knock. Knock.”</em>&nbsp; Three loud precise knocks.&nbsp; It was the precision of the knocks that pulled at her attention. <br><br>&nbsp; <em> ‘Three precise knocks means all clear.’</em>&nbsp; The thought rang from the past and her las-inater focus turned towards the door to her home.&nbsp; Agatha’s eyes narrowed.&nbsp; She grabbed a shawl off of the back of her chair and wrapped it around her shoulders covering any indecency that might be showing.&nbsp; &nbsp;Her silk clad feet made little sound as she crossed the floor and retrieved the derringer from her purse. <br>&nbsp;<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.&nbsp; He was shaggier and his hair was long, but she would recognize him anywhere.&nbsp; Christian Specter, a gunslinger, a quick draw artist and a stone cold killer.<br><br>“Spooky!”&nbsp; The copper-haired woman practically squealed it in delight and practically jumped into the mans’ arms wrapping him in a warm friendly embrace.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Sabre</strong> on <strong>06-03-2013, 15:01:53</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/WNjJJwF.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jonathan "Gray"<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> Tuesday, May 2nd 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning, just after sunrise<br><strong>Location:</strong> Streets of Gomorra, entering the New Moon Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Open<br><hr><br>He hadn't slept for a whole day.&nbsp; Not after the nightmare.<br><br>Rolling forward in the saddle clutching his face, he blinked hard and tried not to shiver in place telling himself over and over again it was just another dream.&nbsp; Another night terror he'd known since forever.&nbsp; He didn't even remember a time where he hadn't had a terrifying night at least once every few months, but in the past few years it had steadily increased to once a month.<br><br>Now?&nbsp; This was the second week in a row.&nbsp; Perfect.&nbsp; Just when things couldn't get any worse.&nbsp; He was already a little paranoid thinking someone from the troupe would follow him, or that the Confederacy would care enough to send a Ranger hot on his trail.&nbsp; He didn't need this on top of everything.&nbsp; To make things worse he was totally out of ammunition, having used the last to scare off some coyotes a few nights ago.&nbsp; Now all he had was his sabre, wrapped in leather and slung around his shoulder.&nbsp; It was too fine and the silver would catch the sun - so he was relieved to see the town of Gomorra on the horizon.<br><br>He cut an elegant if a little roughened figure on his fine horse and exquisite suit.&nbsp; A man with money from a distance, and hopefully now that he was in town someone not foolishly mugged for the hundred dollars in his pocket.&nbsp; He took one man's hands for that sleight already, and hoped not to sour his relations with this new town that quickly with violence.&nbsp; If all went well he could live here, hide here, and just maybe find that peace of mind that could stop the nightmares.<br><br>Hitching his tired horse he cleared his throat as he entered through the saloon doors, he hoped for a nice drink to quench his thirst and maybe learn a thing or two about the town.&nbsp; An interesting place - he could swear he saw the words London on a sign back there... no, couldn't be.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kokaine</strong> on <strong>06-03-2013, 20:01:40</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://i167.photobucket.com/albums/u133/kokotigress/Elliquiy/Doom%20Town/donna-feldman-4_zps795d249b.jpg)</div><hr><strong>Name:</strong> Isobel Harley Montoya Marquez - "Harley"<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown to the public thus far<br><strong>Date:</strong> A week before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha<hr> Body tired and even a little sore, Harley sat alone at the bar with only the remnants of the house rotgut she'd ordered up earlier as company despite the mix of patrons that filled the place. Content to merely relax and observe rather than try her hand at one of the tables, she'd chosen an unobtrusive seat off to the side that gave her a nice little vantage point should trouble decide to mosey on in. <br><br>Of course, this being Gomorra, trouble had a way of sneaking up on a body despite one's intentions.<br><br><em>“A glass of the Superior.”</em> <br><br>She heard the words spoken from not too far away and for some reason knew right away who they belonged to, the image of a sleek little red fox coming to mind almost instantly. Seemed the pretty little fox had decided to come out of her den and mingle amongst the hounds for a spell... <br><br>Harley's casual slouch did not change a lick as she leaned against the counter top but her attention did shift toward the copper haired scientist who incited a certain amount of curiosity in the tall Hispanic woman. To her way of thinking, curiosity was just trouble spelled differently but on a mostly quiet night like tonight her resistance was admittedly low--boredom could do that to a body. <br><br>She'd seen the woman out and about a number of times of course, that hair of hers always bringing to mind the same image while whispers followed in her wake, but being who she was Harley hadn't much bothered trying to speak to her. Most often there just wasn't much for her to say and she didn't often take it upon herself to draw attention her way without a good cause. Being a half-breed nearly as tall as the men folk that roamed about with a gun belt slung about her hips, she stuck out plenty on her own.<br><br>Isobel Harley Montoya Marquez. <br><br>A decidedly long name for a woman with an admittedly short history. The first Isobel Montoya Marquez had been a woman with a lengthy, colorful past and a reputation to match, but her daughter had chosen a different path for herself. Something quieter... at least for now. If it wasn't for the fact that she was literally the spittin' image of the woman, there'd have been no obvious connection between the Peruvian entertainer who practically oozed charm and sex with her every breath and the Texas born woman seated in Morongo with her dark hair pulled back into a thick braid that she kept tucked into the mens shirt she wore. Of course, she didn't expect that anyone in Gomorra knew who her mother was anyhow so it wasn't as though she worried about that... much. <br><br>Brown eyes shifted again, her attention turning back to the barkeep as her quiet perusal of the scientist seemed to drag up a matching thirst in her given the way she seemed to be enjoyin' that drink of hers.<br><br>"Hey barkeep, I'll have what she's havin'." The words were out of her mouth before she even had a chance to register her own intentions, her left hand already producing enough coin from dusty trousers that had certainly seen better days to cover the cost. She didn't have much in the way of money but what little she did come upon usually went quick, her concern for the present not wrapped up in some dream of owning anything more than she could carry.<br>"From the way you make it look, gotta be a damn sight better than this swill." She said almost off hand to Agatha in her deep smoky drawl as the barkeep went to fill her order. 
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>xPeachyPuff</strong> on <strong>06-03-2013, 22:03:43</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://pursuitist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/kate-upton2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Annabel Montgomery.<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown.<br><strong>Date:</strong> Tuesday, May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning - Just after Sunrise.<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Open<br><hr> <br><br>Deep blue and bloodshot. A finger tugged gently at the dull, tired skin beneath her equally tired eyes and the female let out a frustrated sigh. Why couldn't she sleep? It wasn't like she was having night terrors, in fact, she didn't remember ever dreaming, but still her mind wouldn't allow her to rest properly. Turning away from the cracked mirror that was hanging on the wall, the blond stretched her arms above her head while her head tilted back, letting out an unsatisfied groan. After twisting at the hips ever so slightly to further stretch, Annabel began over towards the window that was currently covered with thin, dusty cloth for privacy; the sun wouldn't seem to leave her alone however, shining through the material mercilessly to brighten the small room. Her fingers fiddled with one edge of the fabric before cautiously pulling it aside an inch to peek through, the hot sun almost blinding her. Quickly pulling away, the blond shook her head and shuffled blindly over towards the simple, open-fronted, wooden wardrobe while her hands rubbed at her blue eyes. Grumbling to herself as she regained her sight, her hands began fumbling through the item's upon the rail though she knew she had no choice what to wear that morning. Tugging a couple of items from their places, Annabel tossed them over onto the bed. She had the morning shift and she wasn't looking forward to it; luckily for her though, it seemed to be relatively quiet in the early mornings. <br><br>Letting out an unladylike yawn, the Southern girl made her way over towards her bed to change; currently, she was dressed in what she had slept in that night, her birthday suit. The blond pulled on a pair of simple pearl coloured knickers with the occasional frill and a matching bra, offering little support. She then pulled a white, sleeveless shirt over her shoulders and began fastening the buttons as far up as was allowed, leaving a little cleavage on show. The blond then fastened a deep, dusty pink coloured corset under her bust and let out a little sigh before tugging on a white, flowing skirt that reached just above her knee's in the front and draped down to her ankles around the back. The garment was decorated with dusty pink ribbon and decorative lace so as not to look so plain. The girl gave her hair a quick tidy up then, splitting the locks in half to let the bottom half fall over her shoulders while the top half she secured with a couple of bobby pins to create a small bouffant on the top of her head. A pair of dusty, worn white boots (http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/61cHXIgxbJL._SL1000_.jpg) completed her outfit and she made sure she looked at least a bit presentable in the mirror before flashing her prized possession a fond glance. That possession happened to be sitting on the only wooden chair in the corner of the room, along the wall with the window; her beautiful guitar. Then, she was through her door, locking it securely before pressing the key into her shirt, beside her right Brest.<br><br>Annabel could hear the gentle whistle of one of her coworkers as she started down the hallway, her boots clipping the floor with a gentle tapping sound. As she started down the stairs to the main area of the Saloon the whistling only became louder and it became apparent the older woman was wiping down a few of the tables. Only a few patrons were present which made her feel a little more relaxed. Giving a quick nod to the older woman who seemed extremely cheerful, the blond made her way behind the wooden bar. Annabel quickly picked up a rag and began wiping the surface over, calling out to the woman casually in a light southern accent as she got to work. <br><br>"When ya' gotta sec, y'mind rustlin' me up somethin'? Haven't eatten' yet." Flashing the woman a friendly smile after her request seemed to only sweeten the question and the woman gave a motherly reply that she'd be happy to make her something quick. Of course, it didn't have anything to do with the fact she got to sneak into the kitchen and have a few drinks privately, oh no, it was all Annabel. Shaking her head ever so slightly, the blond glanced around the bar for a moment before turning her back to beginning giving the bottles of liqueur a quick spit shine.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Wulfspire</strong> on <strong>07-03-2013, 04:43:43</strong>
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				<hr>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<br><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/20/Christian_Bale_Cowboy_3.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Christian “Spooky” Specter<br><strong>Date:</strong>May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Pre-dawn<br>&nbsp;<strong>Location:</strong> Agatha Dunwich’s Home<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha Dunwich<br><hr><br>Two things surprised Christian at that point in time. One, Agatha had a gun leveled at him. The way he remembered things, that was very unusual for her. Two, she jumped on him. It rocked him back, but that slight smile he had graced her with a moment before turned into a confused half-chuckle. Her embrace was well received, as he had missed her something terrible. There were three women in his life he thought about daily; his mother, his sister, and Agatha, who he considered as much a sister as any relative. He had not heard from his mother or sister in years now, mail just had trouble finding him. Agatha he had seen as recently as a year or so ago, and his adoration of the lass had not changed a bit.<br><br>“Now, a fella could get used ta a welcomin’ like that,” Christian drawled. That slight smile was there again, but the way he looked at her spoke volumes on his joy, “I hope I didn’ wake ya. ‘course, if I remember thinks right, you always were up till the dawn fiddlin’ with one thing or ‘nother.” He gave her a quick wink, then scooped her back up into another hug. Christian was not a touchy-feely kind of guy, but when it came to Agatha, his nature changed somewhat. He was, for the lack of a better word, happy. The constant itch in his head to hunt for that Man in Black muted when he focused on caring for his little sis Agatha, be it cooking stew for supper, carrying a heavy load, or keeping unsavory types from her, it made him rest easy. At least for a time.<br><br>“I got a favor ta ask, Aggy,” Christian spoke, his voice heavy with the ever-present growl, “I’ma be ‘round for a spell, could use a bunk. Got any room?” The trepidation in his voice spoke he was embarrassed to even ask. Normally, he would have grabbed a room at the saloon while he investigated the sighting of the Man in Black, but the Maze was an expensive place to take up the hunt. His last job, hunting down some bandits for the local law, had gone sour with the locals stiffing him for the reward money as he had not brought back any survivors to be tried and hung, just gunned them down. <br><br>His cash on hand was running thin, and Fate had chosen to bring him to Agatha’s doorstep. He remembered walking her towards the edge of town, where they parted ways last time. The Man in Black had been spotted north in Shan Fan, so he had been able to spend some weeks traveling with Agatha, but Gomorra was where they parted ways. It had been a day of notable sadness for the stoic killer, the first real companionship of any kind he had had in years slipping away as he continued the hunt.<br><br>“I understand, ‘course, if ya don’t. I can set up camp outside ‘a town. You know me, Spooky aint got not problem sleepin’ under the stars,” Christian gave her a wink, and a way out. He knew he could be dour company to have around, so he would not blame her if she turned him away.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>07-03-2013, 06:59:20</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; A week before game start.<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Harley<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha’s eyelids fluttered open at the smoky voice ordering the drink.&nbsp; She had noticed the dark-haired woman leaning against the bar.&nbsp; She was being unobtuse with her presence, but it surely wasn’t easy.&nbsp; A hard working woman in Gomorra wasn’t hard to find, but not many wore a man’s clothes so comfortably and openly.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha’s emerald eyes took in the dark hair and sun-kissed olive skin.&nbsp; So much like someone else she knew. However this woman’s clothing, cut for a man, concealed some but not all of the obvious curves of womanhood.&nbsp; The young lady hid it well, but she was quite a beauty.&nbsp; It was when the bartender reached for the Superior that it occurred to Agatha that the lady had been referring to what she was drinking.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “Aye, you won’t regret it.” Agatha answered with a hint of an Irish lilt in her voice.&nbsp; Agatha’s accent was subtle, she had spent so much time away from her family that she sounded more English now, but Ireland always had a way of creeping back into her voice.&nbsp; With a smile she set her tumbler on the bar though her hand never left it.&nbsp; The alcohol and ice formed cool droplets of water along the surface of the glass wetting her fingertips.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“This is the only place in town with an Irish Whiskey worth a damn.” She said, though the two bottles Agatha kept in her cabinet at home would certainly argue that point.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She did not know the young woman’s name, but she had been noticed about town as well.&nbsp; A woman that tall and that pretty would not go unnoticed no matter how hard she tried to hide it.&nbsp; She watched the quiet young lady as the barkeep returned and set the glass down on the bar, pocketing her quarter and leaving the two women alone to attend to other customers.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“And how did I make it look, exactly Miss…?” She asked, her crossed leg dangling a soft booted foot. <br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>07-03-2013, 18:58:46</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a1/Onnecamug2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; June 16, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Onneca's Home<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; (Closed)<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>It was sunny in California. It was much too warm for the way Onneca was dressed, but that was the fashion; ladies suffocated and died of stroke in relentless heat lest men's passions be inflamed by the sight of flesh. A young woman, an unclaimed flower like Onneca had to be especially mindful not to show too much skin, for this was the Wild West, and she only a subhuman of the Mexican persuasion, and had inherited her madre's tetas. It had always been this way, vigil stewardship of a little relic of Mexico that was her own body- it had been this way since before she had filled out, when she was just a chest-high dimpled girl following the railroad camp, and it would be this way until she were no longer pretty, but was still Onneca.<br><br>It weren't to protect from any man that prompted Onneca to dress up in her padded garments, her sun hat and homemade veil of lace. The sweltering layers were to protect against the stings of bees, for although her darlings would surely never willfully sting her, sometimes finding an olive-toned hand reaching into the hive triggered an instinct, like a dog chasing a fleeing child. And once one bee had stung, it painted a bullseye for all its sisters to attack. The swarm reflex, the literature called it. One brave bee, one act of self-sacrifice, and a whole lot of hell unleashed in defense of la familia. Onneca had to admire that.<br><br>The bees hovered by the hundreds as the beekeeper's gloved fingers gently replaced the shelves of her Langstroth hive, slowly, so that no single bee was harmed by the movement of the components. Langstroth was a Southern gentleman, many states away, a beekeeper like herself, a pious man in his autumn years at sixty-six, and quite charming in his correspondence with young Onneca. When he wrote to her, he called her <em>child, </em>and there was comfort in that. But they had never met, and Onneca preferred it that way- she could be much more eloquent on paper, where she had the benefit of her books on English syntax and grammar to help her. In reality she was a bashful mess, and right about now, a rather hot one.<br><br>Already she was sweating and panting for breath as she stepped away from the honeybee hives in her apiary. She had the patience and fortitude to gently coax each bee off the surface of her suit, lest it follow her inside and perish in a window, alone and confused. Some of the bees just didn't get the message the first or second time she removed them. "Go on, go back inside," she said to them. "Go and see your sisters." Finally, when she was sure that they were all safe, she came back into the house. The heat was almost too much to bear, and she began to strip just inside the door.<br><br>Luxurious, wax-treated waves of raven hair fell in a cascade of silk down her shoulders as she relieved herself of the veil. Stray curls clung to her sweaty brow, and her cheeks were flush as peaches. Even as the padded suit juddered down her shimmying body, she was wearing her white stockings, her cotton drawers, her chemise underneath, the bare necessities for a respectable lady's underthings. Too hot- it was too hot for all that. The beekeeper's suit pooled on the floor of her private estate, and with a whine of complaint the chemise followed. Everything followed. It was unthinkable, unheard of. The only thing that remained was the golden conquistador crucifix she kept hidden between her breasts on a necklace, and that alone remained, because Jesus was always close to her heart.<br><br>When her tanned and slender body slumped into a wicker chair, naked as a jaybird, it was so very gratifying. As a girl she had lived with strangers, never able to be naked. As a young woman she had lived on the cavalcade, and there was no privacy at all- the dull-eyed boys used to sneak after and watch her when she peed, and she'd become what they called <em>gun shy </em>as a result. Even during her teenage years, she was caring for her madre, and it was a right and proper house, with no hours of the day for clothes not to be worn.<br><br>But now she was a single woman, a bachelorette in her own estate, and for the first time in her entire life, she was allowed to be naked. As she caught her breath, a shivering, delighted gasp escaped with each exhale. Just for a while, she'd oblige herself this treat of the daylight and the warm air on tender skin. And then it would be back to work- because there were too few hours in the day for anyone out West to spend them idly.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>07-03-2013, 20:00:05</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr> <br><br>Deputy Nate Hunter wheeled his horse to a stop, frowning at the forward camp, shielding his eyes from the sun for a moment with his hand.&nbsp; The horse wheeled, skittish, at the sight of so many tents, so many people milling, hauling picks and shovels, the clatter of metal as the rail continued to extend south, inch by inch.&nbsp; He frowned to himself, the sunlight reflecting off the tin badge which held no power here.&nbsp; These were Kang's men, but a bounty was a bounty, and a murder in Gomorra demanded an accounting.<br><br>Still, the notion of being surrounded by hundreds of Chinamen made him a bit nervous.&nbsp; He'd learned quickly how much the orientals of Sodom closed ranks no matter what questions were being asked.&nbsp; He slid down off the horse, self consciously touching the Peacemaker at his side.&nbsp; For a moment, his gaze slid to the shotgun still strapped to the saddle.<br><br>No.&nbsp; Too much.&nbsp; The enforcers that surrounded them camps likely wouldn't appreciate a swaggering entry. Nate had managed to get far further with politeness.&nbsp; He plucked at his duster, a bead of sweat already forming on his brow, and stepped forward towards the camp, wondering if the sword and pistol wielding enforcers were meant to keep folks out - or in.&nbsp; <br><br>He looked over the guards, approaching one, catching a small flash of a book stuck into the man's back pocket.&nbsp; He bowed his head in quick greeting, giving his best grin, a corner of his mouth arching to make the goatee look nominally rakish.<br><br>"My name's Nathan Hunter, I'm a Senior Deputy out of Gomorra.&nbsp; I was hoping to have a word with the camp's foreman, sir."<br><br>He bowed his head again, only to be met with an inscrutable gaze.&nbsp; <br><br>Nate gave a small smile.&nbsp; "Now, unless you're using that copy of the <em>Manchester Man</em> in your back pocket as toilet tissue, I imagine you understand every word I'm saying.&nbsp; I promise, I won't haul anyone out your camp without your boss's say so, but I imagine you and he can line your pockets off the bounty on this man, and my only concern is seeing him brought to justice.&nbsp; There's a seventy dollar reward.&nbsp; Split two ways, that goes pretty far in the casinos in Gomorra."<br><br>The guard cocked his head, amused.<br><br>"Follow," he said tersely.&nbsp; "Mr. Senior Deputy."<br><br>Nate gave another small smile, and a nod.&nbsp; "A pleasure, Mister..."<br><br>The man shot him a gaze that suggested Nate had best temper off any further inquiry.&nbsp; "Rooster."<br><br>Nate pursed his lips.&nbsp; That didn't sound like any Chinese name he'd ever heard, and his puzzlement showed on his features.&nbsp; The guard grabbed his crotch.&nbsp; "Big Rooster."<br><br>Nate blinked, but held the amusement and any inappropriate comments in check.&nbsp; "After you, Mr. Rooster."<br><br>He adjusted his jacket, shaking off the sensation he was descending into the lion's den.<br><br>[OOC:&nbsp; This particular thread has been moved to Out of Town (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=167760.0).&nbsp; Part of it will act as a prologue for certain events in game.]
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>07-03-2013, 22:56:05</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i627.photobucket.com/albums/tt357/Niferbelle/my%20avatars/doomtown7av_zps641b8122.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver<br><strong>Faction:</strong> There have been a few rumors but who listens to those<br><strong>Date:</strong> Tuesday, May 2nd 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning, just after sunrise<br><strong>Location:</strong> Streets of Gomorra, entering the New Moon Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jonathan, Annabel, open<br><hr>Lilah had woken up when it was still dark and the horizon wasn't something the sun had even started thinking about yet. She was an early rise, but that had been early for her, and by all rights she should have rolled over and caught some more sleep before it was time to be up making breakfast. But she'd felt restless, and it only took a couple minutes before she realized going back to sleep wasn't gonna be an option. She was dressed in no time, got a small fire and a pot of coffee going for the really early risers, and headed into town. It couldn't help but bring a smile to her when she thought of all the men grousing and grumbling like old bears when they realized they'd be feeding themselves this morning but it was good for them to do for themselves every once in awhile.<br><br>She wasn't sure why she headed into town. It wasn't like Gomorra had ever been very good to her but life around the camp could get dull and she couldn't pester Jack and Harley all the time, they had things to do, and a ride to town always broke things up and left her feeling lucky for what she had. She liked riding into town this early. The only folks up and about were those who had to be and those who hadn't been to bed yet, two kinds of people who had better things to do than worry about what she was up to. The streets were so deserted that even in the watery lighjt of dawn it would have been hard to miss the man in fancy dress sloped over his saddle like his spine was a question mark. Rich as he looked, he was on the ragged edge Lilah could see as she fell in behind him, and she watched him with no small amount of curiosity, half to see if he was going to take a tumble, and half because he didn't look familiar to her and she couldn't help wondering who he was. Was he another damn Whateley or just another Sweetrock goon in a frock coat? There was a chance maybe he was one of those Collegium gents, that would be the better option of the three, for while Lilah couldn't much make sense of them Collegium types, they'd never walked on her bad side neither. She pulled up and snorted quietly to herself as the man stopped at the saloon.&nbsp; If he were the sort to start drinking before the sun came up that likely accounted for his condition, and she would have just rode on if she hadn't noticed something fall out of his pocket when he dismounted. <br><br>"Hey mister," she said, but just missed catching his attention as he disappeared inside so she sighed and was off Queenie in flash, tethering the little appaloosa up next to the stranger's horse and grabbing the errant object off the street and turning it over in her hand. It was a pipe, a fancy one at that, and wouldn't last long out here without some vulture getting their hands on it. She pulled off her well-worn Stetson and beat the dust off it before following him inside. "'Scuse me, Mister, you dropped this outside."<br><br>Her boots rang out against the floor as she approached him, arm outstretched to hand him back his pipe. She paid no mind to the pretty blond behind the bar, half-expecting to get shooed out like a stray dog though she didn't intend to linger long enough to give anybody the chance. Closer up, she could see the man was a looker even looking like hell like he did now and she was aware of what an odd figure she probably was to him, a young woman of questionable ancestry, dressed like a boy in sturdy dungarees and a coarse white work shirt under her blazer, boots scuffed and wavy brown hair a little wild since she hadn't done much to it when she got up. Not that she was much concerned about all that at the moment -- she just wanted to give the man his property and be on her way.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Pumpkin Seeds</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 00:59:31</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://img5.imageshack.us/img5/1570/shanghainoon2000m720pbl.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jia Li<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Maze Rats<br><strong>Date:</strong> February 3rd 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Aboard The Typhoon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Open<br><hr><br>The hand was on her body again.&nbsp; A momentary touch, a simple slip of the digits beneath silken threads meant to keep away such unwanted attention.&nbsp; To date she had allowed such things to slide past her, kept the knowledge to herself.&nbsp; Perhaps she had been foolish in think that a failure to rise to the occasion would keep the attentions at bay.&nbsp; Unwise in the way of men Jia Li had hoped the man’s curiosity would abate or turn to a more willing victim.&nbsp; Every day the attentions and demands grew worse culminating in this moment where he cornered her in the bowels of the ship.&nbsp; The Typhoon as she was called, for she had been told ships were women, rocked and creaked without judgment for what transpired.&nbsp; Against her back rose the steel of the ship’s hull while to her front rose the pawing of the sailor.&nbsp; Disgust registered on her face as he whispered phrases that perverted her native language and made her feel a primal revulsion.<br><br>Jia Li had spent months trying to hide from notice, months simply wanting to fit into the pack of rats.&nbsp; She had asked for no attention and had worked hard to keep her head down, to simply survive as she knew best.&nbsp; Unfortunately her efforts seemed in vain.&nbsp; Hands lifted to push him away and the man only responded by shifting his entire body weight down atop her.&nbsp; Air was crushed from her and she pressed further against the steel of the hull.&nbsp; Part of her wanted to become part of the hull, to simply disappear into the metallic surface.&nbsp; A whimper sounded from her mouth and she cried out, hoping someone might just interrupt the event.&nbsp; There would be no help though and the hands persisted.&nbsp; Sweat formed on her skin, anger burned beneath her flesh.&nbsp; No longer did she want to meld into the metal hull but instead slam him into the steel.&nbsp; <br><br>A foot braced back against the hull.&nbsp; Simple body mechanics allowed her to shift his weight back and then forward, thrusting him away with far more strength than he might anticipate.&nbsp; Jia Li frowned at him and he only leered.&nbsp; A box had been behind him and his body went crashing down onto the deck.&nbsp; There was no time to waste and she went for the stairs.&nbsp; Lithe and agile, she leapt over him to the beams that would serve as salvation.&nbsp; A stray hand from him sent her sprawling.&nbsp; Though she landed in position to flee, her hands and knees scrapped the surface of the ship.&nbsp; One leg was sent back, heel slamming into nose so that the man screamed in pain.&nbsp; She fled once more, scrambling up to her feet and out onto the main deck.&nbsp; Behind she heard him throwing crates and materials in a rampage to avenge his wounded pride and honor.<br><br>More people moved about on the main deck.&nbsp; The boat tipped and rocked amidst the waves of The Maze but she navigated this with deft skill and precision.&nbsp; From below the man emerged like a bull raging toward her.&nbsp; People were shoved out of the way as he came for her.&nbsp; Strong hands grasped her jacket which she shrugged off without a second thought.&nbsp; Her body ducked down and then tucked back to roll between his legs.&nbsp; An awkward shove was given to keep him off balance, but he knew his way around a rocking ship as well.&nbsp; Jia Li bite her lip as she considered her options.&nbsp; To start a fight would be disastrous for her but to let him have his way would be horrifying as well.&nbsp; Running was still her best option and she turned to do so again.&nbsp; Yet her body collided with the stoic frame of an officer.&nbsp; The man’s face hard-nosed and edged with the persona of command.&nbsp; A hand came to grab her shift, pulling her and the cloth back into the embrace of the man.<br><br>“Explain yourself.”&nbsp; The words cut through the noise of the deck, stilling all and quieting everyone.<br><br>“She offered a good time for money officer.&nbsp; Then when I gave her the money she tried to run out on me with the money.&nbsp; I tried to stop her and look what she did to my face.”<br><br>Jia Li was horrified at the lie.&nbsp; Her mouth opened in shock and shame that he would say something so blatantly false about her.&nbsp; One foot came to strike his shin, striking the limb hard enough that he could do nothing but release his grasp.&nbsp; <br><br>“Lies!&nbsp; I never said anything like that!&nbsp; I was just below washing as I was told sir!”<br><br>The officer considered them both before boxing Jia Li against the side of her head.&nbsp; Such a strike was delivered clumsily but still hurt for the strength behind the blow.&nbsp; “I did not tell you to speak.&nbsp; Both of you in my quarter and then we will see who gets off this boat!”<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>xPeachyPuff</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:51:36</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://pursuitist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/kate-upton2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Annabel Montgomery.<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown.<br><strong>Date:</strong> 10th April, 1876. (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early Evening - Just before Sundown.<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Open<br><hr> <br><br>Everything was quiet, the world around her had frozen and blurred; her words were all she could hear. They echoed around her, full of sorrow yet peaceful; the tranquility resonated through her voice and every ounce of her being, though it was a forced reconciliation that would only last for the length of any one song. Her whole body was numb, though she could feel the guitar under her gentle grip, resting in it's rightful place on her skirt-covered thighs. Sat upon a wooden perch stool that could be found littered along the front of the bar, she was presented on a small, bare wooden stage; it couldn't hold more than three people at most, four at a push. It was how she liked it, only her and her good friend. When she sang, she made sure to project her voice so that it could be heard, but to her is was as quite as a whisper.<br><br><em>"I'm afraid to go up onto the second floor<br>If you wanted to work it out why'd you lock the door<br>I thought I was good at loving you<br>But our light went out when you wanted it to<br>I wish you the best, I'm headed west<br>It's all I know to do"</em><br><br>Her fingers fell with a tender force against the strings of her guitar, her eyes closing briefly as she gently inhaled. It was almost as if her mind was separate from her body; she thought through the meaning's behind her lyrics with so much pain that she thought her heart would break altogether again. She managed to keep her expression serene to her blind audience and her song kept dripping from her lips like honey from a jar.<br><br><em>"I will fall, I will fall if you come around<br>Just when I think my heart break has settled down<br>I will fall, I will fall if you come around"</em><br><br>Darkness seemed to fall around her as she closed her eyes once more, only to open them with the last strum of her guitar and have everything return to normal. Annabel gazed over the small group of people in the Saloon, most of which didn't appear to be paying to much attention while a few of them clapped; none as loudly as the older woman behind the bar. She hollered with such ferocity that the blond had to flash her a completely empty, satisfied-looking smile, teeth an' all. Standing, the girl held her guitar closely to her as she departed the two steps down from the stage, her smile already faded. Singing was something she could get completely lost in and she didn't really care how everyone else reacted to her songs; it was her only escape. <br><br>Annabel was dressed in her usual work attire, a white, short-sleeved shirt complete with a dusty pink, under-bust corset, a white, frilly skirt that reached just above her knees at the front and extended to her ankles at the back, and a pair of white, lace-decorated ankle boots. If it were up to her she'd be in a pair of dirty brown, cowboy boys and pants; it wasn't down to her for a reason. Stepping behind the wooden bar, she place her baby carefully beneath the surface, tucking it under carefully so as to prevent it from being kicked around by the clumsy.... Letting out a heavy sigh, Annabel returned to her usual work, sipping the water she'd placed under the bar at the beginning of her shift. It was going to soon come to an end though; she could do what she pleased for the rest of the night. Doing as she pleased would probably consist of either sleeping, having a small amount of drink or working on lyrics. 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Sabre</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 15:11:46</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i.imgur.com/WNjJJwF.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jonathan "Gray"<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> Tuesday, May 2nd 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning, just after sunrise<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Annabel, Lilah, Open<br><hr><br>At least the weather was nice and comfortable.&nbsp; The people were exotic, but that was true in the Punjab as well.<br><br>John removed his derby on entering the saloon, and looking around he thought to put it back on seeing all the looks shoot his way, but resisting a twitch on his upper lip he walked slowly towards the bar setting it down in front of an empty seat.&nbsp; He didn't care to sit down of course, not after staring at the back of horse ears for so many hours.&nbsp; Plus he couldn't tell if he'd collapse and fall asleep immediately if he didn't stay on his feet.<br><br>The place wasn't entirely empty, but the few people there added some atmosphere that he appreciated.&nbsp; Drawls and slang were a step up from the lingering whispers that still unnerved him from the nightmare earlier, leaving him just a step above haggard.&nbsp; Tired, thirsty and famished he looked down at his fine suit and the layer of dirt and dust he'd gathered since parting ways from his troupe.&nbsp; Patting himself down to make sure he wasn't missing anything - like his empty revolvers, his cash, the wrapped up sabre carried in a sling over his back, his-<br><br>Spinning around at the chirp of an unfamiliar voice, he found an Oriental lass holding his missing pipe.&nbsp; On sight he licked the corner of his lips instinctively and looked up at her curiously.&nbsp; He was just starting to loose it, wasn't he?&nbsp; What he needed was a drink, a bath, and a bed, and a smoke or two in between to calm his jittery nerves.&nbsp; With a disappointed sigh he looked down, trying not to stare at either the kind girl with his pipe or the blonde lady working the bar behind him.&nbsp; At least he couldn't want for a beauty or two to interest him in this town.&nbsp; The past few settlements the circus had passed through had a noticeable lack of feminine charm walking around, so already John felt at ease.&nbsp; Neither the barmaid or this odd Asian lass were high-society debutantes judging from their dress, but the rough, colonial charm had grown on him somewhat ever since he left Texas.<br><br>"My dear, thank you," he smiled after running his hands through his hair, his accent thick and noticeably British.&nbsp; His voice almost cracked, but he cleared his throat before he embarrassed himself.&nbsp; Taking the pipe from her hands he kept both the spit-shining barmaid and the helpful Chinese lass in view with a single-arm lean on the counter of the bar, talking to both to find some help.&nbsp; It was then he noticed a small rip in his suit near his shoulder and clucked shaking his head as he fit his pipe back into his coat pocket.<br><br>"I appreciate your kindness.&nbsp; But may I impose a favor on either of you?&nbsp; A single shot of whiskey, maybe with a plate of food would be heavenly, but I'm also curious about finding my way around this town.&nbsp; An inn, a tailor, even just someplace to do laundry.&nbsp; It's been a long ride and I haven't found any place half as charming to lay my head for a night," he asked, holding back on telling anyone he was planning to stay if this place seemed to have everything he'd need to disappear for good.&nbsp; For the moment he had money to live comfortably for a week - maybe - but he'd need to find work fast now that the troupe was gone.&nbsp; And good riddance.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 23:09:34</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Pre-dawn<br><strong>Location:</strong> Agatha’s House<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Christian Specter<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Of course she was happy to see the steely-eyed gunman. If it wasn’t for Spooky she never would have lived to see Gomorra.&nbsp; Agatha still had nightmares about it from time to time when she was feeling particularly scared or along, which happened more often that people would think for the normally friendly and upbeat girl.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Well if a fella came around more than once a year he would get a welcome like that more often.” She said with a warm smile and held him tightly again when her pulled her close.&nbsp; She missed Spooky dearly.&nbsp; He was gruff, craggy and gritty as sandpaper, but Agatha knew he was also kind-hearted, loyal and noble to a fault under his rough exterior.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She didn’t know why he came to her home that night to warn her.&nbsp; He had been a customer of hers nothing more.&nbsp; Agatha fixed things for him know and again when he had come into town.&nbsp; Maybe it was the fact that she never seemed scared of him or maybe she reminded him of someone he knew.&nbsp; She didn’t know, but when Hezekiah and the menfolk of Deer Ridge came for her with fire and pitchforks he had come for her, pulling her away from her home minutes before it was set alight. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She thought she had lost everything that night.&nbsp; &nbsp;It wasn’t until weeks later she realized what she had gained, a brother, someone that that cared for her and looked after her and did his best to protect her even when she didn’t want to be protected.&nbsp; She loved the big lug with all of her heart, which was why she worried about him often.&nbsp; She worried his obsession with the man in black would be the end of him.&nbsp; She worried about what he would do if he never found him and worried more about what would happen if he did. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “Nah, you didn’t wake me up.” She said not bothering to lie. “I had an idea today that had to get out.” She knew she didn’t have to explain.&nbsp; He would understand even if he would scold her for not getting enough sleep.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha shook her head at his suggestion that he could sleep under the stars.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“You know you don’t have to ask.&nbsp; Of course you can stay Spooky, for as long as you want, but I do have one condition.” She said taking a step back and wrinkling her nose.&nbsp; “You have to take a bath…tonight.”<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kokaine</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 04:15:59</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<div class="floatleft">(http://i167.photobucket.com/albums/u133/kokotigress/Elliquiy/Doom%20Town/donna-feldman-4_zps795d249b.jpg)</div><hr><strong>Name:</strong> Isobel Harley Montoya Marquez - "Harley"<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown to the public thus far<br><strong>Date:</strong> A week before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha<hr> Harley nodded at the barkeep in polite acknowledgement when he set her drink down in front of her and swiped the coin from the counter top, thankful for the lack of comment thus far on his part. She watched him move on to settle up elsewhere before turning her gaze back to the copper haired beauty, the edge of a smile creeping into her normally sober features as she regarded the woman. <br><br>Never in much of a hurry to do anything, there was a notable pause before Harley's shoulders finally rose and fell in a lazy shrug while long, slim fingers wrapped around her glass. "Oh, I dunno... Like somethin' worth tastin', worth savorin', ya know?" <br><br>There might have been a spark of interest somewhere in her dark gaze but if there was it was wholly unintentional. At present she wasn't sure why she had said anything at all toward the other woman but she wasn't unwilling to indulge in a small exchange of words to pass the time. She wasn't so much the long winded sort but even she got a hankerin' to shoot the shit every now and again. That the woman opposite her was also easy on the eyes was just an added bonus.<br><br>She lifted the glass to her lips with the same languid motion she used to do anything, intending sample her first taste of the Irish whiskey but after some consideration paused long enough to add, "And the name's Harley, no Miss, just Harley." <br><br>She sipped at the whiskey, indulging herself for a moment as she let the rich flavor settle about her tongue. She was amazed she could taste it at all honestly after the liquid fire she'd swallowed down just a while ago but she was pleased to note that her taste buds hadn't all been eroded away on contact. She wasn't a big drinker most days simply because she had seen how it could utterly undo a man and leave him plump and ready at death's door but she usually bought enough to keep from being run out of whatever watering hole she chose to visit for the evening. She'd sampled a number of local flavors but most didn't do much for her in the way of taste. She'd learned to knock whatever was in her cup back quickly and just endure the burn. <br><br>"Why now, that's just lovely." She said with a appreciative purr, her glass settling upon the bartop again after she had swallowed her first sampling. There were a few jeers from a nearby table where the stakes appeared to be getting steep but even though she was mindful of the potential for trouble there was no discernible shift in her attention.<br>"I cain't say I ever knowingly tasted much Irish anythang before but I reckon I could get used to this. Whut'd you say the name a this was again, Ma'am?"
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 07:38:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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>&nbsp; Week before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Harley<br><br><br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha simply nodded her head.&nbsp; She knew.&nbsp; She could still feel the smooth heat from the whiskey lingering in her mouth.&nbsp; It was a sensation to enjoy.&nbsp; The dark-haired cowgirl intrigued her.&nbsp; She spoke like the men around town often did, with a nonchalant-ness and a slow drawl, she even acted like they do, but that smile, soft and subtle that just touched her lips was very much a woman’s.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha watched Harley lift the glass towards her lips with a curious anticipation.&nbsp; Her wet fingertip traced a slow circle around the rim of her tumble as the young woman paused to give Agatha her name. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Pleasure to meet you Harley.” She said her finger pausing on the edge of tumbler a bead of moisture dripped from her fingertip into the amber nectar as Harley’s lips touched the glass.&nbsp; The appreciative purr was greeted with dancing emerald eyes and an easy smile.&nbsp; Agatha picked up her own glass and placed it to her lips, her eyes never leaving the pretty gunslinger, though her lids dipped at the taste of the fine whiskey.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “Just ask for the Superior.” She said draining the rest of her glass and gracefully sliding from the barstool.&nbsp; She saw Sloane’s messenger coming down the stairs and sighed.&nbsp; Just as her evening was looking promising.&nbsp; Agatha took a business card from her handbag, one who’s back had the caress of her lips against it and when she neared Harley slid it onto the bar next to the glass of Superior.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Maybe you should try it more often.&nbsp; There are many things Irish that can bring a smile to a girl’s lips.” She said soft enough for only Harley to hear.&nbsp; She brushed on by with a single glance over her shoulder before disappearing for the night.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 15:20:39</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> 10th April, 1876.&nbsp; (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early Evening - Just Before Sundown<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Open<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Rumors were a funny thing.&nbsp; Sometimes, they were simply tall tales, stories elaborately spun by drunken fellows in a show of bravado meant to impress the others they were with.&nbsp; Take for example, a good number of the stories that came with the sojourners into Gomorra, like the fellow who claimed that he had taken down a whole posse of gunmen by himself in a quick-draw contest when it was obvious that the tinhorn didn't even know which way to point a pistol.&nbsp; One drunken showdown later over a particular big pot and his corpse was decorating the bone orchard.&nbsp; Those rumors never held any weight for any length of time.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Sometimes, they were a mixture of the truth and the lie.&nbsp; Those were the most common; after all, the best lies were bought with a little grain of truth in them.&nbsp; That's how the Devil did it and also the silver-tongued conmen with whatever they were pushing.&nbsp; Whether it be the newest tonic to cure all your latest ills, a forked tuning stick used for hunting ghostrock or heavens knew what else.&nbsp; They were certainly no shortage of fellows willing to entertain what they had to say.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But sometimes, just sometimes, on that rare occasion, the rumors were actually exactly as the whispers stated.&nbsp; This seemed to be one of those times.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Ginny sat next to the bar, sitting in a chair reversed around with her elbows resting on the back and her legs lazily splayed out on either side as she listened in quiet contemplation to that mournful croon of the guitarist.&nbsp; Those bright green eyes, the Whateley eyes, watched sharply at the delicate fingers skillfully strummed the chords as the blonde took another sip of Scotch as the ice in her glass clinked at the bottom.&nbsp; Ginny had first heard of the rumors about two weeks ago.&nbsp; Rumors of a pretty blonde, a real looker, that had come into Gomorra and ended up at the New Moon Saloon where she performed from time to time.&nbsp; Normally, the young Whateley would have hardly cared, too busy spending her time dicing, playing poker, and drinking at Casino Morongo, but more than one person at her gambling table had noted something interesting.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Apparently, this young woman looked like she could have been Ginny's sister.&nbsp; Except for one little small truth--Ginny didn't have a sister; she was an only child.&nbsp; Initially, her only response to those rumors had been to offer a toothy grin and raise the person who idly chatting in hopes of reading into the cards she held in her hand.&nbsp; She was confident the rumors would fade in time as they often did.&nbsp; Because there wasn't any truth to it.&nbsp; But these particular rumors were different.&nbsp; In the weeks to follow, those same rumors only grew louder and louder.&nbsp; More and more people that stopped by her table would bring up the topic.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It had gotten to a point where Ginny heard about the same rumor at least twenty times a day.&nbsp; So this is why Virginia Whateley had made a particular trip out to the New Moon Saloon with the intention to confirm the truth or not of those whispered words.&nbsp; And much to her surprise, she realized that all the whispers weren't too far off.&nbsp; The other girl's face was more cherubic and her blonde tresses a little lighter, while Ginny's face a little leaner and her blonde hair a shade darker.&nbsp; But it was true.&nbsp; They <em>could </em>have been sisters, a fact that amused Ginny to no end.&nbsp; From their looks down to even their voice, for the blonde barmaid also possessed the soothing lilt that Ginny considered her singular personal identifier.&nbsp; Those her accent was noticeably lighter than Ginny's, who possessed a much thicker Georgian drawl.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Pivoting her chair so she now faced the counter, still sitting lazily sprawled, Ginny signaled the pretty blonde with a lazy finger motion.&nbsp; The corner of her lip curled slightly, knowing the same thoughts who be filling the other girl's head upon encountering her mirror double.&nbsp; They even looked like they could wear the same sizes for crying out loud!<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>"Vainin' stahshyn,"</strong>&nbsp; Ginny said before draining the rest of the Scotch.&nbsp; <strong>"Kar'tah git'mi uh'fill?"</strong>&nbsp; Her fingertip traced the rim of the glass idly as those bright, green expressive eyes kept staring at the woman who could have been her long-lost sister.&nbsp; <strong>"T'en yeh kin'our yerself'un tooh'nd tale'muh'bout yuu."</strong>&nbsp; That smile widened fractionally even as she plucked out a fat golden coin from the depths of her finely made duster before spinning the coin on the countertop.&nbsp; <strong>"Yeh dun'talv'tah wurrie'bout thu'pryicuh.&nbsp; Ah'm buhyin'."</strong><br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Translation</div><div class="spoiler_body"><em>"Evening, starshine."&nbsp; "Care to get me a refill?"&nbsp; "Then, you can pour yourself one too and tell me about you."&nbsp; "You don't have to worry about the price.&nbsp; I'm buying."</em></div></div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 16:45:16</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Polecat Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Isobel Harley Montoya Marquez - "Harley"<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Luck was on her side tonight.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'll kawl,"</strong> Ginny stated, dropping a few freshly minted half-eagles, the golden coins rolling out of her fingers into the large pile in the center of the table.&nbsp; Nothing out of the ordinary for the Whateley, who had been playing five-card draw since the morning, going from one saloon to the next.&nbsp; Was this her fifth place?&nbsp; Or sixth?&nbsp; She had lost count for the day, just like she had lost count for the amount of coin that she had also won.&nbsp; Her pouch was literally bulging from the seams with coins; it was only because of the exceptionally well-made stitching that it didn't burst and spill her earnings all over the place.&nbsp; Hazily, she thought she would need to make sure to show up to St. Martin's tomorrow because the good Lord surely was giving her His blessing.&nbsp; Not that she needed the coin, because she didn't, Grandma always made sure she had spending money but Ginny did adore winning.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;More than a little drunk, she swayed in the seat the table before leaning over to her right.&nbsp; Not a lightweight by any means, Ginny had long past the point of sobriety.&nbsp; Those normally sharp green eyes were more than a little glazed as she tilted her head around, almost falling backwards to bellow out in a loud, abrupt fashion.&nbsp; <strong>"Squaw!&nbsp; Wer'yeh'tat, squaw!&nbsp; Mai'g'ass be uhm'tea!"</strong>&nbsp; Her cry was directed at one of the barmaids, a newly hired girl just a little over a week ago.&nbsp; A pretty little thing--if you liked them red.&nbsp; A lip-curling sneer was given at the thought of anyone taking those dirty, filthy things to their beds.&nbsp; Growing up back home in Georgia, Ginny always remembered the lessons she had learned about the red savages down to the south of them, who'd kill a honest man and take his scalp to hang on their smelly animal tents.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It hadn't started out so bad when she first came into the Polecat, just a few snide remarks at the newly hired girl.&nbsp; It probably didn't help that the girl wasn't half-bad looking to an objective viewer's eye.&nbsp; And the barmaid's earlier protests over how she wasn't <em>really </em>a Sioux, only a quarter at the best, had fallen on deaf ears.&nbsp; Still, it hadn't been so bad to begin with.&nbsp; But now that she was drunk good and proper, Ginny was definitely looking for an outlet to her aggression.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;As the poor girl hurried over, bottle of their most expensive whiskey in hand, to pour for Ginny, the young Whateley whipped her head to glower at the barmaid.&nbsp; For an instant, those green eyes were filled with anger and wrath.&nbsp; <strong>"To'k'er tai'm, squaw.&nbsp; Ah'waz'bout'ter'die'f 'hurst'ear."</strong>&nbsp; Her words were slurring together, even making her harder to understand than usual.&nbsp; Grabbing the glass, she held it out imperiously for the girl to timidly pour as the golden malt filled her glass with the melting ice.&nbsp; And without any decor, Ginny simply chugged it, her throat working convulsively, before she paused.&nbsp; A few tense seconds ticked by as everyone wondered what she was doing.&nbsp; Perhaps she was about to pass out?&nbsp; Then, she explosively spat the liquor back out on the girl, who seemed too shocked to react for a moment, showered with Ginny's spittle.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>"Thi'be'yur bu'ist?"</strong>&nbsp; There was venomous contempt in Ginny's voice as she looked at the liquor-drenched barmaid, who now seemed to be on the verge of tears.&nbsp; <strong>"Git'muh'an'uder!"</strong> she snarled at the girl, who left quickly to the back.&nbsp; No doubt perhaps towel off and perhaps get a fresh change of clothes if time permitted.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Oy, Ginny..."</strong>&nbsp; One of the grizzled men at the table said.&nbsp; A regular that went against the young Whateley; she couldn't recall his name at the moment though.&nbsp; His voice was reproachful, but he didn't dare do anything to stop her. After all, she <em>was </em>a Whateley and that name was a powerful name here in Gomorra.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Wot?&nbsp; Shi'sun lay'zee'un!"</strong>&nbsp; She was unrepentant even as she recklessly dropped a stack of golden eagles that had most at the table blanching now.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'll ra'ze'yeh."</strong>&nbsp; She smirked as all of them folded, leaving her alone with the pot of coins.&nbsp; Then, her head whipped around again, looking for her whipping boy.&nbsp; <strong>"Squaw!&nbsp; Don'be hiy'in', squaw!"</strong>&nbsp; And frowned when the owner of the saloon came out this time instead.&nbsp; No doubt seeking to limit the abuse.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<em>"Ma'am. Perhaps you've had enough for the night?" </em> The voice was half-request, half-command to which Ginny gave a large frown, turning the corners of her mouth down almost comically.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Without bothering to say a word, the young Whateley plucked up the stack of golden eagles.&nbsp; One, two, three, four...the stack fell into the owner's hands.&nbsp; Another stack joined.&nbsp; Then, another.&nbsp; Then, another.&nbsp; And Ginny gave her most charming smile, those green eyes momentarily sharp and clear once again.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'll'et yah'no wien'ah'm gud'nd'un.&nbsp; Yu jest sun'der ow'te."</strong>&nbsp; That smile, both so lovely, reminiscent of her Grandma's kindly one, juxtaposed with a malicious edge to it that no one could miss.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But unfortunately, civility and courage and good manners fell way to greed as the owner clutched the golden eagles tightly between fat fingers, seemingly afraid that they might fly away.&nbsp; And so, the poor barmaid was sent out again with a fresh bottle, her face so doleful and sad as she looked for some sympathy in the crowd.&nbsp; And while she did see it in the face of the men at the table, it didn't seem as if anyone knew how to deal with Virginia Whateley.&nbsp; After all, she also was a girl.<br>&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; So with no help coming, the pretty little barmaid approached Ginny Whateley like you would approach the gallows, her footsteps long and heavy.&nbsp; And the whole room tensed as another drink was poured and Ginny downed it.&nbsp; Then, a collective sigh of relief was given as the young Whateley seemed content to drink in peace.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But...as the poor girl turned to head back to the bar, Ginny half-turned in her seat, took aim, and then planted her boot firmly against the bottom of the barmaid and gave her a rough shove to sent her to the room in an ungainly heap.&nbsp; Then, Ginny began to laugh uproariously, colors of red on her cheeks as she flushed.&nbsp; <strong>"Mi'o'mai! Did'juh'si'it?&nbsp; Did'juh?"</strong>&nbsp; She continued to laugh even as the poor girl scrambled to her feet and retreated to the back.&nbsp; It was doubtful that any amount of money, eagles or no, was going to bring her back out again.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Then, she owlishly looked at the table, which wasn't laughing all that much.&nbsp; <strong>"Oy.&nbsp; Wui'p'ayin' oar'wut?"</strong>&nbsp; And she slumped forward to grasp at the freshly dealt poker cards.<br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Translation</div><div class="spoiler_body"><em>"I'll call."&nbsp; "Squaw!&nbsp; Where are you at, squaw!&nbsp; My glass is empty!"&nbsp; "Took your time, squaw.&nbsp; I was about to die of thirst."&nbsp; This is your best?"&nbsp; "Get me another!"&nbsp; "What?&nbsp; She's a lazy one!"&nbsp; "I'll raise you."&nbsp; "Squaw!&nbsp; Don't be hiding, squaw!"&nbsp; "I'll let you know when I'm good and done.&nbsp; You just send her out."&nbsp; "Me, oh my!&nbsp; Did you see that?&nbsp; Did you?"&nbsp; "Hey.&nbsp; We playing or what?"</em></div></div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>xPeachyPuff</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 19:31:59</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://pursuitist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/kate-upton2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Annabel Montgomery.<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown.<br><strong>Date:</strong> 10th April, 1876. (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early Evening - Just before Sundown.<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Whateley.<br><hr> <br><br>It didn't become apparent that there were unfamiliar faces in the room until she paused briefly behind the bar's surface. The older woman behind the bar was currently greeting a couple of her girls that had turned up for their shift; one was far prettier than the other, though that wasn't the statement it sounded to be. The 'prettier' one was quite average; dull, brown, shoulder length hair and equally dull colored eyes. What could be said about them, however, is that they genuinely seemed more enthusiastic than Annbel ever did, even when she was appealing to customers. <br><br>When the blond on the other side of the bar spoke up, Annbel turned to her with a blank expression that soon turned to genuine suprise, though she masked it fairly well. If Annabel hadn't been so sure she'd been born an only child, she could have sworn the women could have been some sort of long lost relative - a sister, even. The girl didn't speak at first, instead she simply contemplated why this woman was approaching her so boldly; she was pretty sure she'd done well to stay unnoticed in Gomorra. The accent of the stranger was the next thing that caught her attention and she knew that she recognized the thick accent that was similar to her own. Instantly she thought this woman may have been from Texas, maybe she was sent for her? This made her panic, her heart beginning to race in her chest before her thought process continued through other prospects; her accent was simply too strong to be from her hometown. Letting out a small sigh that seemed outwardly no more than a exhale, she plastered a forced smile onto her pink lips and tilted her head ever so slightly. <br><br>"C'min' right up." Her voice was pleasent, but her eyes didn't reflect her friendliness in the slightest. As the coin flashed and a drink of her own was offered, her smile faded ever so slightly and she turned on her heels, grabbing the bottle of Scotch from the display counter behind the bar. All the bottles were shining and lined up neatly along the counter that was raised in two parts like a stairway to heaven; though any god you'd meet might not be happy if you diverted on a bender before heading up to him. The blond turned again to face the stranger, filling a fraction of the glass with the liquid, drowning the remaining ice at the bottom of the glass. A hand raised to take the coin from the counter top, her eyes now focused down beneath the counter where they kept their change boxes. She exchanged the gold coin for the exact change of the drink the stranger had ordered and her hand raised, placed the extra coins on the bar before withdrawing her hand just as quick. "No, thank you. I don't drink on shift." <br><br>Annabel returned the bottle of Scotch to the shelf behind her and the voice of the older woman chimed in; throwing in her two cents after obviously listening in on their conversation. "What are you talking about, Annabel Montgomery. You're shifts over. Go 'head and enjoy yourself a drink." Annabel felt herself frowning, her glare flashing briefly over towards the brown nosing woman before she cleared her throat, turning back towards the blond opposite her. "Thanks again, but I'd rather not." Annabel was a bit more distraught that the woman had blurted out her full name above anything else; she liked to keep things private and give information on her own terms, but obviously the woman had no intention of keeping anything quiet. Thankfully, Annabel had made sure to only tell her what she needed to secure a paying job and room.<br><br>Of course, she had to admit, she was curious as to why this girl was interested in her; Annabel hadn't seen her in the Saloon before, or at least not on a shift she was working, and she rarely ventured beyond the safety of her room. Maybe the fact that she was new to town was simply the reason for this approach, and if so, that interest should die down after a few dismissals.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>xPeachyPuff</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 20:14:19</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://pursuitist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/kate-upton2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Annabel Montgomery.<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown.<br><strong>Date:</strong> Tuesday, May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning - Just after Sunrise.<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jonathan Gray // Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver<br><hr> <br><br>Annabel's back remained turned on the Saloon's combined entrance and exit while she continued dusting down bottles of liqueur in a relaxed fashion. It wasn't until she glanced over her shoulder that she realized a man was approaching the bar with an Asian girl in tow. A frown pulled at her eyebrows and they knotted together in a familiar expression that felt comfortable to her now. He didn't look like any man she'd ever seen walk through those doors before, but men often travelled the town, exploring what Gomorra had to offer. She didn't pause in her work, but her blue eyes glowing with a dull hostility studied the man cautiously. He looked as though he'd been riding from the amount of dust covering his attire and his fancy, money-man suit was torn around his shoulder area. He was also stringing along an Asian by the looks of things; suspicious.<br><br>It wasn't until the short, squinty girl spoke up and the man turned around in suprise that cleared her thoughts. She was extending something to him, but Annabel couldn't see the object from her position; maybe they weren't together afterall? Leaning back ever so slightly to glance around the man at the girl, she realized a pipe was between her fingers and that she seemed to simply be returning it; even more suspicious. Who the heck returned stuff nowadays? <br><br>Upon hearing the tall strangers talk, she felt herself blinking at his charming accent and quickly cleared her throat, turning her head back to focus on her hands with a glare. Gomorra was letting anyone in these days. Annabel turned as he seemed to address both women at the same time and her pressed her hands onto her hips with a small frown, dirty rag clenched tightly into one fist. The girl didn't attempt to move, instead, she remained pressed against the display surface, her eyes unwavering on the man ahead of her. "Plenty o' hotel's 'round here, stranger." Her voice was feminine, but hard, and her light Southern accent remained potent in her tone. "Saloon's too." It was obvious she was trying to direct him elsewhere, but the older woman she'd sent out the back emerged with a plate of what looked to be a slice of fried bread and two strips of bacon. "Here y'are, darlin'. Breakfast." The plate was thrusted into the blonds hands and Annabel thanked the woman casually, quite happy to dig in there and then.<br><br>Deep blue eyes found the man in front of her again and she let another comfortable frown cross her features, rethinking her actions. "Breakfast." She placed the plate down in front of the man cautiously and then turned her back, retrieving a clean glass before filling it a fraction with Whisky she'd retrieved from the shelf behind her. Placing that beside his plate, Annabel extended a hand to him with a stony expression. "A dollar includin' that Whisky." She paused for a moment, offering helpful information even if she sounded slightly bitter about it. "There're plenty o'good hotel's round here. We offer rooms but unless ya'll thinkin' o'takin' one'o'our gurls with ya, then don't bother." Pausing, the barmaid raised an eyebrow, looking him up and down with obvious distaste. "I'm sure ya' can afford 'em hotel's though."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 22:24:26</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>The bodega was quiet late in the morning, when the ladies of Gomorra who breathed life into the shop were still busy wrangling children or performing their wifely duties. And since Onneca was unwed, since she had no children of her own, since she rose with the sun and worked diligently, it was only the owner herself at the Bodega de Goni. Maybe later she could look forward to two customers or four, and they always came in pairs; one woman alone seldom seemed to find reason or motivation to be in the bodega. Ms. de Goni was always third wheel to the spirited and hours-long conversations that took place over neatly folded linens and tins of beauty product. If she were kind enough, then often she would sell something, and it only took a little money to get ahead when so much of her merchandise was made by her own two hands.<br><br>It was almost a guilty pleasure. It wasn't a guilty pleasure in the way that a saloon might be for the menfolk, but it was very much a place the ladies went to get away from their husbands. Sometimes, when the weather chilled or there was something to lament, Onneca would break out a bottle of sweet golden rum, but for the most part the guilty pleasures were emotional rather than visceral; contemplative rather than obvious. Onneca was good for the conversation. She never talked about any man in her life and preferred to let the ladies direct the flow of it. It was a humble, cozy existence. It was missing something very significant.<br><br>It wasn't missing a purpose, exactly. She had come to Gomorra to raise a business, and she had. But when she had come to California, it had been for something else, and now that door was closed. She did not dare open it in front of the gossiping ladies of Gomorra. Alone, ultimately, she sat in the back room of the bodega with the beautiful dresses that nobody wanted, and she was in good company. Her fingers toyed with the corners of a weathered pulp, a cheaply printed novel whose cover was worn to shreds but still barely legible as <em>Un Diario Intimo Entre Mujeres.<sup>1</sup> </em>It was a well-loved copy, eroded by Onneca's own handling, and though she had read it cover to cover a dozen times, she was anxious for the next page before she had even started the one before it. Her fingernails strummed the pages as though she were searching a kitten's chin for a spot to scratch.<br><br>The ring of the bell at the front broke her intense concentration, and she jumped in her seat, and pushed the tattered pulp urgently into a drawer where scissors were kept. "Buenos dias,"<sup>2</sup> she called through the shop as she stood and smoothed down the fabric of her bouse and skirt with flighty movements. It would be a few moments before anyone could navigate the aisles and find her there, a bit misty-eyed and pink around her dark lashes from the journey of her book. She was dressed for work, a cocoa walking skirt and sepia blouse that were loose everywhere but the tightly cinched waist. Only a single petticoat insulated the pull of the skirt's fabric across the gentle rock of her hips, a crass difference to the cool weather fashions out East where hoops of steel emphasized and encaged a woman's hips the way a chastity belt would insure a princess' virtue. No, it was a bit warm in California to dress in layers sufficient to stop a bullet, and that, in part, had been why Onneca was successful here.<br><br>"Welcome to the Bodega de Goni," she beamed, and not knowing from whence her customer had come, a similar sentiment followed in Spanish. "Siéntete como en tu casa."<sup>3</sup><br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Translations</div><div class="spoiler_body"><strong>1</strong>: An Intimate Diary Between Women; also A Daily Intimacy Between Women<br><strong>2</strong>: Good morning&nbsp; :P<br><strong>3</strong> Make yourself at home</div></div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kuroneko</strong> on <strong>10-03-2013, 03:45:04</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane_zps29c9cdf3.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Deacon Sloane<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> April 20th , 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Just past midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> (closed)<br><hr> <br><br>In a small, private room in the back of the Casino Morongo, Deacon Sloane curled one hand around his ear and leaned forward.&nbsp; “What’s that you said?&nbsp; I didn’t quite catch that.”&nbsp; <br><br>Tied to a chair in front him, and looking very worse for the conversation they were having, was one Jeb Miller, a recent addition to the Gomorroan landscape with a penchant for gambling, hard drinking and women. Plus, he tended to lose more than he won. As such, he was exactly the kind of customer that Sloane liked to cultivate. That is, until he started asking for credit and welching on his bets.&nbsp; Ostensibly, he was a miner that had managed to find a small cache of valuable minerals out in the desert, but now … well, now he was fast becoming a thorn in Sloane’s side, one that he didn’t take kindly too. <br><br>In answer to the question, Jeb began to blubber, spit forming into bloody bubbles with each exhalation of breath; but it was hard to talk when your jaw was broken, and you were sure that you’d swallowed a couple of teeth.&nbsp; Still, Jeb tried. He sputtered and babbled, tears running down his cheeks as his bound hands flexed behind his back, wrists burned raw from the rough help rope that held him there. “…m’ boo’th,” he managed finally, after gulping and swallowing hard.&nbsp; “..n’ thth heelth.”&nbsp; <br><br>Sloane nodded to one of the men standing behind Jeb, a big Russian immigrant by the name of Yanko Jofranko.&nbsp; He was six foot seven of bulky, ugly as sin muscle, with a scar splitting his mug and absolutely loyal to the Morongo’s owner.&nbsp; He bent down to retrieve Miller’s boots from where they’d landed earlier, flung after he’d pulled them off in order to get to the man’s toes.&nbsp; Blood soaked into the wood under the chair from the abuse he’d sustained.&nbsp; Shaking one boot, Yanko ripped off the heel and peered inside before tossing it away and repeating the action with the next one.&nbsp; This time, his effort was rewarded with the sight of a folded up paper wedged into a cavity inside the stacked leather heel.&nbsp; He pulled it out and passed it over to his boss without question.&nbsp; <br><br>Taking the paper, Sloane carefully unfolded it, glancing at Jeb several times in the process before turning his full attention to the document in his hands.&nbsp; “This might cover your original debt,” he said, eyes glued to the claim.&nbsp; “Might.&nbsp; But it sure as hell doesn’t cover the interest.&nbsp; Not to mention that I can’t have word spread that I’m a generous man that forgives debts that are rightfully owed.&nbsp; And I happen to know that I’m not the only one you’re indebted to.&nbsp; You gambled in my house, drank my liquor and had your fill of pussy on the condition of payment.&nbsp; Most folk don’t take kindly to debtors, and I’m no different.&nbsp; So … I’m afraid I need to make an example of you.&nbsp; Nothing personal, you understand.&nbsp; This is purely business.”&nbsp; <br><br>Jeb began to whimper and shake in the chair, the best he could do to plead for his life. Unfortunately, it fell on deaf ears.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>Very carefully, Sloane folded up the claim, and then handed it over to Yanko , who took it between two meaty fingers and tucked it into his pocket.&nbsp; “The cliffs?” he asked in a thick accent.&nbsp; Sloane shook his head.&nbsp; <br><br>“Once he’d dead, take him to the Chinaman’s pigs. I don’t want anything left of him, you clear?” Sloane replied.&nbsp; <br><br>“As crystal,” Yanko said, setting a huge hand down hard on Jeb’s shoulder.&nbsp; It set the man off once more and a string of desperate pleas began to tumble from his bruised and swollen lips.<br><br>“And then go out to this ‘claim’ of his,” Sloane continued, ignoring Jeb’s pitiful mewling.&nbsp; “Take everything of value in his camp, and anything else you can find and bring it back here.&nbsp; And if there really is something to be found out there, you make sure no one else can find it, understood?” <br><br>“Got it, boss,” Yanko replied.&nbsp; <br><br>“Good.”&nbsp; Glancing down at his suit, Sloane spent a moment brushing dust from the lapels and front.&nbsp; “Say hello to the devil for me,” he said to Jeb, before leaving the man in Yanko’s capable hands.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>10-03-2013, 08:41:05</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Buenos dias.” The call came back from the front of the shop, the accent clearly unsuited for such a beautiful language as Spanish.&nbsp; There was some rustling and bumping and Onneca would swear that there was a muffled “ouch” in there somewhere.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Gracias.” The voice called again as the rustling worked its way through the aisles of pretties and yummies and cloth luxuries towards the owner of the bodega. Agatha knew only a bit of Spanish learned from her time growing up in the railroad camps.&nbsp; The railroad workers often fell into camps along racial lines, the Irish with the Irish, the Mexicans with the Mexicans, the Chinamen with the Chinamen...etc.&nbsp; However, in particularly dangerous territory or during celebrations they would come together to share a campfire.&nbsp; She had picked up a few words then, mostly ones that she could not say in polite company, but she was able to exchanges simple pleasantries. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The woman appearing through the aisles was disheveled for sure.&nbsp; The dress she wore may have been a light beige once, but was now a dingy grey color and to Onneca’s trained eye clearly thread bare and worn.&nbsp; The dresses style was clearly not meant for the sweltering heat of the Maze.&nbsp; She worn at a minimum three petticoats and her bustle was causing her trouble in the narrow ailes.&nbsp; The corset cover the woman wore wasn’t even properly laced as if it had been done in a rush without any help.&nbsp; The young woman wore no hat, but a pair of odd looking goggles perched on her head.&nbsp; They were slightly off kilter and appeared to be the only thing holding her coppery hair away from her face. <br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh, hello.” She called catching a glimpse of the dark-haired Mexican woman and gave a wave of her hand causing her to drop the notebook she was carrying along with her purse and the jar of citrusy orange blossom honey she had plucked off the shelf. <br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh, shoot.” She exclaimed and scrambled to retrieve the items off of the floor.&nbsp; A ladies dress was not made for this type of movement and she was only making it worse.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>10-03-2013, 10:31:03</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>To hear Spanish words pronounced thus had a charm to it. Her dark eyes were drawn along every fray from toe to collar of the woman's dress, a mask of calm as she kept her thoughts about machine-made clothes to herself. Those power looms, a quarter of a million of them in England, were rapidly saturating the market with threadbare mail orders like this one. A woman's body deserved to be clothed well and comfortably, and a machine did neither. Machines were putting women like Onneca into the poorhouse all over. Ironic, almost, what had come bumping and jostling into Gomorra and her life.<br><br>Hair like heated copper caught her eye, and when she took a sharp inhale, a similar scent entered her lungs through the bodega's natural perfumes. Her eyes went big and round. Onto her knees she went, to help her customer gather up the things she'd dropped. The jar had survived with just a chip of personality put into it, still a perfectly good jar in these times and in this place. Onneca was not really looking at what she was doing, but trying to get a better look at the woman's face. Her fingers swept vaguely around, collecting purse spillage, mingling readily with Agatha's own fingers. "Lo siento,<sup>1</sup> the shelves are too close together."<br><br>How easily Onneca moved down to her knees, the seams of the skirt just so to allow her to bend and settle freely without risk of tripping. Stitching a pattern was the work of a seamstress. Understanding how the pieces fit together was the work of a dressmaker. Reinventing the way they flowed across a human body was the realm of just a few. The same wasn't true for a dress in a crinoline or a corset that prohibited the spine from movement. Onneca could sense that her customer was losing her balance, and reached tentatively to steady her. That compassionate touch was accompanied by a smile. When the shy tailor smiled truly, when her smile was a product of great joy and not just politeness, there were dimples in the corners. Hers was a distinctive face. It surprised her that Agatha Dunwich didn't recognize it.<br><br>"Aggy?" It could be heard even in her tone of voice that she was smiling, so deeply did it penetrate her. Heart thumping, her shyness agitated to the surface in a nervous shake, she could feel the weepy mood of her book returning in spades. For a moment she had to hush herself or all her words would come out squeaks. She was helping Agatha to stand, and could be seen to wonder at the lenses perched atop her head like a forgotten pencil. She had changed some. This relentless world had changed everybody.<br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Translations</div><div class="spoiler_body"><strong>1</strong>: I'm sorry</div></div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>10-03-2013, 18:24:39</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<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>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“No, no it’s my fault.” Agatha apologized. She scrambling to clean up the mess she had made, her hands bumping into Onneca’s as the fumbled around on the floor.&nbsp; Agatha's fingers gently closing over Onneca’s. They had reached for the honey jar at the same time, but Onneca's had closed on it first.&nbsp; The stretch to reach the jar had indeed thrown Agatha off balance and the steadying hand drew a glance and an appreciative smile, the first good look the women had at one another.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; The dimpled smile that greeted Agatha froze her before she could apologize again, her mouth slightly agape.&nbsp; The face she saw before her was much younger.&nbsp; Dark haired tossled from the plains winds, freshly picked morning glories tucked behind her ear, laughter in her voice and pretty little dimples on her cheeks. The woman kneeling in front of her had heavily lidded eyes and a soft gentle face, she was pretty beyond distraction, but Agatha saw only those dimples, those precious little divots that blessed her olive skin.&nbsp; There were unmistakable...to Agatha.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<em>'Aggy?'</em>&nbsp; No one in Gomorra called her that.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She couldn’t speak.&nbsp; Her voice caught in her throat while her emerald eyes rimmed with tears.&nbsp; She could only smile brightly like the little fiery haired girl Onneca used to play with.&nbsp; Onneca’s thumping heart was unknowingly matched by Agatha’s racing one and the young scientist let herself be drawn to her feet, her hand never leaving Onneca’s.&nbsp; She was too afraid if she let go the woman before her would dissolve away like some desert mirage.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; “Onny?” her voice was trembling with hope and heavy with emotion.&nbsp; It was all she could do to tumble the childhood name from her lips and she held her breath to see if doing so would cause her to wake up from the dream she was surely having.&nbsp; When she did not her smile grew, if that was possible,and the tears began to flow unabashedly from her eyes.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Onny!”&nbsp; She wrapped her arms around her childhood friend and held her like she never wanted to let her go.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>11-03-2013, 01:48:48</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>Her breath left her when Aggy held tight. For one self-conscious moment, she wondered if she were allowed to return that embrace. Had they been this close? Hadn't some of it only been in Onneca's mind, a flight of fantasy reinvented after so many years apart from Aggy? Those first crushes were oft recorded in the mind with the same naivete and innocence as a child's drawing, enduring forever. But the Rose of Ireland's joy was too infectuous, and she was pulled into it. A giggle escaped her as she returned the touch, and in squeezing, she illustrated what the loose cloth of her blouse did not: just how nicely she had filled out. Exactly like her mother, who had been a humble laundry woman all those years ago.<br><br>"Si, it is me, it is Onny." As her hand exchanged caresses with Agatha's, she could find no ring. Her palm curled against Aggy's touch to lead her along the exact same path, to show her that she had remained unwed. It was subconscious, like a young woman stretching in front of a man. <em>Look at me, </em>it said, <em>I am a fertile and unclaimed field. </em> "What are you doing in California?" she asked, every word of the question dripping with curiosity. Course, it was impolite to inquire about a person's history in the West. There were men here who'd left their families in Pennsylvania to strike it rich and decided never to go back. There were convicts on the run under new identities. And there were the immigrants, like she and Agatha, who could expect to be spit upon by the True Americans for their heritage. This was a place of the now, and a boom town like Gomorra more than any other.<br><br>She could tell by the corset laces her fingers strummed that Aggy could benefit from some new clothes. That was the least she could do for her old friend. True, giving away clothes was a tremendous loss- it took months of hard work to harvest each spool of linen, and careful artistry to populate those racks, but the honeys could make up for those kind of losses. She was leaning to one side, about to offer Agatha something to wear, when the bell over the door rung a second time.<br><br>A sweet older lady in a fabric boater hat came in from the heat, and cooled off in the entryway where the juicy red tomatoes and beauty products were arranged to tantalize. They were partly successful, but still the woman's eyes were drawn to Aggy and Onny, and the Irishwoman's bright hair. <em>"Good morning, child," </em>she said generally, to one or both of them.<br>"Buenos dias, Mrs. Howell," Onneca answered sweetly. She kept on smiling for Aggy, but her arms retreated, and she stepped back into her own personal space. Her hands went behind her back with a little perk up onto her toes.<br><em>"Oh, are you going to introduce me to your pretty friend?" </em> Mrs. Howell was a sly old woman. Maybe she could tell that the two of them had been in tears, but was too kind to let on. Maybe her sun-bleached blue eyes could only see vague shapes en route to the sewing materials she always came for.<br>"She is Agatha Dunwich," Onneca was happy to say. "We, ah, grew up together. Like sisters. We would go looking for pretty stones along the tracks together." She met Agatha's eyes to see if she might remember that. Onneca remembered. If only she had kept something, anything, from those little adventures together. A quartz or a piece of amber or fool's gold. "We did everything together. She was my best friend. It is the first time I see her in...ten years or more."<br><em>"Isn't that marvelous," </em>Mrs. Howell said in her usual way.<br>The toe of Onneca's shoe swiveled shyly, and she inspected the wood grain of the floor rather than answer: Yes. Yes, it was marvelous.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kokaine</strong> on <strong>11-03-2013, 02:40:29</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://i167.photobucket.com/albums/u133/kokotigress/Elliquiy/Doom%20Town/000000410008-donna_feldman-fullsize_zps20ce0c60.jpg)</div><hr><strong>Name:</strong> Harley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown to the public thus far<br><strong>Date:</strong> June 1872<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Outside town / Miss Greene's Room<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> N/A - Closed<hr><br>A soft breeze shifted around Harley as she stood before the fire, the orange light shifting over her features and casting them in shadow despite the darkness that waited just beyond the light's reaches. Her normally sober features were even more drawn, a deep sadness just managing to break through the tough shell she'd crafted about herself at an early age. Fortunately there was nobody around—at least not anyone conscious—to witness the slight fracture but even if there had been she wasn't sure she'd have been able to hold back and that was just plain unacceptable to her. Crybabies didn't make it long in this life and she had no intention of provin' those cacklin' roosters right by letting emotion be her undoin'.<br><br>The moon but a mere sliver in the sky, Harley looked up as fingers of doubt made her question her decision. Her gaze landed upon that waning crescent and lingered as if it might whisper something to her. Of course, no such help was forthcoming and again she was reminded that a man—or woman—made their own destiny with their own two hands and whatever combination of right and wrong they saw fit to commit. <br><br>Her hand tightened for a moment and as her gaze lowered back to that dancing fire she felt her resolve firm and settle into place with and an almost audible thump that reverberated though her chest. In her hand she held a folded note, the paper gone ragged from the way her fingers had rubbed across it nigh relentlessly since she'd first received it. She knew the light scent of honeysuckle that clung to the fibers. Knew the silky caress of the cornflower blue ribbon that was tied around it. She even knew the dainty, flowing scrawl and its pleading request like the back of her hand. <br><br>Just as she knew what her answer had to be...<br><br><div align="center">~~~</div><br><em>Like always, the first thing she noticed was the scent of honeysuckle. <br><br>It enveloped her, teasing her senses and invading her being with every inhale, trickling throughout her body to slowly loosen the knotted tension in her neck and at the base of her spine. It was a scent she had come to associate with comfort and companionship freely given—something that she would never admit to needing—and every time she smelled it the tight fist that squeezed her innards on a near constant basis eased for just a little while.<br><br>Candlelight played about the room, softening the edges of the expensive and quietly elegant decor. Unlike some of the other rooms at Miss Greene's, this room was understated, opting for simplicity over extravagance and much like the room's occupant its quiet beauty spoke for itself. <br><br>“I was beginning to think you wouldn't come, stranger.”<br><br>“Aww, now don't I always show darlin'?” Harley's head tilted, revealing dark eyes smudged with heavy shadows from beneath the tilted brim of her borrowed hat. “Though I admit I was surprised ta get your invitation. Tonight ain't our usual night doll.” They met every fortnight, the same night, just a few hours before dawn when Harley would climb her way up to the second floor to slip in through the open window. The Madame knew of Harley's visits but so long as they were kept discreet and and the woman kept up with her rent, she didn't have too much to say about it.<br><br>“True enough,” came the reply. “I suppose I just wanted to see you. Though I am beginning to think you like making me wait.”<br><br>Harley couldn't temper the smirk that crossed her face as she watched as the woman rise from where she had been perched upon her bed to made her way nearer. The chemise she wore slipped down off her slender shoulders and the pale swell of her full breasts teased over the top of her corset while her sheer, layered petticoats swished about her with every stride. Harley dared not take a step further into the room to meet her, her dusty boots remaining in place where they'd landed just inside the open window she'd come through. “Naw, Gem. Way I sees it ain't much sense in makin' you wait. Ain't nuthin' to be gained by wastin' time.” She shrugged, a languid motion that lifted the shoulders of the over-sized duster she wore—again borrowed. <br><br>“Mm-hmm, says you stranger.” Miss Gemma May Tyndall, or rather Gem as she went by, smiled as she stepped closer to Harley, her hand lifting to slip beneath the ridiculous coat the woman wore to push it off shoulders grown stronger than she reckoned they ought need be. “Perhaps you'll be so kind as to tell me your name this time 'round?”<br><br>It was an old question. One that had been asked since their very first meeting when Harley had run off a couple hard cases attempting to make trouble for the pretty young Miss on her way into town. She had admittedly been on her way out of the hell hole that was Gomorra but unfortunately she never had developed the sense required to mind her own damn business when good folk run into trouble. <br><br>She shoulda kept ridin', shoulda kept to her own and high tailed it outta there quick as could be but hearin' the young woman scream had brought her round faster'n a strike of lightening. Dismounting the stolen mare she'd though to ride out of town, she had picked her way around to the direction of the noise to take a closer look and the sight she'd come upon had roused a deep loathin' in her gut. Quicker'n she could register her well cared for Peacemaker was in hand, her lips drawn back in a sneer. At first she had aimed for a head shot that had seemed to be pointed out by the moon herself but after some consideration decided against the trouble that might follow that course of action. Instead two well placed bullets shot from behind the cover of some rocks helped convince the two bullies the pretty young filly wasn't worth the trouble. Their pain filled hollerin' did little to ease the raw burn in Harley's gut but the desired results were achieved and that was all that mattered in the end.<br><br>After the two got on, ridin' their sorry mounts away in tizzy, Harley had crept forward from the shadows and had done her best to set Gemma to rights. The woman's face had been bruised and was swellin' something fierce but it seemed Harley had arrived in time to prevent any more than that and a little tearin' to her garments. With barely any urging the young outlaw had settled the woman back upon her horse and after sending her own ride back into town riderless to find its way back to its owner she'd escorted the shaken woman to her final destination. <br><br>Every time she saw ol' Bart about town now, barely a nub where his left thumb had been, she got a serious hankerin' to finish the job but for her own sake more than his she restrained herself.<br><br>“Name's Harley, Gem, just Harley.” She shrugged out of the duster she'd borrowed from her buddy Jasper, letting Gem take it and the hat to be hung up out of the way. After downing a fifth of firewater, poor Jasper was soaked, layin' ass up and snorin' so hard half his bed roll had likely disappeared. Wasn't likely he would miss his hat or coat none. As big as he was one would assume it'd take a lot to do him in but Harley reckoned she could out drink that bull of a man five times over with barely a wobble and she weren't no sponge. Big JP was just a soft one but considering he had both charm and manners when he wanted to, she had nuthin' against the bill feller. He also had more luck than sense but he was handy to have in a fight, be it bullets or fists, and was strong as an ox which meant Harley didn't have to deal with too many unwanted advances when he was around. <br><br>“Mm-hmm, says you stranger, says you,” the purty dove commented as she made short work of ridding Harley of the ill fitted mens work shirt she wore. Pausing long enough to shake her head when she got a look at the bindings the tall young woman had wrapped about herself in an attempt to minimize her bosom, she tsked at the woman she'd grown quite close to.<br><br>“I swear I dunno why you do this to yourself.” <br><br>“Says the woman wearin' the torture device.” Harley laughed as she gestured toward Gem's corset, her timbre dark and rich and seemingly holding a maturity far greater than her mere 17 years. She'd been stuffed into the damn things a few times herself and couldn't claim to miss them any.<br><br>“I have no idea what you mean, stranger. I dress as a proper lady should.” Gem wiggled her brows as she unwrapped the bindings. “Besides, I don't attempt to hide what God has seen fit to give me.”<br><br>“No ma'am, you most certainly don't.” Thick eyelashes lowered to shutter brown eyes that had gone to heated pools of melted chocolate and her hand lifted to brush across Gem's cheek. A sigh shuddered out of her as her bindings were done away with and she was able to take in an unrestricted breath. A light butterfly kiss was feathered against her breast bone and then her shoulder and her lashes lifted to take in the pretty features of the petite raven haired female beside her. <br><br>“I shouldn't be here.” The same old protest when it was already too late.<br><br>“Shush now.” Fingers trailed along her back, making her skin ripple with the sensation. “If it weren't for you... well, who knows where I might be now. Least I can do is offer you some ease. Won't hurt nobody none to let me.” The same argument for more than a year... Only this time, Harley was forced to swallow her words back as her gaze met those clear, cornflower blue orbs, unable to voice the fact that it might very well hurt someone. <br><br>“Come, lets get you cleaned up some and relaxed, we ain't got long.” A bright, inviting smile urged an answering grin from Harley and after toeing off her boots she let herself be tugged further into the room.<br><br>Sometime later, after she had been washed and rubbed down with oil that gave a light scent of vanilla to mingle with her natural cinnamon and spice, Harley sat on the edge of the bed, her legs drawn up to her chest while a brush was pulled through her hair. Her eyelids grew heavier with every stroke, Gem's soft humming soothing to her ears. It could easily be said that there was no other time Harley was at her most vulnerable than when someone got to messin' with her hair. For some reason the simple act seemed to lower her defenses almost completely as she took comfort in the gentle play of fingers through her tresses. <br><br>“There's something I should probably tell you...” The words seemed to trail off as Gem hesitated and Harley stiffened. “There's... someone.”<br><br>“Someone?” Her eyes closed for a moment as everything seemed to seize up for a moment.<br><br>“A gentleman... he... he wants to take me away from Gomorra.” Harley didn't move or respond and Gem rushed on to continue, “He says he'd take care of me. That I wouldn't want for anything and that all he'd expect in return is children. I haven't yet accepted his offer but all the others think I should.”<br><br>“Whut're you tellin' me this for? Seems like it's all you've ever wanted wrapped up in a pretty little bow right there.”<br><br>“No... not quite,” came the quiet whisper. “But it is a grand offer, one that's hard to refuse...” the brush stilled, “not without a good reason I mean.”<br><br>“And you've got no good reason to refuse. You said yourself you didn't want to be here forever. Here's your ticket out.” Harley's feet dropped to the floor and she pushed herself up, all the warmth and comfort she'd felt just minutes ago drained away to leave her cold. She didn't understand why, but then again she wasn't in the mood for deep thinkin' just now. <br><br>“I don't know. I guess... I guess I was hopin' somebody would give me a reason because as pretty a picture as he paints, there's something empty about it.”<br><br>“Empty?” The word was said incredulously and Harley shook her head. “He offers you the world an' you say its empty? Darlin' I'm not sure what it is you're lookin' for then.” She stalked over to where her clothes were waiting and began to dress.<br><br>“Love Harley, I want love," Gem admitted with a sad smile.<br><br>And that admission was met with a snort. “Well you sure chose a helluva place to look for it. Do you remember what I told you that first night? Before I dropped you off?”<br><br>Gem looked away then, her gaze going to the candles beside her bed, and she nodded. “You told me no matter what a body was running from, Gomorra wasn't a place anyone with a lick of sense should run to.”<br><br>“Exactly.” Harley all but growled. She wasn't even sure why she was angry but she was and her chest felt tight and her eyes hotter'n high noon during a Texas summer. “That hasn't changed. Do yourself a favor, don't look for a reason to stay Gem, get out while you can.”<br><br>“Where are you going? There's still time yet. I don't want you to go.” <br><br>“It's better if I do. Might fall asleep or sumthin' and I cain't afford you darlin'.” A weak excuse.<br><br>“You always fall asleep.” The words were spoken quietly, Gem's gaze now resting on her as she finished dressing, something resigned in that pretty blue gaze. “What's different now?”<br><br>“Nuthin' just need to be gettin' on.” A lie.<br><br>“Fine. Let me fix your braid at least. I'll do the fancy french braid you like.” <br><br>Gem crossed the room and Harley didn't bother to brush her off. As those smooth, pampered fingers slipped into her hair again, Harley knew it would be for the last time. So when it was time for her to go, and Gem asked her usual question just as she started to slip out of the window to climb back down, the Texas outlaw surprised them both. <br><br>“Can I at least know your name, stranger?”<br><br>Harley looked up from beneath her borrowed hat and with a tip of the brim replied with a lazy drawl, “Name's Isobel, ma'am. It's been a real pleasure.”</em><br><br><div align="center">~~~</div><br>The hiss and crackle of the fire seemed inclined to pull her down memory lane but that was a trip Harley could honestly do without. Taking the ribbon from around the note in her hand, she tied the pretty blue silk strip onto the end of her braid. It was decidedly out of place against the drab background of her clothing but she didn't care. It would mean little to anyone else but her anyhow.<br><br>The words of the message were already etched into her mind but for some reason she unfurled the note and reread it for what must have been the umpteenth time since the mute kid had found her at sun up.<br><br><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote"><div align="center">In the wake of your silence a decision has been made. I leave tomorrow.<br>I know you won't come and say goodbye but I can't help but ask one last time.<br>Please?</div></blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br>She took one last look at the neat scrawl and with dry eyes gone dull, dropped the message into the fire. For a brief moment the scent of honeysuckle rose up to tickle her senses but then it was gone, overtaken by the smell of the fire and the outdoors as quickly as it'd come. Across the way Jasper lay ass up on his bedroll again, snorin' so loud nuthin' would dare approach, and Harley settled down to watch the fire burn til it guttered out.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Aiden</strong> on <strong>11-03-2013, 04:36:59</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1171.photobucket.com/albums/r554/onilobo1/Marcus_zps2f02e61d.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Marcus "Ghost" Walker <br><strong>Date:</strong><br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> June 17th, 1874 (2 years before start date IC) <br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Attire:</strong> Clean Clothes, (http://i1171.photobucket.com/albums/r554/onilobo1/Marcus2_zps8073be05.jpg) Recently bathed and facial hair trimmed. <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><hr> <br>The Month of June left its mark on Marcus's back after his day's ride into town. His back was drenched in sweat and the dust clung to him like a second skin. He had no business in town, he had come to Gammora two weeks earlier to unload the pelts and hides from the spring hunt. The summer was normally spent with less emphasis on hunting and more time down at Ghostwalker's lands by the river ,to ward off the heat. Once in a while he came in for a drink and a romp with one of the saloon girls when the "urgin'" surfaced. <br><br>That day he had some business to discuss and no one in town could help him but those with connections back east. Getting face to face with any of the "upper crust" of the city was near impossible except for one. Ginny Whateley, scion of the Whateley family and notorious poker player. Marcus was not a poker player but he needed her help and the best way to approach Ginny was by sitting at her table. <br><br>Marcus spent his time in the baths cleaning up and changing into a fresh pair of clothes, the rest of his clothes left with the local chink who ran the corner laundry operation. He knew he could find two things at Casino Morongo, a good drink and Ms. Ginny. The thought of burning his money to speak with the woman did not sit well with him, but it had to be done. Once inside the casino, he bought himself a bottle at the bar and made his way to one of the emptying seats at Ginny's table.<br>"Evening Ms. Whateley."<br>The man greeted respectfully, before pulling out a the stack of dollars he was willing to gamble away that evening. While he waited to join in on a game he poured himself a drink and knocked it back quickly. 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>11-03-2013, 07:08:07</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> 10th April, 1876.&nbsp; (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early Evening - Just Before Sundown<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Annabel Montgomery<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Well, that was certainly a chilly welcome for someone that could have been mistaken for family.&nbsp; That same smile, ever so slightly shrank, at the rebuff from the barmaid as Ginny looked at the exact coinage that had been returned.&nbsp; <strong>"Nuthin' wrong with sharin' a drink,"</strong> she commented, a bit nonplussed, as she looked at the Scotch in her own hand before sipping at it.&nbsp; Though it was unlike her to remain too off-balance and thankfully the older woman piped up, providing Ginny with time to recover her form and valuable information like the other girl's name.&nbsp; <strong>"Annabel.&nbsp; S'got a good ring tah it."</strong>&nbsp; She could tell that Annabel was less than pleased that her name had been given out.&nbsp; That was perhaps a bit of a difference between her and Annabel; the other girl seemed to be more willing to wear her feelings on her sleeve; Ginny had the habit of playing her cards close to her vest.&nbsp; Though she liked to let people think they knew what she was holding.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Tactfully, she ignored the fact that Annabel had lied about still being on shift.&nbsp; It didn't seem like a good topic to bring up if she wanted to find out more about the other girl.&nbsp; With a gesture from the glass with Scotch in it, she introduced herself.&nbsp; <strong>"Mah name's Virginia.&nbsp; But everyun calls muh Ginny."</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And that seemed to end the conversation right there and then.&nbsp; &nbsp;Excusing herself, Annabel left.&nbsp; Leaving Ginny once again a bit dumbfounded at how unfriendly the other girl was.&nbsp; <strong>"Was it sumethin' ah said?"</strong> she muttered to no one in particular as she finished up her drink and proceeded to cast her gaze around, looking for a card game to join.&nbsp; But in her mind, this wasn't over by a long shot.&nbsp; She wasn't about to let Annabel Montgomery off the hook so easily.<br><br>~*~*~<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;For the next five nights, Ginny made sure to visit the New Moon Saloon after making sure that Annabel would be on the shift.&nbsp; Thankfully, the other folk working there were more apt to talk than the blonde had been.&nbsp; Though that was about as good as they were for; none of them seemed to know anything more about Annabel.&nbsp; It was a bit of a conundrum, but Ginny had always been a stubborn type of person.&nbsp; She didn't like to quit so easily and the other girl's reticence had sparked her fire.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Each time, Ginny had made sure to get early enough to catch a song or two strummed out on the guitar.&nbsp; They were all haunting beautiful, with a tinge of sadness that pulled at the heartstrings.&nbsp; It was about the only time that Annabel seemed to come more alive, though her face never really betrayed what she was feeling.&nbsp; Then, they would meet up at the drink as Ginny would order her whiskey, the most expensive one they had available in the saloon.&nbsp; Then, she would try and strike up a conversation with Annabel.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;So far, it hadn't panned out at all.&nbsp; The other girl was as close-mouthed as ever and always would leave after serving Ginny her drink.&nbsp; It somewhat bothered the young Whateley; she was used to others responding to her natural charm.&nbsp; Though she did note that it didn't seem like a personal animosity; rather, Annabel behaved this way with everyone.&nbsp; It was definitely odd and only made Ginny more determined to be the first one to be the exception to that rule.&nbsp; But thankfully, she wasn't stupid either.&nbsp; It was obvious that a change of tactics would be needed to try and jostle Annabel into actually holding a conversation with her.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;A small grin came to Virginia Whateley's lips.&nbsp; And she had just the idea.&nbsp; Signaling one of the other barmaids, Ginny put the first step of her plan into action...<br><br><br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> 16th April, 1876.&nbsp; (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening (After Annabel's Shift)<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Annabel Montgomery<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The sixth day there was no sign of Ginny at all the entire day.&nbsp; It seemed like she had given up.&nbsp; Perhaps Annabel had breathed a sigh of relief.&nbsp; Or perhaps she had been a little disappointed.&nbsp; The young Whateley had never bothered to ask.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Instead, Ginny was found waiting at Annabel's door at the top of the New Moon Saloon.&nbsp; She looked a little odd, simply sitting on the floor with her legs sprawled out and spread in a most unladylike fashion and her back leaned up against the wall.&nbsp; Though the fact that Annabel hadn't seen the young Whateley until now did raise the question of how long she had been there.&nbsp; It must have been a long time.&nbsp; Most likely, Ginny came in during one of the times when Annabel had ducked into the back kitchen.&nbsp; Then, she must have snuck up the stairs and positioned herself in front of the blonde barmaid's door.&nbsp; Then, she must have waited.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And waited.&nbsp; And waited.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Though it was obvious that Ginny considered her efforts well worth it, given how widely she now smiled.&nbsp; <strong>"Howdy,"</strong> she stated very pleasantly, ignoring any shocked look that might be on Annabel's face.&nbsp; Instead, she gave an air of mock shock and surprise.&nbsp; <strong>"Fancy meetin' yuh here.&nbsp; Funny how things werk out sometimes."</strong>&nbsp; There was a definite smug undertone in Ginny's voice as she climbed to her feet to stand in front of Annabel.&nbsp; It was then that the other woman noticed that she held a bottle in her hand and two glasses.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Holding up the bottle for the other woman's inspection, Ginny waggled it back and forth.&nbsp; <strong>"Hope yuh dun mind.&nbsp; The stuff yah'll got down thar ain't half-bad.&nbsp; But ah still prefer mah local supplier."</strong>&nbsp; Those green eyes sparkled mischievously.&nbsp; <strong>"This here is the real good stuff.&nbsp; Try and and ah think y'ull like it."</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It was part-request, part-demand.&nbsp; And it was obvious that Ginny wasn't planning on going away just after being stonewalled one, two, or ten times.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>xPeachyPuff</strong> on <strong>12-03-2013, 04:06:22</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://pursuitist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/kate-upton2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Annabel Montgomery.<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown.<br><strong>Date:</strong> 10th April, 1876. (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early Evening - Just before Sundown.<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Open<br><hr> <br><br>The next five days, without fail, <em>she</em> was there. Annabel simply couldn’t understand what her infatuation was and set herself up to continually dismiss every advance the woman threw her way. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t wearing her down; the constant attention made her frustrated and exhausted all at once, but she couldn’t simply abandon her job or throw the woman out for drinking there. She had noticed her talking to a few of the other girls that worked at the Saloon, which only made her even more frustrated, but Annabel knew that she wouldn’t get anything from them, since she kept her personal information private at all times. Her shifts seemed to drag more so than usual, and that also irritated her. <br><br>Thankfully, she could return to her room after her shift and not see the woman again until the next day.<br><br><hr><hr><br><br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://pursuitist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/kate-upton2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Annabel Montgomery.<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown.<br><strong>Date:</strong> 16th April, 1876. (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening. <br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Whateley.<br><hr> <br><br>When she’d began work on the sixth day, Annabel had noticed that the woman was a no-show, though she brushed it off as her being late. It was the longest shift she’d ever worked; the longest wait of her life. When she didn’t turn up at all, the girl couldn’t help but feel a mix of confusion, relief and disappointment. The older woman who worked there had even asked where her ‘friend’ had gotten to before she finished her shift. Annabel didn’t know what to do, she felt a little lost without someone to constantly avoid and watch from a distance. It made her feel a little more alone than usual.<br><br>By the time the end of her shift came, she couldn’t help feel completely deflated and she trudged up to her room as she usually would. Only, things weren’t as they usually were when she got to the top of the stairs. There she was, sat outside of Annabel’s room with a bottle of drink and two glasses; the woman she’d been waiting for all evening. <br><br>Annabel remained quiet for a moment as she stood there; staring at the girl sprawled out on the floor. Her blue eyes blinked as she tried to work out what was going on and just as she was about to speak, the other spoke up first. Annabel’s expression quickly turned to a frown as she repeated the girl’s first word. “Howdy..” She couldn’t quite fathom what she was seeing; why was she even here? Annabel thought she’d made it clear that she didn’t want to talk to her or have her hanging around, but there she was, clear as day. <br><br>“Funny how things work out..” She shook her head a little as she once again, repeated her; unbelievable. A small smile cracked onto her features as she took a few more steps towards her, digging her key out from her shirt. At first thought, Annabel wanted to send her downstairs and offer meeting her there, but considering the bottle she’d brought, she didn’t think that it would be a good idea. So she let out a heavy sigh as she unlocked her door and caved in, pushing the door open into the room. The blond entered and turned to the taller girl with raised brows. “Well, I spose ya betta get in hur then.” She made sure to hold the door open for her, mentally smacking herself for even considering befriending this woman. “Virginia, right?” Annabel may not have seemed like she was taking notice before, but it became apparent that she was obviously a very good listener and being in a Saloon was the perfect place to listen.<br><br>The room she was staying in was small and simple; she didn’t need much. Raising a hand, Annabel gestured over towards a small, circular table complete with two, worn wooden chairs. “Take a seat.” Once Ginny had entered, the girl closed the door behind them, making sure to lock it as she always had done before returning the key to her chest where she knew it was secure. She took a seat opposite the other and folded her arms tightly over her chest, some of that hostility coming back as her eyebrows raised accusingly. “Well, whaddya want exactly?”<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>12-03-2013, 07:37:25</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Amid the joy of their embrace Agatha felt the young woman pressed against her.&nbsp; There was a moment of shame in the pleasure she felt.&nbsp; Onneca would not, could not know how the closeness of her made Agatha’s heart race with excitement.&nbsp; How the caress of her fingers sent a tingle of excitement through her body and made butterflies flutter in her stomach.&nbsp; They had been girls when they were last together.&nbsp; They shared hopes and dreams and wishes and secrets under the stars of the open plains.&nbsp; They were innocent then, just two lost girls who found one another other amid the foreign rail ghettos.&nbsp; It wasn’t until years later that Agatha began to realize why she had hurt so badly when her family took her away.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"Si, it is me, it is Onny."&nbsp; The affirmation brought another round of joyous tears.&nbsp; She was real.&nbsp; She was here.&nbsp; Agatha wasn’t alone anymore.&nbsp; For a moment her fingers laced with Onny’s, a touch more intimate than the hand holdings of their youth.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“What are you doing in California?”<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She hesitated unsure of what to say.&nbsp; Her fingers slipped away.&nbsp; ‘I loved a woman and was burned from my home.’&nbsp; &nbsp;Good God.&nbsp; She could not tell her that.&nbsp; “My friend brought me here.&nbsp; I have been moving west for some time,” She answered.&nbsp; It was the truth and that seemed very important to her right now.&nbsp; “Mostly by rail.&nbsp; I have always loved the rail.” She had from the moment they met. “I have been staying at the Collegium.”<br><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The gentle touch of fingers on her corset laces reminded Agatha of intimate moments that she wished not to dwell right here and now, but also it reminded her of the fateful purpose that brought her here.&nbsp; “What a sight I must be?” She said wiping tears away from puffy eyes with the back of her hand.&nbsp; She knew her dress was worn and ragged.&nbsp; She had only the one as the rest had been lost when her home burned.&nbsp; “I must look like a potato sack with a radish on top.” She laughed self-consciously, but did not pull away from the soft play of fingers on lace.&nbsp; The Onneca before her was beautiful in a way that would have made them blush and giggle as young girls.&nbsp; It only made her blush now.&nbsp; She was about to tell Onneca the nature of her visit to the bodega when the door bell sounded.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “Good morning, child.” The voice caused them both to part, perhaps too quickly in Agatha’s case.&nbsp; She had ruined one life already with her affection.&nbsp; She would not burden Onneca with it as well. Her childhood friend was sure to have found a husband by now.&nbsp; No woman that beautiful would be without suitors for her affection.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Good morning Mrs. Howell” Agatha smiled stepping away from Onneca.&nbsp; “It is a pleasure to meet you.” She added as Onneca spoke about the rails and the pretty rocks and their friendship.&nbsp; The memory was as clear to Agatha now as it had been those many years ago and she smiled brightly at it and at Onneca.&nbsp; &nbsp;She nodded her head in agreement. “Thirteen in total.”<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Isn’t that marvelous?”<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“A true miracle.” Agatha agreed with Mrs. Howell.&nbsp; “I could not have dreamed it in my most wonderful dream.” She said looking from Mrs. Howell to Onneca wanting once again to reach out and take her hand.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “Oh, I am so sorry.” She apologized, realizing she was keeping Onneca from her work. “Here I am keeping you from your customers and making such a scene.&nbsp; &nbsp;Please help her.” She said with a smile that lit up her eyes as well as her lips<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “I can wait.&nbsp; I promise I won’t leave. ”<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>13-03-2013, 01:20:27</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>Onneca did as Aggy suggested and went to help Mrs. Howell. There were no more touches as she stepped by- no longer were they giggling girls holding one another up as they balanced on the railroad timbers and hopped from one spike to the next. Like Aggy had said, that was thirteen years ago, and things had changed. There might have been that opportunity, if they'd stayed together, for everything to have gone differently. Certainly, it might've been better. But Onneca was a lady now, here in Gomorra, and she had responsibilities.<br><br>Agatha had the opportunity to see Onneca under the magnifying glass as the tailor attended to Mrs. Howell. Her patience, as she walked with the little old lady through the aisles to the linens. Her sense of community, as she talked with the slow Mrs. Howell about her sewing projects as though each one were dear to her. Her kindness, as she brought the woman a chair and stood by to help her choose the right color of ribbon. Above all, her place in Gomorra- Onneca was an upstanding woman here, even if she'd never be allowed to stand as tall as the whites nor the men. She had a duty and a life and a place in this world, for better or worse. Somehow, it had grown without Agatha, and now it was Aggy made to wait and watch from the sidelines while Onny made room for her. Things might've been so different.<br><br>Old Mrs. Howell wasn't in a rush. Maybe it was that she could intuit the looks going from Agatha to Onneca. When she paid, she regaled the shopkeep with stories of a cat named Bootsie there at the till for another twenty minutes. There were no clocks in the bodega. It was a place to relax. Agatha couldn't have known, and when Mrs. Howell finally did leave, bidding Aggy an afterthought farewell, Onneca was embarrassed. "Lo siento, that was too long to wait," she apologized. A smile, over her shoulder, as she tidied up the linen racks and anticipated Agatha joining her. Those fingers, normally so steady on the surface of linen, able to weave delicate patterns into lace, were now fumbling with simple folds. "I did not mean for you to stand and wait for me. You are my friend, Mrs. Howell would like you." But was that really true? Onneca didn't seem to catch that the old woman had looked at Agatha and seen a bad influence.<br><br>"You say you are staying at the Collegium, si? You must do important work now." She regarded those goggled spectacles atop Aggy's head, and strummed her lip as she wondered what sort of work her Aggy might get into. Geology? Locomotive engineering? "I am a humble dressmaker. It does not make newspapers, but it is nice. I meet so many people. Everyone needs clothes." As she folded away the last of them and again declined to throw her arms around Aggy, it was clear that opportunity that might have once been had passed. That door had closed, maybe a long time ago. There was nothing for it, except to try to move on. Try- that was the key word.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>13-03-2013, 01:45:55</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> June 17th, 1874.&nbsp; (2 years before start date IC.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> <br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Marcus "Ghost" Walker<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Newcomers always stuck out like a sore thumb in Casino Morongo.&nbsp; It was a place for wily gambling veterans and luckless tinhorns that didn't know what they were getting into.&nbsp; While Mr. Sloane always encouraged new blood to keep things lively, if one wasn't careful, they would soon find themselves without two coppers to rub together by evening.&nbsp; And so Ginny immediately took notice of the newcomer, who cut a sharp enough figure though it was obviously he felt out of place here, given by how he paused and took a moment to get his bearings.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And it was with a bit of curiosity that upon spotting her, he immediately made his way over to her table.&nbsp; That alone tipped her off that apparently he was looking for her.&nbsp; Why, she had no idea.&nbsp; Perhaps he was new to town and had heard the rumors of her and wanted to try his luck against hers?&nbsp; Perhaps he wanted to get in touch with someone else in her family?&nbsp; The Whateleys could be hard to find if they didn't want to be found and they prized their privacy highly.&nbsp; Ginny was a bit of an exception in that regard.&nbsp; Honestly, she had no idea why he was here and that was saying something since generally she knew most everything that took place in Gomorra.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;For a while now, Ginny had been running her own table at the Casino Morongo.&nbsp; She hadn't needed the money, but enjoyed the feeling of solidity and while she paid prettily to rent it from Mr. Sloane, she figured it was worth it.&nbsp; Briefly, the young Whateley pushed up the brim of her Stenson slightly to give the stranger a closer look; she didn't recognize him from anywhere.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Evenin' stranger,"</strong> Ginny replied back, seeming amused that he had called her 'Ms. Whateley.'&nbsp; She couldn't remember the last time anyone had been so formal with her. <strong> "Yuh kin jist call me Ginny.&nbsp; That's wot everyun else does."</strong>&nbsp; Her fingers nimbly shuffled the deck and dealt the new set of cards to each of the players sitting there even as one of them flicked a silver dollar as the blind and the next game began again.&nbsp; <strong>"So wot's yer name?&nbsp; Ah ain't see yuh around before.&nbsp; New to Gomorra?"</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; While he may have been new to Gomorra, he certainly wasn't new to the frontier.&nbsp; She had a good eye for these things and she could tell his senses were sharp, given by how his eyes flitted around, able to pick out the important sounds from the raucous noise of the casino.&nbsp; He had a good set of ears on him.&nbsp; Ginny was certain that he had a good story or two to tell.&nbsp; Seeing his drink, she half-cocked her head before she casually flicked him a gold eagle, the heavy coin making its way over to him.&nbsp; <strong>"Here.&nbsp; Lemme git yur drink."</strong>&nbsp; Her smile was a touch infectious.&nbsp; <strong>"It's the least ah kin do fer a new'un.&nbsp; And dun worry, ah'll take it back from yuh sometime tonight."</strong>&nbsp; Those teeth flashed in a harmless way as she regarded her own hand before she pitched a pair of cards down to trade in.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The hand ended, with someone else at the table winning, as Ginny noted that whoever this person was, he wasn't too interested in gambling.&nbsp; That and it didn't seem he had much experience.&nbsp; Just the way he placed his bets and held his cards gave him away.&nbsp; Those fingers were not used to clutching at those slender pieces of cardstock.&nbsp; No, he was definitely here for something else.&nbsp; But still, she couldn't guess.&nbsp; So, Ginny just proceeded to reshuffle and begin to deal out for the next hand.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Waiting for him to make the next move.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kokaine</strong> on <strong>13-03-2013, 05:29:24</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://i167.photobucket.com/albums/u133/kokotigress/Elliquiy/Doom%20Town/D_zps6090b0d7.jpg)</div><hr><strong>Name:</strong> Isobel Harley Montoya Marquez - "Harley"<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown to the public thus far<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Polecat Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<hr><em>"Well lookitchu, smellin' all purty and whatnot. You dun gone an got yourself a fancy feller while none of was lookin?"</em> Harley shoved Jasper's face away with a chuckle as he leaned in far too close to take a big whiff. In reality she didn't smell much different than usual, just clean, but Jasper liked to tease her about her bathing habits.<br><br>"Pffft, like I would bother ta waste a washin' on some ruttin' pansy." She shook her head, sending her still wet braid teasing across her back where it was tucked into her dingy shirt. Since some drunken fool had decided to use it for a damn rope to tug himself up back a year or two ago she had been keeping it tucked away when around town. She could have simply adopted a new style that kept it up and out of the way but she didn't have time to bother with any fanciness. Her braid was straightforward and didn't require any extra fuss.<br><br><em>"Well, iffin it was fer me you didn't need to go ta any trouble, Harley. I'm likely just to get you all dirty again."</em> Jasper grinned that devilish smile of his, one that frequently got him his way with the women folk, but Harley only snorted.<br><br>"Jasper..." She smiled sweetly at the big man, batting her long eyelashes for effect.<br><br><em>"Yes'm?"</em> <br><br>Harley's features fell into her usual sober lines, "No." <br><br>Jasper laughed good naturedly and swung his meaty arm across her shoulders. <em>"Caint blame me none fer tryin'. Though considerin' I been tryin' since you first tried to lift my stash of ammo back when I reckon I'm purty close to softenin' you up."</em> He winked which earned him a pop upside the back of his head. His grin never faltered. <em>"Right. So where to Miss?"</em><br><br>By the time Harley and Jasper made their way into the Polecat in search of a low stakes game to pass the time, Miss Virginia Whateley was well on her way to bein' near full as a tick and was apparently not intending to slow up any. Harley had seen the girl a time or two round the way as was common with those who made a habit of hittin' the local watering holes and was well aware of the girls status as offspring of that uppity breed, the Whateley's. Though if that was supposed to impress her any she'd apparently missed that memo. She'd tell any straight up plain as day, it didn't faze her none who sprang from who. She kept her distance and minded herself the same no matter if you were richer'n all get out or poorer'n ... well, her. The worth of a man or woman had none to do with the coin they carried in her eyes and in that early going her gaze swept right on past the fair faced blonde and the boys she was gamblin' with. She couldn't afford that table.<br><br>For Harley this evening was meant to be light and easy, fun even. She'd recently come into a fair bit of coin to pursue her pleasure for at least a night or two and had even managed to get a room with a real bed. There wasn't much she tended to splurge on outside of the occasional comfort but even if she didn't go for the full room, bathin' was always high on her list. Might seem an odd thing for a woman who'd given herself over to livin' a life outside the law without a respectable roof over her head but the fact was that old habits were hard to break. Livin' at The Desert Rose as a girl back in Texas there had been certain expectations and bathin' regular was one of 'em. No child adopted by Madame Rose and her girls was gonna run around lookin' like a mud baby. It was just bad for business, what with the high caliber clientele they had catered to. <br><br>Posted up at a table populated by men too far into their drink to realize they were bein' read, Harley leaned back and tipped Jasper's hat down some over her brow as she swirled her drink round in her cup. She'd been on the same drink the whole time but the rest had tossed back more'n enough to make up for her slow sippin'. The buck on her right was a little ansty, shiftin' around like he was about to make a move that wasn't gonna leave anyone happy, which had her a touch wary. She had been eyein' him the whole night though and he seemed just a shade too yella to commit to whatever was up his sleeve. As a measure of assurance however, her steely gaze lifted to his and she smiled toothily in a way that made him swallow thickly though her hand never twitched toward her waist and Colt holstered there. She might have followed that up further just to drive the point home but Miss Whateley chose that moment to pipe up with her loud squawkin' from just a table away. <br><br>Harley's lip curled as her gaze shifted for a second to take in the teetering girl. She was used to the mostly coarse manners one encountered out west, but for some reason this seemed to grate on her nerves far more aggressively. Still, it wasn't none of her business... until that fine peach of lady decided to take her mean out on the poor serving girl by spittin' liquor back in her face. <br><br>Even tempered--that's how Harley was generally regarded. She was steady as they come with rocks as big as any of the men she rode with. Blazin' guns, ornery rattlers, whatever, none of it shook her. Her emotions were always held in check. Weren't but a few ways to crack that steely composure really but quite impressively Miss Ginny had managed to start the fissure in the space of a heartbeat.<br><br>She folded her hand, not wanting the spike of anger to lead her into a blind play, and her gaze shifted away from Miss Whateley as she forced herself to breathe and let it go. No sense in startin' nothin' over some girl she didn't know the first thing about... At least that's what she told herself over and over as her irritation mounted with every unnecessary bark from Virginia Whateley's mouth. By the time the young woman took it upon herself to help the barmaid move along with a boot to her backside some hands later, Harley'd had more than enough of the "fine young southern lady".<br><br>Jasper must have seen her twitch though and reached out to cover her hand with a large paw before she could do much of anything. He was smart enough that it was her right hand he grabbed and not her left since Harley didn't like people touchin' her gun hand but the motion still drew her attention as it was meant to. <em>"Let it be girl. We don't want no trouble."</em> <br><br><em>"Aye, I'd listen to him lass. Making an enemy of a Whateley isn't the smartest way to go."</em> Came a harsh whisper still carrying the flavor of Ireland. Unfortunately she also heard Ginnys laughter and the "I'm so innocent" question that left her lips.<br><br>Harley snatched her hand from beneath Jasper's grip, glaring at him with brown eyes gone flat before switching her gaze to the older Irishman across from her. "I dun care if her gran'papi can piss pure ghost rock! Miss Whateley needs ta be taught some damn manners an if none of y'all can be arsed to do it then I guess it's up to me, now idnit?" At 19 years old she had just enough foolishness and "nobility" left in her to believe that. Others might have been hesitant to call the girl to heel due to her sex and status but Harley didn't see any of that. She only saw a mean drunk past her limit. <br><br>Her gaze shifted again and this time her voice was loud enough to carry to the next table, though her posture didn't change as she continued to lean back lazily, her hat tilted forward enough to cast her face in shadow. "I thank we all saw that, Miss. Must be a sad day indeed when a Whateley is out classed by a poor Red." She shook her head and tsked at the girl as if she had every right to call her out ever so casually. "Why the ol' Lady must be beside 'erself to hear of your manners. Surely she taught you better'n that? Then again, I suppose no one could blame you for bein' upset. Girl as purty as that, why I might even feel like a foul tempered cow next to 'er." Harley paused long enough to sip at her drink. "Course, I'd think what with that fancy upbringin' an all, you'd have enough sense not to let 'er make you <em>sound</em> like one too." There was laughter from those near enough to hear though most covered their mouths or looked away.<br><br>Some might have though it was tempting fate to call her out directly, and perhaps it truly was, but Harley's good mood had been soured somethin' serious and she wasn't in the mood to tiptoe around anybody. She was baitin' Miss Ginny for sure, testin' just how far her liquid courage carried. Her left hand was still on the table, relaxed as can be as she sipped her drink but it wouldn't take much at all to get it where it needed to be should it come to that. Hopefully Miss Whateley would have some sense left in that liquor soaked brain of hers and just pipe down or better yet call it night and get the hell on. Then again she had just tormented a poor barmaid endlessly for no good reason so Harley wasn't all that hopeful.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>13-03-2013, 06:06:36</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<strong>Name:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Polecat Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley, Isobel Harley Montoya Marquez - "Harley"<br><hr><br>There were snickers all around the room after the pretty girl in rough clothing called out the drunken scion of Whateley.&nbsp; &nbsp;The silence following chuckling laughter appreciating Harley's insulting challenge was broken from somewhere towards the back of the saloon by a low brawling "Muuuhooooo-yaw."<br><br>The sound was an eerily accurate mimic of the call of a lost calf for its mother.&nbsp; And whoever made it an accomplished comic, because not only did it sound quite realistic, it also drawled off with the unmistakable lilt of a deeply southern accent.<br><br>Laughter filled the room again, great guffaws of laughter loud and deep enough to seemingly shake the rafters.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Phaia</strong> on <strong>13-03-2013, 10:05:42</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1217.photobucket.com/albums/dd394/Vithe_rothe/Doomtown/doomtown92_zps5acd1431.jpg)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Lady Elisabeth Boyle<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Member of the Collegium.<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Her bed and private room.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Theodore Howell, closed<br><br><hr><br><br><br><br><br><div align="center"><span style="font-family: times new roman;" class="bbc_font"><em><br><span style="font-size: 12pt;" class="bbc_size">'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.'</span></em></span></div><br>...but that was not exactly true at a certain shop and house downtown. Above the local apothecary in her bedroom a young woman with golden hair tossed and trembled in her bed, arching then kicking the cover from her as her feet slid apart exposing her self. A half muffled moan of fear and pleasure escaped her lips. For you see she had no visions of 'sugar plums' dancing in her sleep but something else ...something terrifying and arousing. <br><br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header"> Night Terror</div><div class="spoiler_body">A NC/Extreme Nightmare (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=168240.0) in the Night Terrors thread.</div></div><br><br>Elisabeth sat up in her bed, a half scream on her lips that she choked back. She had kicked the covers from her and the chill air made her sweat soaked skin shiver. Her lovely breasts quivered as she almost gulped in air...tonight the nightmare had been the most vivid she could remember...in fact she could remember most of it which was unlike normal and added to the horror that griped her heart.<br><br>Yet her body was on fire, a desire and need she had not felt before filled her. The walls of the dim bedroom seemed to close in on her and something whispered in the still air around her...a chant? a laugh? <br><br>Elisabeth always prided herself on her strong mind and will, she would use reason and logic to figure something out yet that reason and logic fled her and something else drove her. She half fell, half stumbled out of her wet bed, sweat and her own discharge had almost soaked the sheets and gave the room a smell that reeked of sex and need. Standing and making her way to her closet, she trembled and shivered. She had to get out of here...take a walk...fight the fire and need that filled her...breath air that did not smell of her sex.<br><br>She pulled on a long green silk robe not bothering with anything else, she was just too scared, too aroused and worried that she was truly going insane like those 'mad scientists' everyone spoke of. She pulled on slippers and her reason was enough to make sure she put one her revolvers in a pocket and her key in the other. She hurried down the back stairs and into the strangely empty streets, but then it was Christmas eve and who would be out but some fool or someone half mad with fear and need.<br><br>By the time her feet found the wood of the walk way she was almost running. She knew somehow that she had been called to this area, it went against her reason and her logic but she knew. It terrified her what it could mean and what the 'things' wanted from her...yet a part of her craved them...wanted the pleasure they showed her to be real. She wanted to leave but she could not get herself to do so...something kept her...her reason told her that the night terrors came less when she not in the area so she should go...but she couldn't and that too scared her. Ever since she had arrived in Gomorra, the night terror came more often. Where it had been once a month, since she had turned 12 and had her first period, now it was weekly and sometimes twice a week. Her body would stay full of fear and desire for 2 days afterwards but she had coped until now. She had bought an large perfectly made ivory dildo while in Indian and it had help stem her need but not tonight.<br><br>God she just wanted to have it stop..maybe she should just leap from the mesa and let it end.<br><br>Her feet were running now, the green robe flowing back showing her long pale legs and tight over her taut breasts and hard nipples. She ran, her mind not caring but just needing to exhaust the body. Finally she slowed and stopped one hand against a wall and gulped in air, her lungs burning but her body still needing to be taken, to feel helpless ...to be ravaged till she screamed in pleasure...unless her mouth as full as well.<br><br>She leaned partly against that wall and tears filled her green eyes, she seldom cryed, but she had dealt with this alone for too many years...she felt so alone...so filled with terror ...so in need and aroused.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>13-03-2013, 11:51:40</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f4/Theodorehowell.png)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Theodore "Teddy" Howell<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Gomorra Volunteer Fire Brigade<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lady Anne Boyle, closed<br><br><hr><em>Teddy backpedaled through the barn, his feet catching on the straw, as the shambling hordes made their way towards him.&nbsp; His breath came in gasps, and he kept the long handled axe clutched tight in his hands.&nbsp; He stumbled and fell, the axe nearly tumbling from his grasp.&nbsp; He looked back over his shoulder, at the mouths full of tiny fangs, at the pale, stretched skin, wrapped over nearly bare ribs and skeletal limbs.&nbsp; Their skin was like paper, and they opened anguished, needle sharp maws in cries of ravenous hunger.&nbsp; He trembled, his fingers tightening.&nbsp; His sister.&nbsp; His father.&nbsp; His mother.&nbsp; They shambled towards him, along with the rest of the town of Santo Bendito.&nbsp; <br><br>The stablemaster burst through the wooden stable wall, screaming and charging him. His body was emaciated, his skin papery, and that fanged mouth opened.&nbsp; Within the stable, a half eaten horse stared mute accusations at Teddy.&nbsp; He'd learned to ride Romeo when he was a boy – a gentle gelding that had never bucked a child.&nbsp; The stablemaster's favored horse, one he always took extra care to tend, to brush, to feed.&nbsp; He'd gone hungry before he'd allowed the horse to eat anything but oats.&nbsp; Now it's half eaten carcass underlined the ravenous hunger of the creature that charged him.<br><br>He sank the axe into its skull, and the creature went down in a spray of blood and brain and bone.&nbsp; It flopped to the ground, its lifeless body twitching, and the rest of the shambling creatures heard the anguished cry as he felled the creature.&nbsp; They screamed, like a pack of howling wolves, and charged at him.&nbsp; Teddy shuddered, pressing closer and closer to the back of the barn.&nbsp; He scrambled up the ladder, into the hay loft, kicking the ladder away even as one of the creatures climbed after him.&nbsp; He'd just cleared the top when the creature lept, a clawed hand wrapping around his ankle.&nbsp; It clawed a hand at the edge of the loft, dangling while the ladder fell back into the massing creatures.&nbsp; Its grip was impossibly strong, and Teddy screamed and swung the axe, severing the hand at the wrist.&nbsp; It continued to cling, even as the creature fell back into its fellows with a cry of wordless rage.&nbsp; <br><br>Teddy looked down, transfixed for a moment.&nbsp; The township howled up at him.&nbsp; His friends.&nbsp; His family.&nbsp; All of them twisted into pale, parched creatures, starving for flesh.&nbsp; He looked behind himself – the barn's hay loft window was open, and he slipped towards it.&nbsp; It was a dizzying drop to the ground, and he landed with a grunt and a wince, his ankles crying protest.&nbsp; He ran on them a moment after landing, each step making him grunt in pain.&nbsp; The oil lantern would be just inside the barn.&nbsp; He slammed into the giant barn door, pushing it closed.&nbsp; The creatures, the monsters, everyone he knew turned towards him.&nbsp; They began to run towards the door, even as he finished the slide.&nbsp; The door's momentum was in motion, and he ran to the end, reaching inside to grasp at the lantern just inside.&nbsp; He felt a parchment-dry hand across his arm for one shivering moment, then he pulled the lantern free, just getting it and his arm free before the heavy door would have crushed it.<br><br>“I'm sorry,” he whispered.&nbsp; “I'm sorry.”&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>His hand slid down to the oil's light, turning the sparker to make the wick catch light.&nbsp; “I'm so sorry,” he said again, as the lantern caught light.&nbsp; He swung it overhead, and then with a grunt threw it at the thick wooden door, while the monsters battered at it from within.&nbsp; The flames began to spread.&nbsp; Across the door, up the walls.&nbsp; It crawled slowly, flames jumping from painted board to painted board.&nbsp; <br><br>A tiny fist punched through one of the burning boards.&nbsp; He recognized the shape of the tiny hand, before it had been curved into malicious claws.&nbsp; Another punch, and the board began to break free.<br><br>“No.”&nbsp; Teddy winced, tightening his grip on the wood chopping axe.&nbsp; “No, please no.&nbsp; God in heaven, please, no.”&nbsp; There was a sudden shriek of anguish, as the creatures began to catch alight.&nbsp; The hay had caught.&nbsp; The barn was burning in earnest – but then a slim girl, a sister twelve years his junior pushed herself through the weakened board.&nbsp; Her flesh burned as she ran, her mouth open, her cry rage and pain and desperation as she charged her older brother without recognizing him.<br><br>“Please,” he pleaded, with a merciless God.&nbsp; “Please, don't make me - “&nbsp; <br><br>He swung the axe at her neck.</em><br><br>Teddy snapped awake in his bed.&nbsp; He sat up with a start, his heart hammering in his chest.&nbsp; He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow, forcing his body to relax.&nbsp; He tilted his head forward, then leaned and reached for the rosary around his chest.&nbsp; He kissed the crucifix, bending his head in prayer, then letting the cross dangle over powerful muscle while he offered half-hearted praise that it was only a dream.&nbsp; That it wasn't happening.<br><br>Again.&nbsp; <br><br>He lay back, but the memories tormented him when he closed his eyes.&nbsp; He reached for the flask of whiskey at the side of the bed, taking a swig.&nbsp; He closed his eyes and his sister's gruesome face leered.&nbsp; He shook it off, opening his eyes, sliding his feet out of bed and into his boots.&nbsp; He slept half-clothed, always, and he reached for a linen shirt, tugging it over broad shoulders and then pulling a battered duster from the peg on the wall.&nbsp; He needed to walk.&nbsp; He needed to stretch and feel the cold air fill his lungs and forget the fire.<br><br>Gomorra's Volunteer Fire Chief slipped out of his tiny bedroom, off the simple mattress, out into the cold of the night.&nbsp; He passed the battered wood-cutting axe by the door, picking it up and sliding it inside the coat, the head of the axe protected by a leather pocket, the loop in his jacket catching the neck of the axe and keeping it hidden from view.&nbsp; It gave him a comfortable sense of reassurance, and his shoulders unknotted slightly before he plunged into a Gomorran winter.&nbsp; <br><br>The wind was a harsh nip, cutting even through his coat, and the inches of snow on the hard packed, frozen earth reached midway around his cowboy boots.&nbsp; The chill cut, but it helped to clear his mind, and he inhaled it deeply, his eyes closed.&nbsp; The past was gone.&nbsp; The deed done. The fire would always be etched in his memory, but he didn't want to forget it.&nbsp; Not ever.<br><br>He opened his eyes, and a blond head flounced past him, hair streaming, eyes wild and lost.&nbsp; He blinked, surprised, and looked after the fleeing woman.&nbsp; The robe was barely fit for public modesty, and her feet were making easy tracks in the snow.&nbsp; He gulped, and then instincts and some sense of the public good gripped him, and he ran after.&nbsp; Long and powerful legs kept pace with her until she finally slowed, leaning against a wall and sobbing, her chest heaving.&nbsp; Her feet were in inches deep snow, and she looked so... so stricken.&nbsp; So completely, deeply undone.&nbsp; Without a word he slipped off the coat, wrapping it around her shoulders.&nbsp; He had no idea who she was, he had no idea her name or when she'd come to Gomorra.&nbsp; He just knew something was wrong and she needed help and... and she might well be out of her mind.<br><br>He was a foot taller than him.&nbsp; The coat brushed her ankles, and he wrapped it tight.&nbsp; Her bare feet – she was going to lose toes.&nbsp; He needed to take her somewhere warm, dry – and so he wrapped an arm behind her back, then scooped another beneath her knees, lifting her into the air without a word, and turning back towards his shop.<br><br>Dark green eyes searched hers.&nbsp; “You alright, ma'am?”
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>13-03-2013, 17:44:27</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i627.photobucket.com/albums/tt357/Niferbelle/my%20avatars/doomtown7av_zps641b8122.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver<br><strong>Faction:</strong> There have been a few rumors but who listens to those<br><strong>Date:</strong> Tuesday, May 2nd 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning, just after sunrise<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jonathan, Annabel, open<br><hr>Lilah found herself in a strange predicament. It was no surprise at all the barmaid ignored her, at least she wasn't chasing Lilah out with a broom, but what was less explainable is why the woman was being so inhospitable to a man who looked like he had some money. The blond was practically begging him to go spend his money somewhere else. And then there was the man, instantly recognizable as a foreigner when he spoke, who was polite to her and didn't treat her at all like some kind of mongrel. Normally Lilah wouldn't have hung around to play welcome wagon but the combination of the man's good manners and the grudging service he was being given enticed Lilah to stay just a little longer. She raised her eyebrow as the woman plopped the breakfast and whiskey down on the bar and gave the man a look that said there was just no accounting for people.<br><br>"It's true what she said. There's a couple of hotels about, just depends what y'want t'spend," Lilah began, hooking the heel of her boot over the rail that ran the bottom of the bar and feeling uncharacteristically chatty. There was no hint or trace of the Chinese language in her speech just the pure twang of a local. "Let's see...for a tailor, th'Clarkes are tolerable in their prices and there's Grayson's place but I'd go t'th'Clarkes first. Or y'could head t'Fu Leng's, get 'em warshed and fixed at th'same time. I can't speak for that place though, don't know much about it."<br><br>Lilah went on a bit to give him directions to various points around town then figuring she'd helped him some, decided to pay a little attention to her curiosity. She continued to keep an eye on the barmaid just in case. "Mister, y'sound like you're a long way from home. What brings ya t'Gomorra? Y'here for th' Collegium? If y'are, they can prolly take care of everything y'need there."<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Phaia</strong> on <strong>13-03-2013, 19:58:57</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1217.photobucket.com/albums/dd394/Vithe_rothe/Doomtown/Doomtown364_zps8fc2f536.jpg)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Lady Elisabeth Boyle<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Member of the Collegium.<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> In the arms of 'Teddy'<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Theodore Howell, closed<br><br><hr><br>The cold finally forced its way into her mind, her body shivered from it but perversely it seemed to arouse her even more. Her feet were bare and already numb. The bottom of her damp robe was clinging to her legs and the snow was around her calves. <br><br><em>'Had not she put on slippers when she fled her 'home'? She would need a healing potion after this...'</em> <br><br>Her mind tried to cope but what came up was the eyes...glowing eyes and fear so deep...and the desire to be taken, helpless in the clawed fingers. Her hand brushed against a breast then her nipple just to be sure she had no ring there and had dreamed it.<br><br>As the cold air filled her and chilled her she suddenly felt someone beside her. She started to run when strong hands placed a warm duster around her, one with a strange long thing hanging inside it. A hand wrapped the long coat around her legs and then she felt a hand at her back and another lift her legs. She tilted her head and green eyes a few shades deeper then her own stared down at her, "You alright, ma'am?” The voice was strong and deep and held the note of concern.<br><br>Her voice was accented normally in that clear English manner but now it was soft and sultry sounding, "No I am not alright..." She couldn't believe she had told a stranger, a male she was not fine. He was a male and his heat stroked her body... she wanted to throw her arms around him and let him have her ...right here in the snow. It was an effort of will she did not think she had, just to be held and carried in the man's arms. There was something about his eyes that made her look back up into them, they were partly hidden by the shadows, "Th...Thank you... I I am Elisabeth...I...I had to get out of my home...the night terror...the dream... I I fear whatever haunts my dream that they are real and evil and I ...I ..." Tears well up in those beautiful green eyes, the long lashes try to blink them away as her voice lowers to almost a whisper. "I think I belong to them"<br><br>She buried her face in the man's chest and words tumbled out, she did not sound mad but stricken, lost... in need, "It is only a dream...I have it since I was a child... they...it... can't be real...I I am a scientist and nothing like that exists...my reason and logic tell me it ...it is just me...my own mind playing tricks but... I ...Know...I KNOW...they are real and...and... It terrifies me because they want me!!" <br><br>She falls silent since it takes everything she has to hold on...to fight the need and desire and fear in her...she had only once before spoken to another about the 'dream' and that had turned out badly...
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 00:04:38</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f4/Theodorehowell.png)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Theodore "Teddy" Howell<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Gomorra Volunteer Fire Brigade<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lady Anne Boyle, closed<br><br><hr>He carried her carefully, noting where bright green slippers stuck out from the snow as he traced her course back.&nbsp; Well, at least she wasn't completely mad.&nbsp; He tucked her under one arm – his biceps and shoulders were massive, it seemed, and he stooped while carrying her with one arm.&nbsp; He collected the first discarded slipper and handed it back to her; snow and ice still clung to it, and a few paces later he stooped to collect the second, offering it as well before sliding his arm back under her knees.&nbsp; He'd hardly made a protest at the redistribution of her weight, handling her slim body like she was a small child instead of a young woman.<br><br>She said she wasn't alright; and that spoke at least for some presence of mind as to the condition he'd found her in.&nbsp; It was the ones who acted crazy and didn't seem to realize it that truly worried him. His eyes had long shadows – dark shadows that spoke of ghosts in his past, memories he did his best to press beyond.&nbsp; “Teddy,” he offered, when she stammered out her thanks, her gratitude.&nbsp; The mention of her dreams, the horror bad enough to wake her and drive her out into the street... and he blew out a breath, smiling down at her.<br><br>“Had some bad dreams, myself,” he promised.&nbsp; “They ain't real, though,” he promised.&nbsp; He saw the tears well up in her emerald eyes, and he couldn't help but squeeze her just a little closer, his mighty strength gentled and careful.&nbsp; “We need to get you inside, and warm,” he reassured.&nbsp; “But the dreams are just dreams,” he promised.&nbsp; “Just dreams.”&nbsp; He stroked her arm, doing his best to warm her.&nbsp; It hadn't taken him long to catch her, and after a moment they stood beneath a sign that read 'Bob's Fix-It Shop,' and Teddy towed open the door with his boot, turning sideways to get her inside without clunking her inelegantly against a door frame.&nbsp; He set her down, the slippers still in her lap, on a hand carved rocking chair. Taking a moment to loose the duster and wrap it over her legs like a blanket.&nbsp; <br><br>Then she'd buried her head against his chest, clinging to him, and rather then fetching firewood, he paused, wrapping his arms around her shaking shoulders.&nbsp; He heard her speak about reason, and logic, about the inability to banish darkness with her mind alone.&nbsp; He could see it in the way she quaked, and he pulled back just a moment, sliding his hand beneath his shirt, taking the wood beaded rosary and wrapping it around his thick fingers.&nbsp; He knelt down next to her, looking up at her, and pressed the object into her hand, clasping her hands in his.&nbsp; <br><br>His words were a gentle whisper.&nbsp; His eyes looked up at hers, those dark shadows still there, but there was courage in his gaze, too.&nbsp; “<em>Sed et si ambulavero in valle mortis non timebo malum quoniam tu mecum es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa consolabuntur me.</em>”&nbsp; His recitation of the Latin was formal, but his inflection was perfect.&nbsp; He didn't just know the words by rote, he knew the meaning and the inflection behind each.&nbsp; “<em>Pones coram me mensam ex adverso hostium meorum inpinguasti oleo caput meum calix meus inebrians.</em>”&nbsp; His hands squeezed hers, tight and reassuring, his words bearing a strange, certain sort of courage.&nbsp; “<em>Sed et benignitas et misericordia subsequetur me omnibus diebus vitae meae et habitabo in domo Domini in longitudine dierum.</em>”&nbsp; He closed his eyes at the last, and bowed his head.&nbsp; “Amen.”<br><br>He squeezed her hand once more, than slid his fingers from the rosary and crucifix, letting her hold on to it for a while longer.&nbsp; The shop around him seemed to be little more than shelves lined with small projects – everything from broken chairs to a music box which had come unsprung, its contents and gears carefully settled on the shelf.&nbsp; He tugged a small bin of firewood closer, drawing out a log for the pot belly stove, setting it within, and tossed tinder in kindling after, taking a quick moment to arrange it before carefully striking a wooden match and setting it to light. <br><br>Only once the fire had begun to cheer the room did he return, dragging a stool close and taking her hand again.&nbsp; “How you feelin' now, Elisabeth?”<br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Translation of Latin</div><div class="spoiler_body"><em>Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.&nbsp; Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.&nbsp; Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the&nbsp;Lord&nbsp;for ever.</em></div></div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Phaia</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 05:23:38</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1217.photobucket.com/albums/dd394/Vithe_rothe/Doomtown/Doomtown364_zps8fc2f536.jpg)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Lady Elisabeth Boyle<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Member of the Collegium.<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Gomorra Volunteer Fire Brigade<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Theodore Howell, closed<br><br><hr><br>Elisabeth was keenly aware of the strength and power of the man as he held her and shifted her like a child. It was a strength she wanted warped around her...making her helpless ...taking her like she should be...<br><br>'stop STOP Elisabeth...fight this...just last 2 days...47 hours and change now...2 days that's all...' <br><br>She had never felt this aroused before...it was as if whatever the dream was struck out because of the holiday...showing its defiance. She knew she needed to get back to her home ...lock her self in..give her the time needed to recover...but she feared her bedroom...feared going back there.<br><br>She was placed in a rocking chair and as she clung to the man he pulled back and spoke the old words. As he bowed his head she did as well and whispered "Amen". She looked at the rosary and crucifix and her eyes got more haunted as she trembled. Was he some sort of priest? What would he think of her running nearly naked in the snow over a silly dream? Like a woman of course never the strength to deal with things! Her anger rose a bit, chasing the fear making it recede though not leave. Unfortunately that just made the raging need of her body become more so...she knew her nipples were hard points...she was so aroused... so wanting to be fucked and filled everywhere possible.<br><br>She shook her head, her damp yellow hair clinging around her lovely face. She took in a deep shuddering breath...as the fire began to warm her and drive some of the chill away.<br><br>Then he asked, “How you feelin' now, Elisabeth?”<br><br>Her eyes lifted to his, eyes now haunted by things other then the monsters but also alight with anger, "I have tired the 'Lord's Prayer' as well as half the bible in English and Latin and it has never helped. I know there is something Divine and greater then we are...and like I know there is something Divine ...I know what is in my 'dream' is real...It goes against Logic and reason flys in the face of fact, yet the motto of the Royal Society says <em>'Nullius in verba'</em> so how can it not exist until we prove they do not?...and we know new 'things' have been found of late ...things that should not exist but do...so please do not tell me it is only just a 'Dream'"<br><br>She felt the fire warm her and her feet feel better...she bent a bit and slipped the damp slipper on a foot then on the other, showing lengths of silken smooth leg. "T Thank you 'Teddy'...I should be going...i ..I need to get back home..."<br><br>Her body still trembled and the look on her face when she mentioned her 'home' was a mix of fear and loathing. She did not want to leave ...she wanted this man to have her...use her...make her moan in pleasure as she struggled helpless under him...she wanted the glowing eyes to claim her...<br><br>It was not that she disliked sex...in fact she enjoyed it but not like this....or maybe it was the only way she could truely enjoy sex...helpless...bound...<br><br>Her green eyes widen and she shakes her head trying desperately to get the image out of her head, her body trembles and she pulled her knees up to hug them tightly against her chest, shaking her head and whispering 'No fight it fight it...please God help me fight this' ...the rosary and crucifix shaking from the trembling of her hand.<br><br>As she shifted the duster dropped to the floor, though that did not concern her since her mind was warring with her body and her body was slowly winning. What else happened was as she pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them ...her robe parted...showing the man everything...her tight glistening pussy and small glistening pucker of her ass. <br><br>(http://i1217.photobucket.com/albums/dd394/Vithe_rothe/Doomtown/doomtown95_zps61870549.jpg)<br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Latin Translation</div><div class="spoiler_body">Latin for "on the word of no one" </div></div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 05:33:27</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha glanced up from the bolt of cloth she ran through her fingers to steal another glance at her childhood friend and caught the eye of Mrs. Howell.&nbsp; She smiled again politely.&nbsp; Mrs. Howell did not.&nbsp; Her eyebrow arched in questioning distain.&nbsp; Whether it was the poor dress, the display of affection or the way Agatha’s eyes continued to find Onneca as she waited, it did not matter.&nbsp; ‘You are not for her,’ the look said. ‘It would be best for her if you left and never came back.’&nbsp; She knew that look.&nbsp; It had condemned her once before.&nbsp; Agatha lowered her gaze, unable to look at the old woman or Onneca when she returned with the chair.&nbsp; She stood in the small aisle fingering the cloth without feeling it, feeling very alone with her thoughts.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Maybe she was right. The Onneca that attended her elderly customer with a care and kindness few would, would never again be the Onny Agatha had known.&nbsp; Time had taken that pretty little girl away and replaced her with a beautiful, independent young woman.&nbsp; While the Onny she remembered could be seen in the dimpled smile and giggling laughter of their reunion, the Onneca before her was a stranger.&nbsp; But this Onneca was happy and it would be unfair, cruel even to let the undercurrent of sadness Agatha felt show.&nbsp; Agatha was good at hiding how she felt, she had been doing it for so long.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She felt Mrs. Howell’s disapproving gaze on her until Onneca returned with a chair for the old woman to sit in.&nbsp; Regardless of whom Onneca was or is, Agatha wound not to burden her with her issues.&nbsp; It was unlikely that Onneca would understand or accept who Agatha was now and if anyone found out the truth would Agatha want her oldest friend to suffer from her association to her.&nbsp; No.&nbsp; No that would not do.&nbsp; Onneca deserved to be happy.&nbsp; She had a place here, a life she had made for herself, a place where she belonged.&nbsp; Agatha was happy for her, truly happy for her.&nbsp; No, she would not hurt Onneca that way.&nbsp; She owned the little girl she grew up with that much.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Apparently Mrs. Howell finally decided the two women no longer needed a chaperone and packed up her items and left them alone once more.&nbsp; Agatha said a subdued goodbye when she left and looked at Onneca’s back as she straightened the linen racks from where she had pulled some samples.&nbsp; Agatha took one last moment to wonder what if.&nbsp; What if they had never been separated? What if they had never met until now?&nbsp; What if?&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; By the time Onneca looked over her shoulder to smile and apologize, the moment was gone and the tears were long since dried.&nbsp; “It is fine.” She said brushing off the apology. On the subject of Mrs. Howell she was very non-committal.&nbsp; Mrs. Howell had made her feelings very clear. “She seemed nice.” She lied.<br>&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha walked up through the aisle, where she could have wrapped her long arms around Onneca’s waist and rested her cheek against Onneca’s hair, but she did not.&nbsp; She stepped up next to her and looked at the cloth she was folding.&nbsp; “I am just staying there for now. “ She admitted. “I am not a member.&nbsp; They agreed to take me in for the moment when I showed them some of the things in my notebook.”&nbsp; It was all that was left of her inventions.&nbsp; The rest had burned to ash. “Oh, my work is not so important. It is interesting and fun,” She added. “But I guess that is a part of me that hasn’t changed after all these years.”&nbsp; Agatha had always been fiddling with something as a child and had often worked on makeshift tools for her father or little trinkets for the camp girls to wear.&nbsp; Maybe it was her way of saying, “I know that we are different, but part of me is still the Aggy you know.”&nbsp; Maybe it was just conversation.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“A humble dressmaker? Your work is beautiful, Onneca.” The change in name was notable in its formality.&nbsp; “And yes, everyone needs clothes.&nbsp; Which is what has brought me here today.&nbsp; I am happy to say.&nbsp; I have received an advance on my first commission and as you can see, I am in desperate need of your services and need a dress.”&nbsp; She laughed lightly at herself.&nbsp; Agatha may not be able to have their years apart back, but she could try to have her friend once again.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 06:52:46</strong>
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				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f4/Theodorehowell.png)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Theodore "Teddy" Howell<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Gomorra Volunteer Fire Brigade<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lady Anne Boyle, closed<br><br><hr>Teddy let her hold on to the rosary after the prayer had ended.&nbsp; He believed in God because – well, after the things he'd seen he just found the alternative to terrifying to consider.&nbsp; <br><br>Her argument, her eyes alight with anger brought a small smile to his anger.&nbsp; He licked his lips, nodding when she argued that prayer had never helped, and when she reached her conclusion, and reached for her slippers, and he held a hand to pause her.&nbsp; “I never said there wasn't evil in the world.&nbsp; Evil we don't understand, evil that's... beyond comprehension.&nbsp; I have dreams, too.&nbsp; When I was a boy... “&nbsp; He paused, and stared back at the fire himself.&nbsp; “When I was a boy, something happened to my town.&nbsp; Some evil crept into someone.&nbsp; They became a... a monster.&nbsp; A skeletal thing with teeth like needles.&nbsp; It's bite... made anyone it drew blood from just like it.&nbsp; It was a matter of hours before the entire town... my family was monsters like it.&nbsp; I locked everyone in a barn and burned them alive.”&nbsp; His eyes drifted up towards hers.&nbsp; “Everyone I knew.&nbsp; I have dreams, too.”<br><br>He gave a small smile.&nbsp; “All I meant to say was... the dreams won't kill you.&nbsp; The dreams are dreams.&nbsp; But that doesn't mean nightmares won't start walking the earth.”&nbsp; His gaze slipped back to her, and when she bent forward to gather her slippers, his eyes slid over an expanse of cleavage her robe bared, a long length of thigh.&nbsp; “The prayer never makes the dreams go away,” he said, his voice soft, his eyes flashing hungrily for a moment and not falling away.&nbsp; “Sometimes they just make me feel better.&nbsp; I wish I had more to offer than that.&nbsp; I truly do.&nbsp; I don't have answers.&nbsp; Just... consolation and commiseration.”&nbsp; There was no zeal in his eyes, no fire to lecture – only empathy.&nbsp; He'd offered the prayer not out of concern for her soul, but the hopes it might offer some semblance of comfort the way it did to him; it was a kindness, and nothing more.&nbsp; “Was never my aim to judge,” he said softly.&nbsp; “I got no right to judge any man.&nbsp; Or woman.”<br><br>He could see how the dark terrified her though – how the notion of being alone made her tremble, made her visibly shake when the light of the stove-fire still warmed the room.&nbsp; He saw how she wanted to rise, and flee, and then she lifted her legs, baring smooth legs, hairless, glistening nethers, and the tiny pucker of her rear.&nbsp; His eyes widened slightly, but his body reacted in kind.&nbsp; His leather leggings stretched slowly, an almost serpentine motion as his member engorged and slowly distended.&nbsp; She'd been with enough men to gauge just when an average man's length would have stopped filling those trousers, but his seemed to continue on and on down his leg, until the turgid length of him seemed precariously close to his knee.<br><br>He licked his lips.<br><br>“You don't have to go, Elisabeth.”&nbsp; He glanced towards one of the frosted windows.&nbsp; “It's Christmas.&nbsp; No one should have to be alone on Christmas.”&nbsp; That light was still in his eyes, and he reached out for her hand, his powerful one encircling hers.&nbsp; It would be easy for him to bend her, to hold her in place, to do as he liked to her.&nbsp; <br><br>Then with what seemed a flick of his wrist, she was out of the rocking chair, pulled on to his lap.&nbsp; She could feel the great length of him swelling beneath her, the hardness through the leather, and he whispered softly in her ear.&nbsp; “Or we could just keep each other warm.”<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Phaia</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 07:50:52</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1217.photobucket.com/albums/dd394/Vithe_rothe/Doomtown/Doomtown364_zps8fc2f536.jpg)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Lady Elisabeth Boyle<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Member of the Collegium.<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Gomorra Volunteer Fire Brigade<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Theodore Howell, closed<br><br><hr><br>Elisabeth's head nodded shakily as the man's low deep voice spoke of his past...he had seen the evil...h ...he knew it and maybe he would understand. She bit her lower lip as she felt his huge hand encircled her own then before she realized it she was setting across his lap her firm tight ass only covered by shear silk pressed on the leather of his pants. Her green eyes widen as she feels the HUGE cock under the leather...almost unnatural in size...her mind tried to tell her to run to flee but her body almost melted... <br><br>His was a strength she had not encountered before since most of the 'men' she had been with came from circles of society she knew. Her hands tried to push him back as she stammered, her voice a low sultry whisper her accent only added to the exotic and sensual sound, "I ..II...you have to understand...what the dream..does to me..makes me feel...in it..I I am ravaged by 'things' I refuse to fully see...I am bound over an altar I Think...fear fills my mind but....butbut my body craves what they do...howtheytakemeusemeeverywaypossible...I am bound and gagged helpless and god help me My body loves it and I think they claim me for their evil desires...and and when I wake... the desire and the terror fills me..nor...normally I can fight the fear an..and desire but tonight is the worst its ever been...if if the things were real...I...god help me I would want to be bound helpless and used by them..."<br><br>Her face is in a panic as her eyes blink back tears of shame...she had never told another soul that much...how she felt afterwards. Her hands pushed against the massive muscled chest as her ass ground into the leather clad serpent in the man's pants. Her mind told her to run...to flee back to her home...but her body wanted him...wanted him to take her and do as he liked with her..she hadn't even realized that she had toed off her slippers and one ankle curled under his calf...
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 08:33:41</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f4/Theodorehowell.png)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Theodore "Teddy" Howell<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Gomorra Volunteer Fire Brigade<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lady Anne Boyle, closed<br><br><hr>He slid his arms around her by instinct, and as she made her panicked, abashed admittance of what happened, he pulled her closer, his breath trailing over her skin.&nbsp; Her desires, her fears, the way her dreams made her quake with terror and desire – it was instinct to offer what comfort he could, even if it made her silk clad rear and her taut nipples press against the rough cloth stretched tight over his chest.&nbsp; He could feel her body betraying her already, grinding against him, and while a Christian part of his nature thought it best to offer her food, prayer, and a fire's warmth, she was also a beautiful woman squirming near naked on his lap, and all but begging to be used like the most common of harlots.&nbsp; <br><br>He was a good man, at heart, but he was also a man with his own desires.&nbsp; His mouth moved over her neck, nearly kissing it, his nose tickling her skin.<br><br>“I don't care to... go back to sleep, either,” he admitted.&nbsp; &nbsp;His hand drifted to the edge of her robe, but instead of lifting it and pulling it away, he slid his hand down her pale, smooth belly, fingers sliding between her thighs, his rough hand rubbing between her legs and his palm slicking.&nbsp; “If nothing else, I'm... sure we can keep each other awake.”&nbsp; With that, his mouth began to walk across her neck, leaving wet kisses on her skin, the serpent beneath her quaking at the close contact.&nbsp; “You... you want me to take you like you were the Devil's Own Harlot?”<br><br>His hard hand tightened across the back of her neck, squeezing there, his voice still gentle even as that hand laid subtle claim to her.<br><br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Phaia</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 09:04:00</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1217.photobucket.com/albums/dd394/Vithe_rothe/Doomtown/Doomtown364_zps8fc2f536.jpg)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Lady Elisabeth Boyle<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Member of the Collegium.<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Gomorra Volunteer Fire Brigade<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Theodore Howell, closed<br><br><hr><br>As the man's arms slid around her and pulled her closer, she could smell his scent of sweat and wood. Her breath came in fast ragged gasps as she squirmed in his lap. When his hot breath kissed her neck her green eyes closed and she leaned her head back exposing the silken curve of her throat and neck. She trembled and a soft moan escaped her pouty lips...his nose tickled along her throat as if he was inhaling her scent.<br>"nno I can't sleep eitherrrrr..." Her mind tried to regain composure one last time as a hand pressed half heartily against his chest...then she gasps as his rough palm slides along her silken smooth belly...a half start and squirm as he finds her ...pussy and his rough fingers and palm press along it...her moisture quickly slicking his hand... whether by accident or design a rough finger pressed over her turgid clitoris and made her moan.<br><br>She could feel the huge cock under the leather...never had she felt a man that large..if he was a man and not something sent to torment her...but she could not stop her self as he asked.&nbsp; “You... you want me to take you like you were the Devil's Own Harlot?” and a hard strong hand tightened against the back of her neck... She was afraid to speak afraid that if she did this would all blow away like a mist... <br><br>Her hands lowered to the sash of her robe, her fingers quickly undid it and she shrugged the robe back and let it fall unto the floor. Her full breasts quivered. her nipples were hard pink nubs...her scent filled the room, a mix of musk and rose...she lowered her green eyes as her hands slid behind her back to cross...her voice trembled as she whispered<br><br>"yess ...yesss...take me like I...I am the devil's own ...harlot"<br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Aiden</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 18:18:07</strong>
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				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1171.photobucket.com/albums/r554/onilobo1/Marcus_zps2f02e61d.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Marcus "Ghost" Walker <br><strong>Date:</strong><br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> June 17th, 1874 (2 years before start date IC) <br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Attire:</strong> Clean Clothes, (http://i1171.photobucket.com/albums/r554/onilobo1/Marcus2_zps8073be05.jpg) Recently bathed and facial hair trimmed. <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><hr> <br><br>Beside the occasional drink and work for Mr. Sloane, Marcus was not a common face in the casino. The man did not have the vice for gambling. He was not completely green when it came to cards. He knew which hands to play and which to fold, it minimized his losses. "If it is all the same to you Miss Whately, I'd prefer to keep it conventional. I'm Marcus Walker." He introduced himself politely as the woman paid for the bottle he had just paid at the bar. The frontiersmen would have turned down the offer but he did not want to do anything to anger the woman. "Thank you kindly" He thanked her before he offered to pour her a drink before refilling his own glass. <br><br>"Been coming roun' these parts, shy of a decade now." Marcus explained as he looked at the cards, memorized them with the eyes of a man used to noticing details and placed them down. He would bet or fold depending on what he saw in the other players. Marcus might have been a decent player if he put his focus into it and if he based his strategy on looking for tells or bluffers. <br><br>A couple of rounds in and after half a bottle of whiskey lather, he looked over to the lovely young woman. "I came here with the intent to ask a favor of you. I don't have friends back east an' I have an important package waiting to come my way. I need someone to personally bring it on the trains. Do you have anyone back home willing to do that? I will pay for their traveling expenses and time." Marcus offered, hoping she had friends who would either want to come for a visit or just do a favor for the wealthy family. He had to get an answer quick, he had already lost a few dollars but ever since she bragged about taking back her coin, Marcus made it his goal to walk away from the table with it in his pocket. <br><br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>16-03-2013, 00:59:45</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f4/Theodorehowell.png)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Theodore "Teddy" Howell<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> Gomorra Volunteer Fire Brigade<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lady Anne Boyle, closed<br><br><hr>&nbsp; Continued here. (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=168240.msg7875646#msg7875646)
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>16-03-2013, 07:27:39</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>Still Onneca was smiling. She canted her head as if to inquire what was bothering Agatha, but let it drop. Aggy would share when she wanted to. As a friend, Onneca could do better than to trudge up painful memories and expose unhealed wounds. She could perhaps take Aggy's mind off of these things that troubled her. They could have fun, like they used to do. "You are the smartest person I know," she said with a sudden puff of confidence that was rare in a wallflower tailor, not even quantifying Aggy as the smartest <em>woman, </em>so long as there were no men to take offense. There rarely were, in the bodega. "You could be a member, if it is what you want."<br><br>She took a stroll around Aggy to see her from all angles, a tailor's privilege. It didn't help to get a clear mental image of the woman's body, and it would only get worse from here. It was easier to remember her as she had been, and their curiosity as just a childish thing. Being faced with the Venus she had become was going to make Onneca sweat. "Have you been fit before?" She had to ask, though it rarely mattered. Those ten percent of times when the answer was yes, no woman could be made to recall the numbers, or else made to admit them. "We can take your measure in the back room, mi estudio. It is private."<br><br>So coolly, she slipped a long pink streamer of measuring tape over her narrow but firm gardener's shoulders. She had done this hundreds of times with local women and girls of all ages, visitors swept in by the railroad, even the occasional man, and it had long since lost any meaning to wrap a length of tape around a human body and feel a heartbeat pick up just slightly beneath her fingers. She had assured ladies of her professional discretion, and most were comforted to learn that she could take these measurements over a dress and corset, that there was no need to strip down. This would be the first time in months that she felt any kind of anxiety taking a measurement. There was a sense that she wasn't the only one.<br><br>Hauntedly she led the way back through the privacy curtain into her secret room. The light that came in along the ceiling and from a single lamp was soft and dim next to the bright light of the bodega, a moody little retreat. Rounded mirrors were poised so that a woman could admire herself, but in each of them was Onneca with her eyes fixated on Agatha's reflection. The colors, bold and vibrant on linen of the most luxurious quality, stood silent vigil on wooden mannequins in every alcove. It was a museum of dresses too upsettingly beautiful to be soiled by a human body. Perhaps they had never intended to be worn, or perhaps they were made for some future Queen of California. Onneca tossed a canvas over one of them, unfinished, so that Agatha would not see it.<br><br>When the curtain fell closed, the privacy was as much as a woman could hope for in a place like Gomorra. It suggested a place where a woman ought to slip from her corset and become as freely feminine as the half-clothed mannequins all around. It slipped Onneca's mind to tell Agatha that her patterns called for measurements over the clothes; that it wasn't uncommon for a 20 inch difference between waist and hips to be recorded in the books. In fact, she turned her back to Agatha and all the mirrors that might embarrass her, and allowed an unlimited window of time for her friend to disrobe down to her knickers and chemise. There was no premeditation or malice to the way Onneca did this- it simply slipped her mind, as though perhaps it were meant to happen this way, God willing.<br><br>"Do you know what you would like, senorita?" There was a playful little chirp in her voice, as though she were playing at meeting Agatha for the first time, a professional woman to her discerning customer. "You have a light frame that looks so nice in lines that flow down the body." Still her back was turned, not peeking until Agatha permitted her. "If we accent your hips, it will complement your long legs. I am excited to start, you are so pretty. You are just perfect for fashion."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>16-03-2013, 18:06:27</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> 16th April, 1876.&nbsp; (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening (After Annabel's Shift)<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Annabel Montgomery<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The following silence was as tense as any showdown as Ginny waited, wondering how Annabel would react to this intrusion.&nbsp; The other woman already seemed to resent it when the young Whateley tried making small talk with her in a public place; there was no telling how she might react now that even her place of dwelling was being invaded.&nbsp; Still, Ginny figured it was worth the risk and was rewarded when she saw a small smile crack Annabel's lips as she repeated Ginny's earlier words.&nbsp; Hell, they even sounded the same.&nbsp; While Annabel's voice was a touch lighter, a bit more melodic and undoubtedly had a good deal bit more musical talent, and Ginny's a bit more husky with a thicker accent, anyone that didn't know them all that well could have mistaken one for another.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And when she was invited inside, Ginny did allow herself a full smile, beaming like a child did when their Pappa bought them an ice cream.&nbsp; Victory.&nbsp; The young Whateley couldn't help but feel a bit smug even as she climbed to her feet and followed Annabel in.&nbsp; Her eyes scanned the room, noting the lack of personal effects.&nbsp; Of course, Annabel had just come into Gomorra so it would be a bit of time before she settled in.&nbsp; Still, the room shouted a bit of a transient wanderer and lacked a personal touch.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Taking a seat in the offered chair, the two glasses were set out and filled with the high-quality whiskey.&nbsp; <strong>"That's muh name, but everyun calls muh 'Ginny'."</strong>&nbsp; And silently, Ginny noted that the other woman <em>had </em>been listening all those previous times.&nbsp; <strong>"Yuh gots sumething like that?&nbsp; Annie?&nbsp; Anna?&nbsp; Bella?" </strong> The names were rapidly shot out, faster than the quickest gunman in the West, as Ginny tried them out for size to see if any of them stuck to the blonde before her.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong> "Annie feels right,"</strong> Ginny remarked after a moment, apparently deciding for the both of them.&nbsp; If it was one thing, the young Whateley surely didn't lack any courage.&nbsp; Or at least, she didn't know how to keep her mouth shut.&nbsp; That much was very clear.&nbsp; And staring at the folded arms of the other woman along with her pointed question, Ginny frowned a bit.&nbsp; <strong>"Now, dun be like that.&nbsp; &nbsp;We was jist gettin' tah kno' one'un other!"</strong>&nbsp; But when it was obvious that the other woman wasn't recanting her earlier question and might toss Virginia out if she didn't answer, Ginny gave a long-suffering sigh.&nbsp; <strong>"Fine.&nbsp; Be that way.&nbsp; Yuh wanna kno' why ah'm botherin' yuh?&nbsp; Yuh really want tah kno'?"</strong>&nbsp; The young Whateley's voice had dropped lower, making the other woman lean forward to strain to hear her voice.&nbsp; <strong>"Lemme&nbsp; tell yuh..."</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>&nbsp; "...right after yuh take that drink."</strong>&nbsp; Once again, that broad smile came back to Ginny's lips as she nudged the shot glass.&nbsp; It was quite fun actually, ruffling Annabel like this.&nbsp; The blonde barmaid was a bit like a grumpy housecat.&nbsp; Half the fun was in stroking her fur the wrong way so she acted all huffy and out of sorts.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It was also a bit dangerous since Ginny knew that this could result in her getting thrown out of the room.&nbsp; But her gamble paid off as after a moment of deliberation Annabel took the glass and threw back the shot.&nbsp; Then, she stared at Ginny once more.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Wot? Yur not gonna even tell muh if yuh liked it or not?"</strong>&nbsp; Ginny remarked, but seeing as she had probably pressed her luck as far as it could go, she relented a bit.&nbsp; <strong>"Okay, okay...the reason why ah've been bothering yuh is ah'm jist a friendly person.&nbsp; And yuh looked like yuh needed a friend."</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Seeing the other woman's incredulous look and also knowing that she'd soon be kicked out of the room, Ginny also added.&nbsp; <strong>"That and ah was hearin' 'bout a gal that looked jist like muh.&nbsp; Makes someone curious, yuh kno'?&nbsp; Hearin' about the same thang over and over again."</strong>&nbsp; And there it was.&nbsp; Really, just as simple as that.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Then, she changed tactics.&nbsp; <strong>"Anyway...mah turn!" </strong> With a quick tip, she downed the whiskey as she enjoyed the fiery taste of the malted liquor sliding down her throat.&nbsp; <strong>"Where didya learn tah play and sing like that?&nbsp; Yuh gots sum serious talent."</strong>&nbsp; The glasses were refilled with fresh shots of whiskey as it became obvious that the young Whateley intended this to be a game of sorts.&nbsp; Each one taking a drink to ask a question about the other person and their background.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Here and there.&nbsp; I pluck the strings now'nd then."</strong>&nbsp; An awkward silence past as it was obvious that Ginny was expecting her to elaborate some more and was waiting in vain.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Awww...shucks!&nbsp; Come on!&nbsp; Yuh kint be like that!"</strong>&nbsp; The young Whateley protested against the lack of information.&nbsp; Seriously, this was harder than prying a copper from her Poppa's fingers!&nbsp; Jebediah Whateley tightly managed the finances for the whole family and didn't approve that much of Ginny's wastrel ways.&nbsp; &nbsp;Thankfully, Grandma was the one supplying so she had no lack of coin for her spending purposes.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"And why not?"</strong>&nbsp; Annabel remarked as she seemed a bit pleased to have tweaked Ginny's nose in turn.&nbsp; Then, she took another drink. <strong> "So, where did ya grow up?&nbsp; Ya ain't originally around from here..."</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;So the conversation carried on into the early morning.<br><br>~*~*~<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The bottle was more than three-quarters empty when Annabel called it an evening.&nbsp; <strong>"That's enof fer me.&nbsp; Ya best be headin' back home too."</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was a bit of a pout from the younger blonde, but Ginny also seemed content.&nbsp; She was a gambler, after all, and knew when to keep and when to fold.&nbsp; Tonight had been already a success.&nbsp; While she had literally learned next to nothing, Annabel's was about as tight-lipped as a person pushing up the daisies , the young Whateley was pretty happy still.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'll be back tomorrow,"</strong>&nbsp; she remarked even as she stood up and dusted herself off a bit as she left the remaining bit of whiskey.&nbsp; <strong>"Here.&nbsp; Fer yuh.&nbsp; That way yuh kin drink when yuh want."</strong>&nbsp; And with the tip of the Stenson, Ginny allowed herself to be escorted back to the entrance as the door shut behind her with a soft, but definite click.&nbsp; Standing there for a second, the young Whateley finally sunk her hands in her pocket and headed down the stairs.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There were still a few hours for a hand or two.<br><br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> 17th April, 1876.&nbsp; (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Annabel Montgomery<br><hr><br><em>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There’s no music, no confetti<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Crowds don’t cheer, and bells don’t ring<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;but you’ll know it, I can guarantee<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;when the right one comes along</em><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; It was a Sunday, but that didn't stop Ginny from slipping in at her usual time.&nbsp; Looking in as usual at the mysterious blonde plucking away at the guitar strings and soulfully singing.&nbsp; And now, a familiar habit the young Whateley took her usual seat and listened in.<br><br><em>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;What they’re thinkin’, what you’re feelin',<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;You no longer have to guess<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;All those questions are finally put to rest<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; When the right one comes along</em><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Already, there was a small crowd of regulars who sat in to listen to the haunting tunes that the blonde sang.&nbsp; It had started out small, but was growing as the word spread around.&nbsp; Of which Ginny was simply another face.&nbsp; And yet, things were a little different when she had first stepped into the New Moon Saloon a week ago.&nbsp; The truth was there in how Annabel lifted up her head momentarily, those deep blue eyes scanning the crowd, until she spotted Ginny who gave a jaunty wave and smile.&nbsp; Then, the girl was immersed back into her music.<br><br><em>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Every single broken heart will lead you to the truth<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;you think you know what you’re lookin for<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;til what you’re lookin for finds you</em><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; As this time, as Annabel finished, there were a few louder claps than before.&nbsp; With Ginny and the older woman behind the bar leading the charge.&nbsp; And as Annabel went to the bar to close out her shift, Ginny sat there in the seat, her elbows carelessly on the counter and the palms of her hand resting on the cheeks of her face.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>"Howdy,</strong>" she greeted warmly to Annabel.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>16-03-2013, 18:46:52</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Polecat Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Isobel Harley Montoya Marquez - "Harley"<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was a long moment of deadly silence as it was obvious that Ginny hadn't been expecting anyone to say a thing, much less insult her.&nbsp; After all, it was just some dirty squaw that no one should care about.&nbsp; Mean fun at the expense of others happened all the time in every town, and doubly so in a place like the Maze, and honestly speaking, the type of fun Ginny was having was still of a lighter sort.&nbsp; At least this fun didn't result in having to call the mason in the morning to craft a new tombstone for the recently deceased.&nbsp; Normally, best to let her get it out of her system and then go somewhere to sleep it off.&nbsp; But now, there was no turning back from what would happen next as those furious green eyes looked at the person saying those things.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; It was another woman, sitting at one of the other tables.&nbsp; She cut a lean figure in those worn cowboy leathers and certainly looked the part with her tanned, olive skin and dark, almost black hair.&nbsp; Of course, it was hard to get a look at the other woman's face with the hat tilted forward, but that hardly mattered to Ginny.&nbsp; The young Whateley flushed hotly at the disparaging remarks on her and her family as her features took on a much more ruddy hue as deeper spots of red appeared on her cheeks.&nbsp; It was made worse by the ensuing later as apparently the sharp remarks set off a bout of mockery, of which Ginny was the center of it.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Something she didn't appreciate.&nbsp; Not one bit. <strong> "And yuh should mind yer own business,"</strong> she stated flatly.<strong>&nbsp; "Wot's it matter if ah wanna have a little fun?"</strong>&nbsp; &nbsp;A look was given at both this mysterious woman and everyone else around here. <strong> "Dun tell muh yah think them squaws be people?"</strong>&nbsp; Her drunken tone was incredulous as she leaned forward at one of the men seated there.&nbsp; <strong>"Well, do yuh?"</strong>&nbsp; Those angry green eyes demanded an answer from the man as he stammered.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"W-we-well, n-no..."</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<em><span class="bbc_u">BANG!</span></em>&nbsp; That was a noise that had everyone reaching for their guns as Ginny violently banged her first down on the table as the coins that were on it shook and rattled.&nbsp; <strong>"Exactly!&nbsp; They ain't!&nbsp; Me own gel be worth at least a hundred of 'em!"</strong>&nbsp; Of course, it wasn't as if Ginny ever rode the beautiful mare that she kept outside of Gomorra, but that was beside the point.&nbsp; The point was that this odd woman was taking up a lost cause.&nbsp; Squaws would be squaws.&nbsp; They weren't worth a red cent!<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Still not content to let this go, Ginny now staggered up and angrily stomped over to the other woman.&nbsp; Not bothering with her piles and piles of coin.&nbsp; It would be there when she returned.&nbsp; Her fancy boots clomping as she noticed a big man made a subtle motion before the woman who had insulted her gave a half-shake of the head.&nbsp; Instead, Ginny got nice and close to the other woman as she came to lean over on the table as the tension thickened in the air.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah demands an apology,"</strong> the young Whateley hissed at the other girl.&nbsp; <strong>"Yuh insulted muh and mah family.&nbsp; So ah want to hear yuh say that yur sorry!"</strong>&nbsp; While the pepperbox dangled in a holster at her side, Ginny didn't make a motion to draw it.&nbsp; Though from any objective observe, one had to wonder if the young Whateley could even hit the broad side of a barn given how she swayed even now on her feet.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Now that she was closer and could see beneath the other woman's hat, she was struck by how pretty she was.&nbsp; If she took a little bit more time to maintain her appearance, she would have be stunning.&nbsp; It only served to confuse Ginny even more.&nbsp; Why did such a person care about dirty reds?&nbsp; It didn't make much sense to her.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And at the stoic silence she received, Ginny felt her tenuous control of her temper begin to fray.&nbsp; <strong>"Wot's the matter?&nbsp; Yuh yella?"</strong>&nbsp; the blonde taunted as she pointed a finger at the other woman.&nbsp; <strong>"Ain't so big now, are yuh?"</strong>&nbsp; And as she continued to received the silent treatment, Ginny leaned in further in and proceed to get ready to push at the woman.&nbsp; The young Whateley was now leaning so far over that she wouldn't have been able to keep her balance without the table's support.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Ah'm waiting..." </strong> Her hand shot out to try and give the tanned woman a hard shove.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Phaia</strong> on <strong>16-03-2013, 20:19:34</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1217.photobucket.com/albums/dd394/Vithe_rothe/Doomtown/Doomtown364_zps8fc2f536.jpg)</div> <br><br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Lady Elisabeth Boyle<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Member of the Collegium.<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Friday Christmas eve night, December 24th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; not too long after midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong> In the arms of 'Teddy'<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Theodore Howell, closed<br><br><hr><br>Continued here. (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=168240.msg7875646#msg7875646)
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>17-03-2013, 23:15:27</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a1/Onnecamug2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Two days before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jia Li<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>"The polish comes from Tennessee, senora. I will need to order it." Onneca occupied a small space against the counter of the bodega in a state of distress, arms close to her body and two fingers to her brow. The slow movement of her hand was no good at disguising how she trembled like a leaf in these altercations of personality.<br><em>"Very good, see that you do." </em>The lawyer's wife was firm of voice, darkly dressed in Eastern fashions that Onneca had not made, but a very skilled rival somewhere at the end of the railroad. There were very few things she came to the bodega for. Every one of them was sold at dead even, or a slight loss.<br>"Si. It will be a little while." The Mexican tailor's fingers clenched and fret. Her mind melted and her body revolted at the idea of disappointing a customer. It was not just her business, anymore, but her responsibility to carry the goods that the people of Gomorra needed. That oxblood pine tar was a special order. But she could get it for cheaper, and a little bit faster, than the lawyer's wife could order it from Montgomery Ward.<br><br><em>"How little a while? You tell them to pony up, don't be so timid. You'll never thrive here if you can't stand the gaff." </em><br>"Four weeks," she estimated, a pen to the order sheet and populating it with curling shorthand.<br>The woman clucked her tongue. <em>"I swear you entertain the slowest routes on purpose. The old mail coach will reach us in half that. What on earth is the delay?" </em><br>Examining the words on the sheet again and again, Onneca wondered how to answer. She knew the answer- that Tennessee was a Confederate state, and the rail choked by mountains and in great demand, and under Union scrutiny as it chugged out to California. She knew that the order service did not physically hold the product, either, but commissioned it from another company that did not entertain mail orders. She also knew that there was nothing she could say that would make the lawyer's wife happy with her, and so she kept a tight lip, subservient, a sponge for abuse.<br><br>There was a shrill scream from the woman, so urgent that Onneca's head plinked into the lantern behind her and a hand went up to make sure she hadn't gouged a wound in her skull.<br><em>"Look! Did you see?" </em> Onneca leaned over the counter, expecting to see a mouse. <em>"In the window! Oh, a horrid little ragamuffin. Is that the kind of place you run?" </em><br>There was nothing outside when she looked up, but she felt obliged to go and look. "Si. I mean, no." She finished the form, and with a tightening tug on the laces of her dust apron, she shuffled through the bodega aisles to the front door. "The niñas come to peep at the elegant ladies." Her bit of flattery seemed to fall on deaf ears, but you never could tell.<br><br>The little brass bell jingled over the door as Onneca opened it and stepped out into the Gomorra dust. A scent of Maze mildew, of cleaning agent, of a girl who might secretly be becoming a woman betrayed who it had been that made the lawyer's wife scream. "Hola?" Her weaver's hands went into the pockets of the apron, behind a sequined red heart surrounded by a mosaic of eggshell white, made with Indian beads. "Are you here? It is no problema. I can hand you the things in the back." She raked her frazzled brain for the crude etchings of a fourth language, those few words of Mandarin she had inferred the meaning of to help her communicate with the laundry runner. "Zài hòumiàn?"<sup>1</sup><br><br>She gave a smile back into the shop window, rubbed the back of her head again, and waited a bit out in the sun where there was nobody to make her feel like a useless idiot. The laundry runner was a nice girl. Had she ever made Jia Li feel like this?<br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Translations</div><div class="spoiler_body"><strong>1:</strong> In the back</div></div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>18-03-2013, 08:34:03</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Perhaps.” She said unsure of how she felt about the collegium.&nbsp; It was filled with others that understood her, learned men and woman that were filled to overflowing with stimulating conversations, but she had been around similar men in Utah.&nbsp; Intelligence often bred contempt as well as inspiration. The same brilliant minds that thought of ghost rock fueled locomotives and flying machines often believed that they were smart enough to tinker with social systems and politics and the human condition without concern for law and order and humanity.&nbsp; Sometimes putting a whole bunch of smart people in one place was downright dangerous and more importantly Agatha had seen enough in her short life to know that smart people came from many places.&nbsp; The solitary cowboy, the inventive railroad worker and the humble dressmaker were often more insightful of human nature and brilliant in matters of science, engineering and nature.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The compliment did make her smile shyly.&nbsp; Since when in the last few years had she been this coy.&nbsp; Agatha could be as feisty and passionate as her red-hair implied and to be this shy, embarrassed girl was so unlike the woman she had become.&nbsp; Onny’s opinions had mattered so much to Agatha in those days living along the rails that it was hard for them not to matter now.&nbsp; “Thank you,” was the only reply she could give.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha began to turn with Onneca as she began her slow walk around her.&nbsp; She even bent backwards a little, trying to turn her torso in her confining corset to see if she had sat in something.&nbsp; “Is there something on my…oh, right…sorry.” She said with a giggle once she realized what Onneca was really doing.&nbsp; She was then keenly aware of the eyes roaming over her worn and dust rimmed skirts and her improperly laced corset. They glided along her thin shoulders and compressed waist line.&nbsp; Her ample chest was crushed against her chemise and only the thinning fabric prevented an immodest view of the valley the corset made.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"Have you been fit before?”&nbsp; The question allowed her to take the focus away from growing concerns about how her current dress might make certain features of hers look unflattering.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I have, but it was some time ago.”&nbsp; Agatha’s father had done well for himself when he moved from Union Blue to Wasatch.&nbsp; He had earned a decent enough wage to get Agatha schooled and even afford her and her mother nice things from time to time.&nbsp; “I am not the same girl I was then.” She said with little thought to how those words could be taken for good or bad.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;"We can take your measure in the back room, mi estudio. It is private."<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Gracias que sería bueno.” She replied, her lilt making the words not quite right, but understandable.&nbsp; She followed Onneca behind the curtain.&nbsp; The soft light and deep shadow made for a cool refreshing retreat from the hot California sun.&nbsp; “Oh, this is nice.” Agatha said looking around at the exquisitely covered mannequins.&nbsp; Dresses she could never see herself in, they were too beautiful to even dream about. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Onny these are beautiful.” Agatha’s amazement slipped her into the familiar once again, she could not see herself in one of those dresses, but she could see Onneca in them.&nbsp; Her dark hair flowing over her shoulders and across the expensive fabrics, she could see her twirling around under the stars arms outstretched like they used to.&nbsp; These dresses were as much a part of her as her girlish giggle or petite dimples.&nbsp; It was as if she was telling the dressmaker herself that she was beautiful.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;A flutter of canvas caught Agatha’s eye when Onneca covered one of her half-dressed mannequins.&nbsp; Some may have thought it strange, but Agatha did not.&nbsp; She hated to show an invention half-finished and thought it must very much be the same for Onneca.&nbsp; There was a moment of hesitation in stepping into the ring of mirrors.&nbsp; Agatha turned slowly from one to the next.&nbsp; It was a strange feeling seeing yourself at every turn.&nbsp; The strands of coppery hair that had become detached from her hastily done braids hung like gossamer thin wire around her face.&nbsp; The goggles she had forgotten on her head were cocked ever so slightly off center.&nbsp; She knew her clothing was old and frayed, but in those mirrors with Onny’s eyes on her she became quite suddenly self-conscious.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; When Agatha had been a girl just entering womanhood the dressmaker her father sent had measured her in her clothing, but she had been dressed in clothes more fitting a boy then, it had been much easier to measure than petticoats and corsets she imagined.&nbsp; She was very unsure of what to do at first until Onneca turned politely from view and waited.&nbsp; Again a moment of hesitation.&nbsp; She took a deep breath and found that she was shaking ever so slightly at the thought of what she was about to do.&nbsp; Her breath held as he loosened the crinoline and let her layered petticoats fall around her ankles.&nbsp; It was an oddly freeing sensation, not only of the weight of the cloth, but of worry.&nbsp; The thought of undressing in front of Onneca had Agatha looking for excuses to leave.&nbsp; Just because she told herself that she would not allow her nature to impose on her childhood friend’s new life did not mean she was ready to be dressed in her underthings before the exquisite creature Onneca had become.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But with her clothing spilled about her the anxiety of the choice was lifted.&nbsp; She reached behind her back to work at the laces of her corset.&nbsp; It was slow going.&nbsp; Contrary to some dime store romances, getting a woman out of her clothing was no easy task, especially when your hands were shaking.&nbsp; Eventually piece after piece of cloth and clothing fell away to the floor until Agatha stood before those mirrors...before Onneca in nothing more than a fraying chemise and bloomers that were ill-fitting enough to reach just above her knee instead of just below.&nbsp; Oh and her goggles.&nbsp; She had completely forgotten her goggles again as her eyes not left Onneca’s back.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Onneca’s sudden voice, in what had become silence but for the rustling of fabrics, surprised Agatha making her jump.&nbsp; Pretty…Perfect…the compliment Onneca gave, while professional in natural added a flush to Agatha’s pale skin. Her only defense was to play along.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Gracias, Senorita de Goni.&nbsp; You do me too much kindness.&nbsp; I am not nearly as pretty as yourself or your fine dresses.&nbsp; I will leave myself in your capable hands to dress me as you wish.” The play reminded her of games of old where Onneca was the maiden in distress and Agatha would come rescue her from the evil rail baron with some new invention she had made up.&nbsp; They had always been good at pretend.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I am ready,” she said.&nbsp; Was she?<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>xPeachyPuff</strong> on <strong>19-03-2013, 03:02:33</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://pursuitist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/kate-upton2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Annabel Montgomery.<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown.<br><strong>Date:</strong> 16th April, 1876. (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening. <br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Whateley.<br><hr> <br><br>Annabel looked dubious to say the least as Virginia poured the two shot glasses full of the whiskey she'd brought with her. She felt an eyebrow raise at the motion, but her eyes didn't stray from the other girls face as she awaited an answer of some kind. "Ginny." She repeated, giving a curt nod as the woman shortened her own name. A frown creased her brow though, as <em>Ginny</em> began trying to shorten Annabel's, shifting slightly, obviously uncomfortable; she'd never had a nickname except for....No. She wouldn't think about it. Just as she parted her lips to comment on which she preferred from the list that rolled from the strange blond's tongue, Ginny stated what she thought was best and Annabel didn't have the energy to resist. "Annie's fine then." She didn't think it suited her, but she wasn't about to put up a fight about a silly nickname. <br><br>Virginia certainly didn't seem to lack confidence, she'd give her that. It was quite admirable in fact, though Annabel wasn't about to admit that out loud. The blond simply remained hard faced as Ginny shot out another jest, but it was clear Annabel wasn't about to give in to her friendly banter. She had to refrain from cracking a smug smile when the other let out an almost defeated sigh. "Yeah, I wanna kno'" She felt herself straining forward a little, curiosity now the only expression clear on her features, replacing her earlier stony one. <br><br>Annabel felt a little deflated as Ginny initiated her little drinking, information swapping game and the blond quickly sat back in her seat, only then realizing how far she'd strained forwards. An irritable frown presented itself on her face and she tightened her arms tightly across her chest, resisting to take part in the <em>game</em>. <br><br>It took her a minute to lighten up, her arms separating as she scooted a little further forwards with her chair, taking the shot glass and shooting it back with a quick tilt of her head. She swallowed the liquid no problem, though she did feel a little uncomfortable as the heat of it passed down her throat; drinking was something she did very rarely, Annabel didn't like putting herself into vulnerable positions. Upon placing the shot glass back down onto the table with a small amount of pressure, she returned to staring at Ginny expectantly, her elbows pressed onto the table in front of her. <br><br>The explanation wasn't particularly what she was expecting and she didn't believe a word of it, not even for a split second. Annabel simply stared her down with her usual frown filled with skepticism. Ginny obviously took the hint, because she threw her cards onto the table like a gambler loosing a game of poker. "I spose I'd be a lil' bit curious too." She paused for a moment, an eyebrow raising almost accusingly at Ginny. "Curiosity did kill the cat, y'kno'." When Ginny announced it was <em>her</em> turn, Annabel felt her head shake a little bit as she watched the younger girl down the shot like some sorta alcoholic would; skilled. "Fine." The question made her blink, suddenly a little more self aware then she liked to be. "I learned back home, s'always been somethin' I've done. And thank ya." Annabel made sure to keep her information short and limited, but she hoped that Virginia wouldn't notice all the same and that she'd accept her answers as they were. She let a small smile onto her lips as the other mentioned she played occasionally and then her outburst about her lack of information. "And why not?" Annabel's smile only increased a little and she reached out to drink her shot instead of elaborating. It was time to ask her own question. "So, where did ya grow up?&nbsp; Ya ain't originally around from here..."<br><br>- ♥ - ♥ - ♥ - ♥ -<br><br>The conversation carried out long into the early hours of the morning and Annabel had drank much more than she had ever intended to in the presence of a stranger, in fact, even alone. She was surprised with herself when she thought it was a pity to end the night already; she was actually enjoying Virginia's company. It had been a long time since she'd spoken to someone for such a long period of time and enjoyed the conversation, though she still hadn't given much, if anything, away about herself.&nbsp; "That's enof fer me.&nbsp; Ya best be headin' back home too."<br><br>When Ginny mentioned she'd 'be back tomorrow', the blond gave a simple nod. "If ya say so." Annabel raised an eyebrow when the woman left the bottle on the table and she stood to escort her to the door and let her out into the Saloon's corridor. "Tomorrow then." Annabel watched Ginny begin down the stairs before shutting her door and locking her in for the night. After stripping herself of her clothing burden, she relaxed into her bed thinking only one thought as she easily drifted off to a peaceful sleep; it was nice making a friend. <br><br><hr><hr><br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://pursuitist.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/kate-upton2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Annabel Montgomery.<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown.<br><strong>Date:</strong> 17th April, 1876. (Roughly two months before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Early Evening. <br><strong>Location:</strong> New Moon Saloon.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Whateley.<br><hr> <br><br>Setting up for her usual song was a little different; Annabel found herself watching the Saloon doors more often then concentrating on the stage or tuning her precious guitar, but she knew that the woman wouldn't enter until after she'd started her song. <br><br><em>There’s no music, no confetti<br>Crowds don’t cheer, and bells don’t ring<br>but you’ll know it, I can guarantee<br>when the right one comes along</em><br><br>She couldn't help but immerse herself in the lyrics; her usual soulful, sorrow filled air creating the atmosphere she felt most comfortable with. Her fingers plucked elegantly over the strings under her hand as she continued her song.<br><br><em>What they’re thinkin’, what you’re feelin',<br>You no longer have to guess<br>All those questions are finally put to rest<br>When the right one comes along</em><br><br>Annabel lifted her head as the meaningful words passed her lips and her deep blue orbs found a face amongst the small audience; Virginia Whateley. She didn't smile or respond to her other than to hold her eye contact for the briefest of moments, completely absorbed with her chilling music. Then, she was back to being alone, her eyes lowered before closing as she continued to sing. <br><br><em>Every single broken heart will lead you to the truth<br>you think you know what you’re lookin for<br>til what you’re lookin for finds you</em><br><br>Upon finishing, Annabel let herself be brought back to reality by the sounds of clapping, and then the sounds of cheers towards the back of the Saloon by her usually loud fan, the older woman behind the bar, and a new one, Ginny. The blond flashed a small smile, thanking the patrons of the Saloon in her usual fashion before exiting the stage with her guitar and moving through the tables to her usual spot behind the bar. When Ginny spoke up to greet her, Annabel let a genuine smile pull at her lips before she repeated the acknowledgment in a similar, friendly fashion. <br><br>"Howdy."<br><br><br><em>[Scene/History End.]</em>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Pumpkin Seeds</strong> on <strong>19-03-2013, 05:44:38</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ1DnvOXG8yfRJcl9oCLH9JK7uCu0ui5FQU47YO2vGN1qTD4nxY)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jia Li<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> Two days before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca de Goni<br><hr><br>A dirty face did indeed peer through the front window.&nbsp; Most would mistake the demure figure for a young boy that had a little too much time on his hands or a bit too light in the head.&nbsp; Around her head was wrapped a red scarf crafted of simple cotton.&nbsp; More than likely she had liberated such a scarf from a trash bin behind this very shop or found one discarded by another of the town.&nbsp; Jia Li did not care so much from what scraps of cloth came from especially as far as people in this town were concerned.&nbsp; Most had far too much money anyway to spend on themselves and dally about the dusty streets.&nbsp; A face foreign and crafted from ancient blood stared through a window pane at the glorious dresses that confirmed her suspicions.&nbsp; Lace dangled and bright colors called out to her.&nbsp; Even with her humble origins there was a pang of regret not to wear such a dress.<br><br>The lady who designed such things and brought them to life was nice enough.&nbsp; She was different than the others in town, much more like the lace and silk she sewed together.&nbsp; Jia Li knew the woman was well off enough as many of the business owners appeared to be, but little else stuck out about the woman aside from her other languages.&nbsp; Truth be told there wasn’t much else of concern from the perspective of the little mouse that now peered through the window.&nbsp; Almond eyes peered through the glass to see both women discussing something or the other.&nbsp; Most likely some kind of business or gossip that she could not hear, but that was not important.&nbsp; Clothes had to be taken up and Jia Li had a time frame to keep.&nbsp; Then the scream came and instinct took over.&nbsp; Once the sound reached her ears, legs already parted so that she slides down below the window.&nbsp; Then she simply laid back and rolled away so that her body was kept out of sight during the entire motion.<br><br>Even when the client emerged to soothe over the incident did Jia Li fail to appear.&nbsp; Instead the only answer Onneca would receive is the sound of slippers on dirt as the small figure dashed along the side of her store toward the back as commanded.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>19-03-2013, 05:49:56</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> June 17th, 1874.&nbsp; (2 years before start date IC.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> <br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Marcus "Ghost" Walker<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Strange and stranger.&nbsp; Ginny raised an eyebrow as the man introduced himself as Marcus Walker.&nbsp; While she may not have recognized the face, she heard of the name.&nbsp; The "Ghost" - it was said that there wasn't a thing alive he couldn't track down.&nbsp; Though she did offer a small frown at the fact that he wouldn't call her by her nickname even as the next round of betting took place.&nbsp; There was a languid, familiar grace in how she held the cards loosely, almost carelessly, in her hand even as she eyed the current call and then flicked a half eagle to call the bet.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah've heard of yuh," </strong>Ginny remarked even as she watched one of the other players at the table twitch.&nbsp; This one was bluffing, which was always a bad idea to do often in Morongo.&nbsp; The players all here were too sharp, too blood-thirsty to be done in by bravado.&nbsp; It was best to try those tricks at one of the other saloons found around Gomorra and stick to the basics while you were at Casino Morongo.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; This round Ginny won, and won big, as the gambler at the table didn't want to let such a big pot escape.&nbsp; Too greedy.&nbsp; He should have folded much earlier.&nbsp; The next round went to someone else.&nbsp; The next to another after that.&nbsp; Then, the next two were won by the young Whateley by capitalizing on the fact that others chased when they should have quit.&nbsp; While she had a pretty smile, there was nothing pretty in how Ginny swept the pots as her stack of golden eagles began to pile up all around her.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It was this next hand that Marcus made his request.&nbsp; <strong>"A favor?"</strong> Ginny remarked as she wondered what kind of package it was.&nbsp; A brief, sizing look was given to Marcus; he didn't strike her as the type to ship something illegal.&nbsp; She seemed to mull over his proposition for a moment and then gave a shrug. <strong> "Sure.&nbsp; Ah kin do that." </strong> There were no shortage of people she knew back out in the east and if she really wanted, it would have been a simple matter for a personal courier to deliver the package.&nbsp; There was a gleam of interest in her green eyes as she was half-tempted to ask what the package was, but then held her tongue.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Not really her business and she figured that if the Ghost wanted to tell her, he would.&nbsp; Though she did note that he was being incredibly conservative with his bets.&nbsp; Thus far, he hadn't bothered to stay in any hand all the way even though she suspected he had a high pair in one of those hands.&nbsp; She tsked when he did fold because based on her reads, he would have won that hand. <strong>&nbsp; "Ah'll git someun to pick up yur package.&nbsp; Yuh jist tell muh where tah git it and ah'll let 'em kno'."</strong>&nbsp; Another hand was won by Ginny as she revealed a flush to beat out a straight, Jack high, and a pair of fours out on the table as she scooped up another pot.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Tho' yuh'll never win if yuh nevar play,"</strong> she remarked with an amused air, a definite challenge for him to actually stay in all the way for one of the hands.&nbsp; A fresh set of five cards were dealt to each person as Ginny flipped in a silver dollar as the blind before she reached for her set.&nbsp; <strong>"And if yuh want muh tah do this fer yuh, then yuh owe me one.&nbsp; Or ah'll call it even if yuh'll call muh Ginny from now on."</strong>&nbsp; An amused, wry smile followed as she coolly flipped up her cards and peeked.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>19-03-2013, 17:03:29</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/8/8f/Marguerite_Tuerny_07.jpg/600px-Marguerite_Tuerny_07.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; September 25, 1874 (about 18 months before start of game)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Early Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The Rocky Mountains - on the rail between Denver and Salt Lake <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Closed<br><hr>Denver was...&nbsp; she wasn't sure what she thought about Denver.&nbsp; It was both more and less civilized than she'd pictured.&nbsp; The Opera was quite good, she even recognized some of the players from Baltimore.&nbsp; But there was a gunfight just down the street from her hotel, close enough that she heard the discharge of firearms.&nbsp; It was only a few shots, and from what they told her, it wasn't a duel like they sometimes had back East, but a fight between rowdy men over ownership of a horse.&nbsp; And Denver was the last bastion of civilization until Sacramento, which she did not have high hopes for.<br><br>Of course, there was Deseret, but she frankly didn't know what to expect there.&nbsp; If half of what she heard was even partially true, then Deseret and the city by the Salt Lake were...&nbsp; she didn't know what.&nbsp; Unreal, she supposed.<br><br><strong>"We can still turn back."</strong>&nbsp; Alfred suggested, watching her from across the facing seats as the wheels clicked along the uneven track.&nbsp; He was overly solicitous, and though she often felt better in his company, she just as often felt uneasy.&nbsp; His concerns of late seemed more aimed at her travel purse than her person, which was hardly flattering.<br><br><strong>"We've talked about this before Alfred."</strong>&nbsp; She replied.&nbsp; <strong>"You can go back if you like."</strong>&nbsp; Frankly, she wondered why he hadn't.&nbsp; She was normally a good judge of people, but Alfred while overtly transparent, often surprised her.<br><br>Days on the rail blended into each other, was it a week now since she left Baltimore?&nbsp; Or was it longer?&nbsp; Ahead was the Mormon city by the Salt Lake - some called the place Doom, what an ominous appellation!&nbsp; More immediately ahead were the steep passes and dark tunnels through the Rocky Mountains.<br><br>That night, as the train struggled through the mountains between Colorado and Deseret, she stepped out of the rear car of the train, watching the extent of lost lands to the east from the small porch-like cubical.&nbsp; East.&nbsp; Home.&nbsp; She was looking back, so ready to agree to Alfred's pleas and just go home and settle for what she could find there.&nbsp; But while she had her mother's beauty, she was mostly her father's daughter, more than willing to take great risks for greater reward.&nbsp; Effectively, she was staking her future on the hope that the one asset her father had protected for her wasn't worthless.&nbsp; <br><br>There were lights out there, some steady and white and some red and flickering, the later must be fires, campfires made by savage natives or hearty men of the wild.&nbsp; The white lights - she didn't know.&nbsp; Perhaps they were will-o-the-wisps or some new invention made possible by the ghost-rock?&nbsp; Or maybe just the moonlight reflecting off mirror-polished rock.<br><br>She didn't hear the door open over the sounds of the train and her own dream-like distraction with the scenery, so Alfred surprised her when he stepped beside and wrapped an arm about her trim form.&nbsp; Overly familiar, and not something he'd ever have tried back in Baltimore, but making a scene about it here would only lead to fruitless argument.&nbsp; <strong>"Isn't it lovely?"</strong>&nbsp; She asked, the mountain view really was spectacular, and he nodded absently, agreeing without really looking.<br><br>His clipped Boston accent grated on her now, though there was a time she found it charming.&nbsp; <strong>"Rita."</strong>&nbsp; He'd taken to calling her that, though she'd never given him permission to call her by that pet-name reserved for family.&nbsp; Again, she didn't have the energy to argue with him about it.&nbsp; <strong>"This is insane.&nbsp; I worry for you.&nbsp; I'm not sure you're competent to risk everything you have.. that we have..."</strong>&nbsp; And there it was, as little as she had, a few paltry thousand dollars, and he thought of it as his own.<br><br><strong>"We're not married Alfred, I am my own woman."</strong>&nbsp; This was shaping up to be another of their oh-so-civil confrontations.&nbsp; He as going to insist and she was going to rebuff and she already wished it was over.<br><br><strong>"A woman needs a man out here."</strong>&nbsp; He informed her, tightening his grip about her waist in an attempt to pull her into him.&nbsp; <strong>"And a man wants a woman, especially a woman like you Rita.&nbsp; You're beautiful."</strong><br><br>He leaned in to kiss her, and she avoided it.&nbsp; <strong>"Not now Alfred, I'm not in the mood."</strong>&nbsp; But this time, perhaps the western air had driven him mad?&nbsp; This time he behaved not like a suitor, not like a gentleman, he pulled her tight and ignored her protests, ignored her struggles, and tried again to kiss her despite her protests.<br><br>She wasn't sure what happened then, her elbow landed in something soft, and her knee made contact in a move her father taught her which she never expected to use.&nbsp; They struggled, she was pressed back against the rail, and then the latch failed and the gate in the rail opened and she fell.<br><br>It could have been worse, the train was barely moving, struggling up the final steep slope capping the pass.&nbsp; <strong>"Alfred!"</strong>&nbsp; She called, <strong>"Stop the train!"</strong>&nbsp; She struggled to her feet, oh, her dress was a ruin!&nbsp; The thought intruded even in this situation, but she suddenly winced when she put her weight on her left foot.&nbsp; A broken ankle?&nbsp; It didn't matter, even if it was simply twisted, she couldn't run, and the train was pulling away.&nbsp; <strong>"Alfred!"</strong>&nbsp; She called again, her voice rising to a scream.<br><br>But the figure at the tail of the train was doubled over in agony, intent on his own problems.&nbsp; She hopped, then skipped, and hurt her ankle as it may, she started to trot, wishing at the moment her chic travel boots had somewhat more sensible heels.&nbsp; Once she was moving, she gained on the slow-moving train.&nbsp; She was safe!<br><br>But just before she could grab the rail the train topped the pass, the locomotive rolling down the far slope and pulling the rest of the train along at rising speed.&nbsp; She was... she was almost there!&nbsp; <strong>"Alfred!"</strong>&nbsp; She called, <strong>"Give me your hand!"</strong>&nbsp; She reached out, and the man she faced didn't seem like the handsome dashing suitor from Boston at all, his face was twisted in pain and... it almost seemed like triumph!<br><br>And then he was just a shadow under the awning, the train and all her worldly possessions quickly fading into the darkness, the rattle lasted longer, she could feel the train through the rail long after it was gone.&nbsp; And she was alone, in the dark, at the summit of a cold mountain pass, and her ankle hurt.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>20-03-2013, 10:32:55</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>The tailor glimpsed Agatha's frayed underthings as she moved to the vanity, into the company of half a dozen mirrors, still barely looking out of politeness. Like everything that happened at the bodega, this couldn't be rushed. A drawer slid out, and she fetched a clean hairbrush before coming up behind Agatha. Careful of the lenses and the delicate-looking filigree of the woman's goggles, she sank the bristles into Aggy's fiery hair and began to brush. She cleaned and sorted and restored the luxurious shine that Gomorra's dust had tarnished, gifting Aggy a well-groomed appearance that she wouldn't mind seeing in the mirror. "My customers, they like a personal touch," she said.<br><br>Each drag of the brush knew the curve of Agatha's spine, and swept out shimmering ginger threads while avoiding those irritating scratches to the skin. Freckled skin, she realized. Her eyes connected the dots as she gave the requisite hundred brushes that every modern woman needed each day. The tug of the bristles became lighter as the brush ran smoother and cleaner, a systematic rhythm like a rough lover turning gentle, leaving her more beautiful for it, more atingle in the scalp. Finally, when all of Agatha's hair flowed like a sheet of silk, she put the brush away. There was a slow exhale as she unwound the measuring tape from her shoulders.<br><br>"If you like the dresses, maybe try one on," she said, like the painter inviting a hand to touch the canvas. "They are made to be worn." Around to Agatha's front she stepped, making only brief eye contact. Those eyes, they were still the same, and remembering them made Onneca smile so wide. With a strum of the measuring tape, she reached beneath Aggy's arms and ran the thin line of it behind her ribs. A tight tug from one hand to the other encouraged Aggy to stand up straight, and perhaps, to move just a bit closer. Breasts touched through three or four layers of cloth and shyly retreated.<br><br><em>Put the measure around the body, over the dress, close under the arms, drawing it closely- not too tight. </em><br>There was a ritual to it. The tape was already going taut as Onneca's fingers approached the top of a chemise-veiled breast, so that the backs of her nimble weaver's digits touched only once, and only to draw the two ends together. She was not so uncouth to name the number out loud. It would be more humble than a lady's usual measurement, taken over the shaping lift of her corset, but a tailor knew what all that really meant. Agatha more than measured up. Onneca's smile dimpled a bit.<br><br><em>Put the measure around the waist, over the dress. </em><br>Around the small of Agatha's back, the tape sank. This too was a more relaxed measure, without the squeeze of the corset. Somehow, it was more intimate. She would make adjustments later to keep it accurate. "Everything is made by hand. I do not use those machines." She had not yet come to any conclusions about Agatha's line of work, and so spoke a little more freely than she ought. "They say those machines will replace a good seamstress. I do not think so. I think there is a place for good quality, and art. It is something a machine could not give." A touch just to one side and an inch above Aggy's navel took the second measurement.<br><br><em>Put the measure around the muscular part of the upper arm, about an inch below the lower part of the arm's-eye, drawing the tape closely- not too tight. </em><br>For this, she lightly grasped Agatha's arm and led it to rest on her own shoulder. A little loop of the tape searched back over the billow of her chemise, to find where the shoulder ended and the arm began. "This place was much more clean before the ghost rock. We lived well enough without it, si? It is dangerous now. If you have the ghost rock on your land, they might shoot you for it. The only things I am getting from my land are crops. I am happy. It is enough."<br><br>That was all the measurement that was necessary. Still, Onneca sank to her knees. From there she did make eye contact, as though it were the proper place for her. The measuring tape kissed skin just above the hidden hem of Agatha's bloomers, and trailed down a firmly set thigh to the proper place for a dress hem. Her fingers alighted for a moment on Aggy's toes. Then she smiled again, and turned her head away, and took notes down on a small pad. They would forever be her little secret. "Would you like to try something on?" she asked, still knelt down, with a coquettish curve to her body.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>21-03-2013, 05:34:17</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a1/Onnecamug2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Two days before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jia Li<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>The back wall of the bodega was so plain. In the front there was her garden and the colors of the curtains, to the side there were the painted handprints of the schoolchildren. In the back there was nothing save a windowless door, because the back room was private. The rear of the bodega was indistinguishable from any other building, and that was the side a laundry runner was meant to see. The front was for wealthy ladies.<br><br>Onneca was a few moments. She locked the front after the lawyer's wife and turned a hand-knit sign so it informed passers by in dual languages that she was closed, and also sorry. There were a few moments more to compose herself, because she had that luxury, in her solely owned business. She had the luxury to stop working and sit by herself and have a cup of tea if she really liked. It was in no great rush that she packed the laundry into a coarse basket, because there was nobody to yell at her if she took too long. Finally, the back door opened, and Onneca nudged a stone in front of it with a reach of her shoe. The perfume of the lovely back room billowed out, lost into the Gomorra dust, and just inside there were teases of her mannequins dressed in lovely haute couture, bold colors only found in summer fields. She sat herself down on the back step, her knees together and her shoes overlapping, her fingers laced beneath her lap. Guardian, as of Saint Peter, to a whole other realm.<br><br>"Laundry girl? Lo siento, I do not know your name. Do you want to come in? I made a biscuit for you."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>22-03-2013, 07:08:49</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha gently pulled the pins that held her braided hair in place when she saw Onneca retrieve a brush from the drawer.&nbsp; She could only nod and smile when Onneca spoke.&nbsp; The personal touch, yes she would like that very much.&nbsp; Her burnished hair fell well past her shoulders like a cascade of molten copper.&nbsp; It wasn’t until the bristles touched the red and orange threads that she remembered her goggles perched atop her heard. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh, I’m sorry.” She said pulling them off and holding them in her hands. “I often forget they are there.” <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The steady and sure strokes tugged teasingly at her scalp as her long fingers worried the leather strap of the goggles she held loosely in her hands.&nbsp; Agatha’s eyelids drooped half closed with each fine tug and the steady pressure that followed.&nbsp; A small sound escaped her lips once and she nearly dropped her goggles hoping Onneca had not heard the little gasp.&nbsp; ‘Oh good Lord, save me from temptation and give me the strength to be a good girl.’&nbsp; She prayed as the bristles ran like tiny fingers through her hair and tormented her scalp so deliciously.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;When Onneca spoke once more about the dresses she felt like her prayer had been answered, while wishing the beautiful torment would continue.&nbsp; Here hair, now brushed straight fell to the small of her back and she could not help but smile at the reflection that smiled back at her.&nbsp; Onneca had indeed made her feel beautiful. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m not sure I would fit in them.” She said wanting nothing more than to have Onneca’s fabrics caressing her body and laced tight across her chest.&nbsp; Agatha was a waif-ish girl and while she was blessed with the curves of the Irish they were on a light frame and not always able to fit the modern dress just so.&nbsp; Onneca’s smile caused Agatha’s pale glossy lips to curl into one of her own.&nbsp; She lifted her arm as Onneca looped the tape behind her.&nbsp; The thin tape slide along her back like her chemise wasn’t even there.&nbsp; There was a brief heat to the friction along her back and the tight tug indeed pulled her upright and to Onneca. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh.” She said softly and gave a little giggle of surprise as they touched ever so briefly.&nbsp; Her eyes widened for a moment as the tape tightened over her breasts and Onneca’s fingers neared their tips.&nbsp; The numbers on the tape flickered by through her fingertips settle just so.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; ’34. Selenium. Discovered by Jöns Jakob Berzelius and Johan Gottlieb Gahn.&nbsp; It has a melting point of 220.5 degrees Celsius and a boiling point of 685 degrees Celsius, with oxidation states of 6, 4 and -2.’ She thought doing whatever she could not to think about those fingers and where they were.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; The tape slipped around her waist pulling her undergarments in around her body giving form to her hips and pulling the chemise closer to her stomach and allowing the fullness of her breasts to show.&nbsp; Agatha heard Onneca saying something about machines and ghost rock.&nbsp; Agatha nodded her head in agreement only hearing every other word.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;‘…it’s specific heat is 0.321 Jules per gram mol at 20 degrees Celsius…”<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The tape zipped out from behind her back and Onneca guided her hand to her shoulder.&nbsp; She caught up with the conversation at “I am happy. That is enough.”&nbsp; Onneca was happy.&nbsp; That was enough to make Agatha smile again.&nbsp; She had made it through the fitting with little loss of composure and for that she was grateful…until Onneca sank to her knees before her.&nbsp; She froze dead stiff as the last of the measurements played out and Onneca turned away.&nbsp; Agatha was still looking at the spot Onneca had been kneeling when her sweet accented voice asked her a question.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“The nuts of Brazil have the highest levels of natural selenium of all nuts.”&nbsp; She said looking up suddenly.&nbsp; “Oh…sorry.&nbsp; Um.&nbsp; Yes, but I can’t.&nbsp; I really need to be going.&nbsp; I have to see a man about a shop.” She sputtered.&nbsp; “Perhaps I can come back soon and try one on.&nbsp; I would like that.&nbsp; Do you know where Bankem and Bankem’s offices are?&nbsp; Maybe some morning you could show me around town.&nbsp; Um…sorry…I’m talking too much.” She said flustered and flopped her arms to her side in exasperation at herself, silent for a moment.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “Would you help me get dressed?” She asked both dreading and wanting the answer to be yes.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>22-03-2013, 08:33:14</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; January 9th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The Back Room<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Sloane<br><hr>The winters of Gomorra came as hard and cold as the summers came dry and hot – there was packed snow on the ground on the traipse from the Casino Morongo to the 'Back Room' of Whiskey Nick's Joint.&nbsp; Nick himself was one of the oldest miners in Gomorra – he'd been in California during the '49 strike, and never found more than a few nuggets of gold in over a decade of panhandling.&nbsp; Those he did were rapidly spent on whiskey, and when the '69 ghost rock fever came around, Nick learned a lesson from the saloon owners that had once robbed him blind.&nbsp; Nick might well have been one of the toughest old miners in Gomorra – with a reputation as a little loco.&nbsp; During his first few months of being open, a gunfight had nearly broken out in Nick's, and the weathered miner had casually struck a match as six men stood in a Mexican standoff.&nbsp; He'd lit his pipe, then applied the burning match to a fuse.<br><br>“Gents, you got about... nine seconds to put them smokewagons back in theirs skins, before this 'ere dynamite blows my whole place to Kingdom Come.”&nbsp; He'd calmly thumped the dynamite onto the bar, for all to see.&nbsp; It was seven seconds before the would be gunslingers had settled themselves back into their bars, and in five years, no one had drawn another gun in his establishment.<br><br>Nick never replaced the fuse – only two seconds of it remained, and he still kept the dynamite under the bar.<br><br>His place had a reputation as a quiet place to get a fairly priced drink, and a safe place for otherwise contentious folks to meet in safety – or at least mutually assured destruction.&nbsp; He rented out a back room that assured privacy, for the modest price of ten dollars a night.&nbsp; Nick was actually a fairly affable fellow, after someone had made good on their tab, but tolerated few shenanigans in his saloon.<br><br><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/d1/Mrlee.png)</div><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0b/Msgreene.png)</div>He nodded to Sloane as he made his entrance, and gestured to the back room's door.<br><br>“They're already inside.&nbsp; Diana's gonna have skillets coming in a few.”<br><br>Through the back door, Ms. Green and Mr. Lee were already sat around the single modest wooden table.&nbsp; A tea cozy had been set out, and both Greene and Lee politely nodded at Sloane's entrance.&nbsp; Greene was outfitted in her tight skirts, a folded parasol at her knee, and Mr. Lee wore a dapper western suit and wire-rimmed spectacles, offering a friendly smile.<br><br>“So lovely of you to join us, Mr. Sloane.&nbsp; May I offer some tea?”<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Aiden</strong> on <strong>23-03-2013, 08:07:35</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i1171.photobucket.com/albums/r554/onilobo1/Marcus_zps2f02e61d.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Marcus "Ghost" Walker <br><strong>Date:</strong><br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> June 17th, 1874 (2 years before start date IC) <br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Attire:</strong> Clean Clothes, (http://i1171.photobucket.com/albums/r554/onilobo1/Marcus2_zps8073be05.jpg) Recently bathed and facial hair trimmed. <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><hr> <br><br>Marcus was more interested in his bottle then the cards to be honest. At one point the expert tracker rolled up a cigarette and partook in one of his other vices in between games. He was careful not to blow smoke into the lady's face, which was starting to irritate the poker player to his left. He didn't chase big pots and he hardly played any hands, his losses were kept at a minimum. <br><br>When the young woman agreed to do him a favor he simply nodded and reached into his back pocket for an envelope. <strong>"This here is all the information and money."</strong> He said as he passed it to her while someone else shuffled and dealt the cards. Marcus immediately folded the hand, not even betting the pair of aces he had been given. The final drag of his tobacco was taken along with the last gulp of the bottle. <strong>"I will be back in a week or two, I will see you then."</strong> Marcus said as her stood, taking that one gold coin Ginny had given him as a trophy. The trophy had been costly and he had still managed to lose a couple dollars to her, but this was the coin she vowed to win back. <br><br><strong>"Thank you kindly Ms. Whateley."</strong> Marcus excused himself, placed his hat on his head and tipped it before walking out of the casino. <br><br><div align="center"><em>-end (this scene)-</em></div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kuroneko</strong> on <strong>24-03-2013, 01:21:43</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane6_zps63e694fc.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Deacon Sloane<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> January 9th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Back Room<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Miss Greene, Mr. Lee <br><hr><br>Crossing the city to the other tavern this time of the year was a pain in the ass.&nbsp; The hard snow on the ground, packed down by the endless pass of feet throughout the day was the least of it.&nbsp; Sloane’s boots took care of that.&nbsp; But the cold was bitter, and the wind coming down from the north always managed to find its way into his shoulder no matter how bundled up he was.&nbsp; Even now, he could feel it biting through the heavy wool and bear fur collar of his coat to claw at his joints, reminding him of the injury that had ended his gunslinging days and pointing out that he was no longer a young man.&nbsp; It made him even more ornery than usual as he walked to the god-cursed meeting called by Greene on a fucking moment’s notice.&nbsp; There had better be some glorious goddamn reason for summoning him right in the middle of prime business hours.<br><br>Sloane stopped just inside Whiskey Nick’s to stomp the snow from his boots as he unbuttoned his coat, removing the black derby from his head in the process before he stepped into the main room of the tavern.&nbsp; He returned Nick’s nod, knowing that he was late and the others would be waiting.&nbsp; But some of Diana’s cooking sounded damn good after the freezing walk.&nbsp; “Add a bottle of whiskey to my order,” he said, fishing out a ten dollar coin from his pocket and setting it on the bar before making his way through the tables to the back room.<br><br>Opening the door, Sloane walked through and shut it behind him, completely unsurprised to see the celestial whoremonger sitting at the lone table with Miss Greene, but it did up his curiosity a fair piece.&nbsp; In his opinion, Lee’s den of eastern depravity wasn’t in the same league as either one of his or Greene’s businesses, though he did acknowledge that the man attracted a fair amount of a certain kind of clientele.&nbsp; And yet here he was, with his pandering, obsequious little smile pasted to his face and dressed in a finely tailored suit, as if he was one of the finest and most respected businessmen in Gomorra, rather than the proprietor of the vilest brothel in the town.&nbsp; Sloane liked to think of himself as an open minded man who didn't make judgments about others until they were earned, or on what they did for a living or to get their jollies; but Lee violated even his admittedly broadly defined and almost non existant limits. <br><br><em>‘Looks like the shit blizzard’s early today,’</em> Sloane thought, as he removed his coat and tossed it on a chair resting against the wall along with his hat while Greene offered him tea.&nbsp; “Lord knows I do love that fucking Darjeeling,” Sloane replied, as he took an empty chair and made himself comfortable.&nbsp; “But only half a cup.&nbsp; I don’t want to ruin the taste of my whiskey.” Once the cup had been poured and offered, he reached into his suit pocket for a silver flask and emptied the contents into the cup.&nbsp; <br><br>“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of being called away from my place of business just as the night’s commerce is heating up?” Sloane asked, directing his question to Miss Greene, knowing that she was likely instigator of this little soirée.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>24-03-2013, 20:52:21</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; June 2, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>"Oh, si. I have been here a while now. I know where the Bankem office is." She lifted the lightness of Agatha's petticoats from the clean carpet with a pinch of her fingertips, collecting the clothes without complaint. Everything was straightened and brushed clean before she began to dress Agatha again. By not answering yes, she neatly sidestepped the dread and the want, and simply acted, as though Aggy needn't have asked in the first place. Onneca was a professional woman, and this was her service. Maybe everyone got that anxious smile and dancing, almost flirtatious fingers. Doubtful.<br><br>The first petticoat was held at ankle level so that Agatha could step in. Shimmering fabric caressed the explicitness of an ankle and worked up to weight down the billow of the woman's bloomers and finally her camisole. Long, thin spaghetti straps that ensured the petticoat could never be an article of clothing on its own slipped over Agatha's shoulders in a very light and barely noticeable burden. But that was only the first layer, and they were just starting. Another layer added body and volume to hips that Onneca wouldn't have minded holding in just their native shape. Every layer she discovered amidst Agatha's discarded clothes, she built up around those hips like paper mache, teasing out the ruffles with her fingers, bundling intensely to lock away her best friend's center of gravity and the center of her womanly pleasure. Always, she was gentle.<br><br>"When you come again, I will show you around the town. Another time, we can try on clothes. I would like you to visit me again, very much." The corset, so supple in Onneca's hands, wrapped its familiar comforting squeeze around Agatha's soft flanks. The laces were loose in the back so that the hooks in the front could be fastened while Onneca breathed into Agatha's coppery hair. The initial pinch for the first hook to be fastened came just under the ribs, with the tailor's thumbs cupped under soft breasts as she worked. She called no undue attention to that necessary touch as she worked down the front, fastening each hook, correcting a slim hourglass shape to a natural figure that was already perfectly lovely.<br><br>And then, the laces. Onneca straightened them even and re-tied the aging bow at the bottom. Her fingers tracked the symmetry up Aggy's spine, a little touch at a time, careful for her comfort as she laced the two halves up to hug but not crush. It was the masterful work of a woman practiced in making clothes look their best. In a way, she was sending a message that Agatha had someone to help her with these laces, now, and telling the world that the tinker was taken. She wasn't taken, though. She would never belong to Onneca. It was only an illusion she allowed herself to entertain, just like her book.<br><br>When finally her dress was complete, Onneca turned her customer around and wrapped a much more loving hug than the corset could provide. "Come back whenever you need me," she whispered, "I will be here." And that was it. That had to be it. Any further, and she would jeopardize what they already had. Aggy's friendship was too valuable to gamble. She walked the busy woman to the door, and gave a little wave to see her off. It didn't matter who else came to the shop that day. A week from now, a year from now, this would be all that she remembered.<br><br><div align="center"><em>~(End History Scene)~</em></div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>25-03-2013, 06:31:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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>&nbsp; August 28th, 1872<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bayou Vermillion 181, Towards Tombstone<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite (Mentioned...sort of)<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha barely noticed the gentle roll of the 181 out of New Orleans anymore.&nbsp; She had grown up watching her father build these rails, or ones just like it and now that she was old enough she was traveling them.&nbsp; There was something that felt right about it.&nbsp; She been travelling the rails and seeing the west for months now.&nbsp; Before she left Salt Lake City her father and told her about an old friend of his that had settled in Deer Creek, Arizona.&nbsp; It was just north of Tombstone.&nbsp; He said the little town was in need of a good scientist and that she might find some work there.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;What he wanted was for her to stay far away from Salt Lake City, but he cared enough for her to be safe.&nbsp; What he really meant was no matter how much he loved his daughter he couldn’t accept who she was.&nbsp; He was mitigating his guilt of sending her away be giving her a place to land in the west.&nbsp; Agatha had been in no hurry to reach Deer Creek so she had travelled up and down the lines seeing what the great rail companies of North America had constructed.&nbsp; It was truly amazing the feats that human engineering had reached and Agatha absolutely loved it.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But eventually she would need money and that time had finally come so she found herself taking tea in the lounge car of Bayou Vermillion’s 181 on her way to Tombstone, Arizona and eventually the little town of Deer Creek.&nbsp; Agatha gave a little sigh.&nbsp; She was sad that her grand adventure was coming to an end.&nbsp; She would miss the rail, miss the gentle sway of the cars, the far off moans of the ghost rock engine and the steam whistle when it sounded for a coming station or a departure. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Her time spent on the rails had not been for nothing.&nbsp; Agatha’s sketch book was filled with wonders and innovations just waiting to be built to have life breathed into them and lifted from charcoal sketches to reality, some were practical, some not so and some were so intimate she had thought of ripping the pages from her book and burning them so no one would ever see.&nbsp; She had lived and loved on these rails and would miss them dearly.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The landscape outside was dusty and boring so Agatha turned to the Tombstone Epitaph for a distraction from the beige and cracked land of central Arizona.&nbsp; The headline read. The Eagle Has Landed: Fiery ornithopter crash kills dozens including financier and his wife.&nbsp; Ugh the Epitaph had some a habit of sensationalizing everything.&nbsp; Science had a bad enough reputation without the tall tales rag making things worse.&nbsp; Still she read the article.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The Ornithopther commissioned by a Mr. Andrew Tuerny and dubbed the Eagle I had managed to maintain flight for over a half an hour before the crash.&nbsp; Not bad for a prototype.&nbsp; She had to wonder though why anyone would test fly it over such a large group of people.&nbsp; It was a true shame. Agatha felt a particular sadness for the loss of Mr. Tuerny’s wife Elizabeth and the other bystanders as well as the daughter the article said they left behind.&nbsp; It was with particular disgust that Agatha noted the final line of the article in which it stated that Smith and Robard’s had purchased the plans for the Ornithopter from the estate.&nbsp; Leave it to them to sell a machine based off of faulty plans. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha put down the paper and stared out the window for a time.&nbsp; The world passing by was just as bland and bleak as before and her mind kept coming back to the article she had read, winged flying machines so very unstable.&nbsp; Wouldn’t it be better if one could move and dart or hover like a humming bird or a dragon fly instead of dipping and diving like a bird?&nbsp; There would be so my more uses for a machine like that.&nbsp; Her mind had already begun constructing the machine in her head before she could open her notebook and find a pen to write with.&nbsp; <br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>25-03-2013, 06:58:56</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; January 9th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The Back Room<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Sloane<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/d1/Mrlee.png)</div><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0b/Msgreene.png)</div>Whiskey Nick flipped the bottle up from behind the bar, sliding it confidently down the wooden bar; he seemed assured a fellow bartender would get a hold of it before heading off to the private room, then casually lit his pipe while turning back to the other quiet customers in his saloon.&nbsp; <br><br>Lee's friendly smile was as much a mask of inscrutability as the taciturn looks most Chinamen seemed to adopt out of habit, or the stone-faced impassivity so common amongst the Indians tribes throughout the Maze.&nbsp; He seemed either not to notice or acknowledge the subtle hostility in Sloane's demeanor, but Greene simply responded with a brilliant, patently artificial smile at Sloane's brusque greetings.&nbsp; Miss Greene had two very different reputations in the city – in the wealthier districts of Gomorra, she was known to be an upstanding socialite, her only mar on her reputation her business ownership and the brothel that bore her name.&nbsp; But her reputation among the business community was far different – a savvy negotiator, a woman very much the equal of any man for keen business dealings.&nbsp; Rumors circulated about where she'd acquired her startup capital, and if Miss Greene had once been a whore herself, though few suggested it to her face.<br><br>She did smile with a bit less practiced ease and a bite mor genuine amusement when he mentioned the Indian import.&nbsp; “I had not taken you for a man of rarefied tests, Mr. Sloane.”&nbsp; Her eyes flashed with amusement, but she poured the tea, standing to lift the saucer and cup across the table.&nbsp; She fixed her long skirts and then settled back down, giving a permissive smile as Sloane inquired into the intrusion.&nbsp; <br><br>“A... number of reasons,” she said.&nbsp; “We share a common industry, and also seem to have a certain desire to retain our independence that the other brothel owners here in town seem less concerned for.”&nbsp; Her smile was lighter, and she sipped at her tea, regarding Lee and Sloane over the brim of the teacup.&nbsp; She set it back down, letting the china clink.&nbsp; “And we all know there are powerful interests not much interested in us maintaining our independence.”&nbsp; She reached into a small handbag, extracting a collection of folded papers.&nbsp; “I've taken a look at just extensive Sweetrock's holdings have become.&nbsp; Even I was a bit surprised to find they'd acquired half the mines around Gomorra.”<br><br>“Half?”&nbsp; Even Lee looked a little surprised by that, opening the papers, mining records from the assayer's office, and no doubt assumed to be confidential.&nbsp; “How much...”<br><br>Greene frowned slightly.&nbsp; “Exact figures are impossible.&nbsp; Most of their mines belonged to other miners, so I can get a good sense of how much earned previous to new management.&nbsp; Then there's only broad strokes estimates as to how much the various subordinates are earning in bribes and wages.&nbsp; But...”&nbsp; She tilted her head.&nbsp; “A conservative estimate is around fifteen thousand dollars.&nbsp; A day.”
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Pumpkin Seeds</strong> on <strong>25-03-2013, 11:05:19</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ1DnvOXG8yfRJcl9oCLH9JK7uCu0ui5FQU47YO2vGN1qTD4nxY)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jia Li<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> Two days before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca de Goni<br><hr><br>The small woman waited patiently at the back door of the shop.&nbsp; Both hands were set around the edges of a sack she used to carry the laundry of each person to the destination and then return them in more prestigious condition.&nbsp; Patiently and quietly she stood with attention on the door, not hiding but still managing to be so easily missed.&nbsp; Effort was rarely needed for her to simply disappear from the mind, to go unnoticed among even the stillness of the abandoned.&nbsp; Jia Li did not understand such things but learned long ago to never question the will of the universe.&nbsp; Things were as they were.&nbsp; This was a vital lesson which took years to learn and even decades to understand.&nbsp; She still did not grasp the true extent of such a thing.&nbsp; Yet such a philosophy gave her the patience to remain still where others might pace or fume.<br><br>A wind brushed against the worn and loose clothing she wore.&nbsp; Simple in construction and durable in material, the outfit was a nightmare for almost any designer.&nbsp; No feminine beauty or trait could be seen much less enhanced by such clothing.&nbsp; Only the delicate rise of her cheeks and the sharp angles of her features made declaration that this was indeed a woman before her.&nbsp; Even such strong features as the full lips and graceful neck could only be truly admired up close with dirt and grime on her skin.&nbsp; Dark strands of hair peeks out at odd angles from beneath the red scarf wrapped over her head. The streak of red the only color besides dull brown and dirty yellow.&nbsp; Though when Onneca came to the door a smile was easily formed on her lips as if she were happy simply to be there.&nbsp; The bag was thrust forward at the woman with eagerness and her voice rose up without shame.<br><br>“Give clothes, wash fast.&nbsp; Bring to you like new!”<br><br>The smile did not fade when a simple look of confusion began to show itself across her face.&nbsp; Eyebrows knitted together in a near comical expression.&nbsp; She nearly tilted her head to the side as the words came forth quickly.&nbsp; Comprehension then came to her and she gave an eager nod that turned into a quick bow.<br><br>“Yes.&nbsp; Jia Li accept gift from lady.”&nbsp; The bag was still held out in front of her as she came forward to Onneca.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kokaine</strong> on <strong>28-03-2013, 06:39:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<div class="floatleft">(http://i167.photobucket.com/albums/u133/kokotigress/Elliquiy/Doom%20Town/D_zps6090b0d7.jpg)</div><hr><strong>Name:</strong> Isobel Harley Montoya Marquez - "Harley"<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown to the public thus far<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Polecat Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<hr>Harley wasn't the fightin' sort. She might have had no qualms about doin' whatever needed doin' but generally that involved the piece of hardware on her hip and not her bare hands. However, she was acutely aware that such measures would be overkill in this instance and would rain more trouble down on her head than she was equipped to deal with so she disregarded that particular avenue as the wobbly blonde came far too close. <br><br>Words were flung carelessly and the young gunner offered not even a flicker of response as her dark gaze carefully tracked Miss Whateley's movements. She supposed there were plenty who might have been cowed being on the receiving end of a Whateley's stare but Harley would have perished her first night in Gomorra if she were that easily intimidated. It took a whole helluva lot more than a mean drunk to shake her. The slurred speech being hurled at her certainly meant next to nothing to Harley, who had been on the receiving end of far worse than what came out of Ginny's mouth, and instead of letting her ire rise to levels that would put her on tilt she sat there with an almost casual demeanor and noted the way the younger woman weaved about unsteadily. <br><br>Everyone one in the place seemed to tense with the seeming inevitability of the confrontation, those at her table almost holding their breath as Ginny leaned over the table to issue her demand. The firearm at her side was noted and immediately dismissed as being inconsequential considering Harley was almost sure it would take the girl two tries or more to even draw the thing and she had almost made up her mind to let the girl off with a harmless warning... Until she felt the need to reach over and shove Harley.<br><br>The tall gunslinger saw the move coming from a mile away since subtlety was certainly beyond Miss Whateley. She could have moved and left the girl to fall on her face but instead she let the girl's hand land upon her shoulder and as she shoved Harley allowed just enough give to throw Ginny off balance, her hand coming down to clamp around the other girl’s wrist and give her a good yank. Harley's chair teetered and fell over backward but when it did so she wasn't in it. Instead her long legs unfolded and she stood as the piece of furniture clacked harmlessly to the ground. <br><br>“Now ya see. There ya go again, thankin you outta be puttin' your hands where they don't belong.” Harley lifted the hat off her head and flipped it across the table to Jasper, who caught it as though expecting the move and set it upon his own head, before using her foot to tip over the table Ginny was now sprawled across awkwardly. She didn't even pause long enough to give the girl a chance to stand but went around to help the drunken she-devil up by her hair, taking an awkward and thankfully weak blow to the chin for her trouble. Others around them seemed to be scrambling and stirring and Harley thought she heard a call for bets but honestly she didn't care what they were doing so long as it didn't involve her or the sloppy blonde directly. <br><br>More than happy to return the favor, Harley shoved the girl in the direction of the door. As she stumbled on, the outlaw used her boot to give the girl a solid shove that sent her sprawling much the way she had done the poor barmaid. “Ain't so fun now is it?” She looked over at Ginny, anger blazing in her brown eyes. “Get up!” She ordered, showing not an ounce of remorse for her humiliating treatment of the girl.<br><br>Marching over she hauled the girl up yet again and swung her 'round, intending to give her whatfor and send her on her way but it seemed the scrappy blonde wasn't quite resigned to her fate. Had Harley merely been watching rather than participating she might have given the girl grudging respect for her tenacity but at the moment she was too focused on squaring off against the girl to offer her much of anything. Patient as they came, she let Ginny make her move, and sure enough the first punch passed harmlessly over her head before she shoved an elbow into the off balance young woman's gut hard enough to have her doubling her over, retching. <br><br>By that time Harley'd had more than enough and rather than wait for more unceremoniously snagged a handful of blonde locks to half-drag the girl outside, cheers and laughter sounding behind her. “I'd say its bout time you sobered up girl.” That was the only warning she gave as she dragged Ginny toward the rain barrel out in front of the Polecat and dunked the girl's head in.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>29-03-2013, 22:21:27</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Ginny_Avatar.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Polecat Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Isobel Harley Montoya Marquez - "Harley"<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Well, things didn't turn out the way Ginny expected at all.&nbsp; As she shoved against the other woman, the mysterious woman's hand came and gripped her own with a grip of steel.&nbsp; And pulling forward, it was all the young Whateley could do not to overbalance and fall flat on her face as she was pulled forward onto the table.&nbsp; There was a noisy clatter as she sent the cards flying and the smaller coins spinning and rattling on the floor&nbsp; from the table where Harley had been playing the penny ante game with a few others.&nbsp; <strong>"Why yuh...!"</strong>&nbsp; Ginny gave an outraged squawk even as she raised her eyes to lock with the mysterious woman who had now removed her hat and flicked it to her bigger friend.&nbsp; And without much ceremony, she put her boot against it and toppled the table.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And Ginny went down without much aplomb, too full of drink and too full of pride, as she crashed onto the floor on her side as the wind was knocked out of her.&nbsp; Blearily, she got to her hands and her knees, her vision swimming, and cursing at the woman in a drunken slur.&nbsp; <strong>"Yuh dirty yella...!"</strong>&nbsp; Whatever else she had to say was cut off as she gave another half-shriek as she felt the woman grip her hair and <em>pull</em>.&nbsp; Hard.&nbsp; Flailing her arms around, Ginny felt her left hand connect somewhere as the grip momentarily lessened before it tightened again as they spun around and around, each woman seeking to gain ground on the other.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Unfortunately for the young Whateley, the spinning caused her head to spin even more as she was forced to ease up as she felt herself get spun around and then a boot was squarely planted on her bottom as she was sent sprawling towards the door.&nbsp; Though since she was so drunk, the significance of the boot was completely lost on her.&nbsp; Dimly, Ginny could hear the catcalls and cheers from the spectators, as well as a few odds being shouted out, but that was hardly the problem.&nbsp; Now, she was really steaming mad!&nbsp; The young Whateley saw red and as the mysterious woman went to grab her again, she took aim and swung with all her might at the other woman's face.&nbsp; While the dark-skinned woman didn't look half-bad, Ginny was intending to knock loose a few teeth.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; It was a good punch, but unfortunately, she had been baited masterfully as she missed and then the counter-elbow dug into her gut.&nbsp; At this point, most of the fight went out of Ginny as she bent double and began to cough before retching up some of the drink she had downed earlier in the evening, feeling just awful.&nbsp; Then, that dominant grip was reestablished in her hair as the other woman half-dragged her outside, the cool air dancing on her heated skin.&nbsp; The words "sober" floated to her ears before the young Whateley was dunked headfirst into a nearby rain barrel outside of the Polecat.&nbsp; The first time, she wasn't expecting it as she shouted underwater, which was a bad mistake as she got a lungful of water for her trouble as a few bubbles broke the surface of the water.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Try as she might, she couldn't get any leverage as her left hand flailed uselessly in the air as the other woman pinned her there, keeping one hand firmly entwined in her hair and the other painfully twisting her right arm behind her back.&nbsp; And just when she thought she was going to drown, the other woman hauled her up, letting her gasp brokenly for breath as Ginny coughed out water, her face all damp and the front of her shirt now soaked with water, spit, and her earlier mess.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<em>"Now what do ya say?"</em>&nbsp; The other woman said, radiating an eerie calm to the blonde's flailing gasps.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>"Ah kill yuh!&nbsp; Fight muh fair, yuh yella puta!" </strong> Ginny hollered out, trying to kick one of her boots at the woman.&nbsp; And then, she wailed as she felt the other woman tightened her grip on her scalp and with another splash, her head was underwater.&nbsp; Now, a good majority of the crowd had left to watch this chastening of epic proportions and the men were enjoying the little fight between the young Whateley and the dark-skinned, dark-haired girl.&nbsp; And though Ginny couldn't hear it because she was underwater, there were a few raucous catcalls that suggested to Harley to go even further with embarrassing the young Whateley.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And the gasping blonde was hauled up again, now more or less sober, as Harley whispered.&nbsp; <em>"Next time, I leave ya down there.&nbsp; Now, what do ya say?"</em>&nbsp; There was a no-nonsense edge to the woman's tone as Ginny capitulated.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <em> <strong>"Unca," </strong></em>she murmured, her tone low and sulky like a child that had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.&nbsp; Though apparently, it may not have been loud enough because the other woman started to move Ginny's head back to the water.&nbsp; <strong>"Unca!&nbsp; UNCA!&nbsp; Yuh win!&nbsp; Now lemme muh go!"</strong>&nbsp; The young Whateley thrashed around even as her arm was twisted even further as she gave a holler for help to the crowd.&nbsp; Only to be met with shouts of laughter as no one seemed to be willing to come to her rescue.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;That fearsome hand now yanked up and made her look straight ahead.&nbsp; Across the way was the barmaid that Ginny had abused earlier.&nbsp; The girl was standing there fearfully, not exactly sure what to expect.&nbsp; Apparently, someone had called for her the time Ginny had spent her head underwater.&nbsp; And at the young Whateley's green-eyed gaze, she shifted around as if she didn't want to be here.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<em>"Now, I want ya tah apologiz' tah this girl." </em> Apparently, this was just like war.&nbsp; Now that Ginny had admitted defeated, there were additional concessions to wring from her lips.&nbsp; And at that command, the young Whateley felt her spine stiffen.&nbsp; She wasn't about to swallow her pride and allow to no squaw!&nbsp; Not to a dirty animal!<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>"Why dun yuh go an--blub, blub, blub!"</strong>&nbsp; The rest of Ginny's threat never made it out from her lips as Harley shoved her head back into the water.&nbsp; But this time, only the front of her face.&nbsp; And after a few seconds, she hauled her up again to give her a quick gasp before Ginny went back into the water.&nbsp; And on the third time, the young Whateley had time to shout an agonized, <strong>"Wai-blub, blub, blub!"</strong> before she was unceremoniously dunked again as her boots stamped against the floor in a panic.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;By the time she was hauled up again, rivulets of water streaming from her face, all the fight was out of the young Whateley.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'm sorry."</strong>&nbsp; Those words came out so choked it was hard to understand them as Ginny was forced to swallow her pride.&nbsp; And what a mouthful that was.&nbsp; Though once again, it didn't seem good enough for her tormentor.&nbsp; As her head was lowered back towards the water, Ginny gave a shout.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah said ah was sorry!&nbsp; Ah won't doit 'gain!&nbsp; Yuh kin take my winnings fer the night!&nbsp; Jist no more!"</strong>&nbsp; And at the genuine sound of her repentance, even more genuine than the times she went to the confession booth, Harley seemed content that justice was served.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The pretty half-Sioux also seemed to appreciate the gesture coming from this complete stranger who had come to her honor and rescue.&nbsp; Coming up to Harley, a genuine smile was offered and it made her look quite lovely.&nbsp; <em>"Thank you kindly,"</em> she murmured demurely like a dove before she slipped back into the Polecat Saloon.&nbsp; But not before looking back at her savior, offering a smile that might promise more later down the road if Harley played all of her cards the right way.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<em> "Now, I don't want tah see ya ever again,"</em> Harley stated firmly before she shoved the beaten young Whateley to the ground.&nbsp; Then, she and Jasper left while Ginny took the time to regain her wits.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And when Ginny finally got her breath back, the crowd had more or less dispersed though it did little to assuage her wounded pride.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'll keel her,"</strong> the young Whateley breathed out murderously.&nbsp; After all, she was somewhat sober but still a little drunk.&nbsp; Fumbling for her pepperbox, Ginny pulled it free on the third try and brandished it around as the rest of the people also decided that they had somewhere better to be.&nbsp; <strong>"Whers that wrinkled whore?!?&nbsp; Ah'll blow her a new one!"</strong>&nbsp; Of course, this was the liquor still talking and thankfully Harley wasn't anywhere to take Ginny up on her offer lest the blonde be a cooling corpse.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Still, there was something to be said for posturing now that the fight was over.&nbsp; Maybe.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>29-03-2013, 22:41:15</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/39/Townsend.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; John Templeton<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Law Dogs (Deputy)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.) <br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Polecat Saloon<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Closed, Ginny<br><hr><br>The miners watching Ginny's posturing were doing their best to nurse drinks and avoid eye-contact – a pepperbox was dangerous enough at close range, but even across a bar it was a good guarantee of a ruined buzz and a trip to the doctor.&nbsp; Money that most would rather spend on their drinks.&nbsp; But a few eyes widened in warning, casting over Ginny's shoulder to the door of the Polecat.&nbsp; A shadow crossed its path, the doors swinging inward while the soggy Whateley still blustered.<br><br>“You'll 'keel her,' 'uh?'&nbsp; The voice that posed the question had a dry, mocking tone, and then there was the slap of a smokewagon clearing its skin, steel on leather.&nbsp; Then the man who offered ridicule lunged, moving as Ginny turned, the hard butt of the pistol cracking at the base of her scalp.&nbsp; He watched in detached amusement as the drunken Whateley toppled to the dirty floor of the saloon, spinning the sixgun in hand and sliding it back into the holster at his side. <br><br>“Now, call me old-fashioned, but I don't care a continental if you're a Whateley, or President Abraham goddam Lincoln rose up outta his grave.&nbsp; You threat'n murder in my town, you're goin' to the drunk for the night.”<br><br>He raised his head, looking out from under the brim of his hat at the assembled miners, who had the looks of men over-entertained for the evening.&nbsp; He met their gaze, waiting for one to brooch argument with him, his hand lightly on the six gun at his side, the 'deputy' badge a-glitter on his chest.&nbsp; No one spoke, and the bartender scrubbed an invisible spot on the wooden bar.<br><br><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a4/Flatbush.png)</div>Behind him, Flatbush scowled, crossing his arms.&nbsp; “Don't care if she's meaner'n than Bilton when she's soaked, you can't throw a woman in the drunk.&nbsp; Those rips'll think you brought 'em free cunny.”<br><br>Townsend barked a laugh.&nbsp; “You think we oughta charge 'em?”&nbsp; He stooped to collect Ginny Whateley, tossing her up and over a shoulder like a sack of potatoes.&nbsp; <br><br>“I'm serious as sin, John, you can't throw her in the drunk.&nbsp; They won't give a damn if she's passed out, awake, or losing her whiskey.&nbsp; We'll be stringing folk up for rape all week.&nbsp; And if we don't we'll be putting down vigilance committees intent on the same.”<br><br>Townsend rolled his eyes, looking around the saloon.&nbsp; “You been hanging out with Hunter too much.&nbsp; I'll put her in the basement and lock her up good.”&nbsp; He gave Flatbush a reassuring smile, then set out of the saloon.&nbsp; Flatbush sighed and shook his head.<br><br><div align="center">*&nbsp; *&nbsp; *</div><br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/39/Townsend.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; John Templeton<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Law Dogs (Deputy)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.) <br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Evening, One hour later<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Closed, Ginny<br><hr><em>An hour later</em><br><br>The blow to Ginny's head was near instant nausea when she awoke.&nbsp; Her captor seemed to expect it, though, and as her eyes began to open, a bucket was kicked across the hard wooden floor of the Sheriff's Office basement.&nbsp; It slid near her, and a figure lingered lazily on one of several wooden crates stored the basement of the office.&nbsp; She'd been manacled to a wooden support beam, her arms locked in place behind her at the base of the beam.&nbsp; The manacles were cold, and tight, cruelly cutting into her wrists.&nbsp; The air stank of cheap cigarillos.<br><br>Townsend rose from his place on the boxes, and over his arm was folded the breeches, blouse and vest she'd worn into the Polecat.&nbsp; He'd left her wearing naught but her boots and her underthings, and he tossed the finely made clothes back onto the wooden box he'd abandoned.&nbsp; <br><br>“Whateleys,” he sneered.&nbsp; “High and mighty, with yer fancy house and your fancy clothes.&nbsp; Lordin' over the rest of us.”&nbsp; His words were dark with menace.&nbsp; “Honeypot, it's high time someone taught you stuck up little cunts some humility.”<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>30-03-2013, 05:00:58</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/7e/Ginny_07a.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening, One hour later<br><strong>Location:</strong> Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, John Templeton<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was an old southern expression that currently described Ginny's current predicament.&nbsp; It went something like <em>"don't jump out of the frying pan and into the fire"</em>.&nbsp; Or perhaps<em> "got the short end of the stick"</em>.&nbsp; But either way, Ginny was not a happy camper when she woke with her head throbbing something fierce and the cold from the floor seeping into her legs.&nbsp; And as she came back to full consciousness, ready to lose whatever else she had in her stomach, the young Whateley felt the cold bite of steel on her wrists as she blinked those sharp green eyes a few times to clear them of any sleep dust.&nbsp; That was the first thing she noticed, the fact that her hands were pulled painfully behind her back.&nbsp; The second, which drew a startled shriek and a rattling of the cuffs as she tried to cover herself up to preserve her modesty was the fact that she was without a stitch of clothing.&nbsp; <strong>"Wot in blu' blazes?!?!"</strong> Ginny cursed colorfully, squirming as a hot flush shot up her face.&nbsp; Well, to be fair, she still had her undergarments on, a small mercy that was, and very little else.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Thankfully, Ginny was surprisingly modest when it came to things like that and was wearing a pair of pink silken drawers that covered her legs with a frilly cuff around the knee and a silken chemise that covered her chest somewhat from the leering attentions of the man in front of her.&nbsp; Still, it was not a very comfortable position to be in as the young Whateley drew her legs in protectively, bringing them as close to her chin as possible to protect her body from that gaze.&nbsp; The bucket was ignored as she managed to squelch her nausea just enough; after all, she had already emptied her stomach once today and that once was more than enough for her.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Trying her best, Ginny hid her insecurity from the Law Dog as a name came to mind.&nbsp; John Templeton.&nbsp; Though he normally went by Townsend.&nbsp; From the rumors, he was a mean one though not as mean as Bilton.&nbsp; <strong>"Funny,"</strong> she remarked dryly, trying not to show how much her heart was hammering in her chest from fear.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah dun recall yuh bein' much of a schoolmarm tah be teachin' muh anything.&nbsp; Where's yur plaid dress?"</strong>&nbsp; Inwardly, she cursed her big mouth; this was definitely not a time to come up with clever insults as she decided to change trace.&nbsp; A fierce glare followed from those Whateley green eyes, trying her best to be intimidating.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah dun know what yur thinkin' but yuh best be gittin' away from muh."</strong>&nbsp; She squirmed again in the cuffs, feeling the cold metal dig into her wrists. <strong> "'sides, ain't muh yuh want.&nbsp; It's that other girl.&nbsp; She's the troublemaker!&nbsp; Why dun yuh go and bring her in?"</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Oh, how she wished her arms were freed at the moment and she had her clothes back on.&nbsp; Though Ginny supposed that it wouldn't too big of a deal.&nbsp; Townsend was just trying to scare her a little.&nbsp; A little flash of gold and she'd be back out in no time flat.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kuroneko</strong> on <strong>30-03-2013, 09:31:54</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane6_zps63e694fc.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Deacon Sloane<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> January 9th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Back Room<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Miss Greene, Mr. Lee <br><hr><br><em> “I had not taken you for a man of rarefied tests, Mr. Sloane.”&nbsp; </em> <br><br>“What can I say?&nbsp; I’m a fucking enigma,” Sloane replied as he lifted his cup to take a generous gulp of tea diluted whiskey. “My tastes are all kinds of rarified."&nbsp; He glanced at Lee.&nbsp; "My cigars cost more than his whores, for god's sake.&nbsp; I’m a regular John Jacob Astor.” Sloane generally respected Greene and her business sense, knowing that the two of them really didn’t cater to the same crowd and therefor didn’t truly compete for business, especially given that the bulk of his profits were made at the tables rather than between the legs of willing women, he was at a loss as to why she would include the Chinaman in the evening’s discussion.&nbsp; It was hard for hot to be annoyed by the inclusion. As he deliberated upon the question one of Nick’s bartenders knocked politely on the door and entered with the required bottle of whiskey, not so fine as one he might provide at his own establishment, but sufficient to warm his bones, and just in time, as Sloane had drained his cup of its contents in no time as Green rearranged her skirts and Lee continued to smile the smile of the mentally deficient.<br><br>“Do enlighten me,” Sloane urged her, as he uncorked the bottle and filled the cup nearly to the brim with a different kind of amber liquid, nearly the same color as the tea and though cool in temperature, far better suited to bringing heat to the aches and pains in his body. He allowed himself to imbibe freely as she discussed their mutual interests and her recent discovery regarding the growth of Sweetrock’s holdings, producing papers to substantiate her claims and passing them off to Lee.&nbsp; Sloane couldn’t help but feel a little pleased that her news had managed to wipe the smile off the sanctimonious little bastard’s face.&nbsp; <br><br>Though he was surprised as well, he didn’t show it.&nbsp; Keeping his face composed in a carefully schooled neutral expression, Sloane remained silent as he considered the implication of what she had to say.&nbsp; After all, the chink was blustering enough for all three of them.&nbsp; He’d been aware that Howard Findley was interested in creating a monopoly on ghostrock, hearing a buzz of gossip on the subject from various miners in the Casino coming in straight off their shifts with the ore burning a hole in their pocket and eager to trade it for drink and pussy.&nbsp; Hell, he’d even been approached to sell off the small assortment of mining interests he held himself.&nbsp; Curiosity regarding the reason had so far kept him from doing so. While a monopoly on the mining of ghostrock might make the entire operation more efficient, it would give sweetrock the power to set the price at an astronomical height, which would eventually affect everyone’s business, not just the ghostrock dependent Collegium, not to mention give Howard Findley controlling power in the Town Council, making it possible for businesses such as theirs to suddenly become anathema in Gomorra. That would be … inconvenient, to say the least.&nbsp; Sloane didn’t appreciate being inconvenienced. <br><br>“I take it you have an idea as to how to keep Findley from creating a monopoly on ghostrock for himself then, or you wouldn’t have called us here,” Sloane said, bypassing the hysterics of shock and awe at the figures and going straight to the heart of the matter.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>31-03-2013, 01:34:27</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/c/c0/Ginny_Avatar-01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> December 14th, 1875 (Approximately six months before game start)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Deacon Sloane<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Ah kawl, sugah,"</strong>&nbsp; Ginny rasped out, her voice slurred a bit from both the whiskey she'd been downing, plus the nerves that she was trying to hide.&nbsp; Irritated because she didn't feel as if anyone else felt the pressure, she poured herself another shot and downed it to hide those nerves even as she threw four bags full of golden eagles onto the ever growing pot.&nbsp; It was business as usual at Casino Morongo, except that it wasn't.&nbsp; This Saturday night was a very special one because of the game of poker was being played.&nbsp; It was the biggest one ever seen in Gomorra and all the big-shots had come to participcate.&nbsp; &nbsp;The chinaman from Shan Fan whose name Ginny didn't bother remembering.&nbsp; It had some chinky noise to it though.&nbsp; The sharp from Sacramento who went by Bold Bill though he should have been called Bold Balls given how he could raise someone over ten grand without a bat of an eyelash.&nbsp; And finally, the devil himself from the City of Lost Angels known only as the Collector because no one escaped him after they owed him a debt and everyone ended up owing him when he was done playing.&nbsp; Then, there was little old Miss Virginia Whateley in the mix, the teeny, tiny sheep midst a bunch of wolves.&nbsp; These were the real players of the game and they had come with all their considerable wealth.&nbsp; For Ginny, that meant hiring four burly men to help her carry a large lockbox that she kept in her house that was literally stuffed full of golden eagles.&nbsp; There must have easily been over a hundred thousand dollars in there, a staggering, obscene amount of wealth that represented her lifetime.&nbsp; There were also some personal effects that she kept safe in there like the deed to her large Southern home that was here in Gomorra, an old, faded card desk that had been what her Unca Nico had first bought her, a picture of her family with a stern, frowning Jebediah as her father, an equally sour-faced Mary-Ann as her mouth and the young, innocent Virginia Whateley at the tender age of four before she had moved out west.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Of course, Deacon Sloane was more than happy to sponsor the event since Casino Morongo would be taking a handsome cut of all the winnings that were being displayed here at the very end.&nbsp; And given how everyone was playing, they'd make him enough to get him a whole extension to the damn place.&nbsp; It was why there were plenty of Sloane's men around.&nbsp; With this much money at stake and potential ruin meeting every single man and woman, this was a delicate business.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; In fact, they weren't even playing their usual five-card draw.&nbsp; Instead, this was some fancier game that came from Texas called Hold'em.&nbsp; You got a pair of cards and the dealer and left of the dealer posted up a big blind and small blind.&nbsp; The big blind was a full golden eagle and the small was a half eagle.&nbsp; Then, three cards were put out and everyone bet.&nbsp; Then, a fourth card was flipped and another round of betting occurred.&nbsp; And finally, the last card was flipped on "the River" and fortunes were won and lost.&nbsp; So far, Ginny hadn't been doing terribly though she definitely wasn't the best one at the table and had taken some hefty losses.&nbsp; So far, over thirty thousand dollars gone.&nbsp; Normally, that was even too rich for her blood and she would have bowed out but they all had an agreement to keep playing until the dawn broke.&nbsp; Basically, there was only going to be one winner to this little game and the rest would be destitute.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Ginny's face fell as the next card that came out was a four of clubs as she lost the hand.&nbsp; And with it, another six thousand dollars.&nbsp; She sucked in her breath and reached for another drink.&nbsp; It might ave been making her sloppy, but she felt as if she needed it for her nerves.&nbsp; And for some odd reason, the young Whateley had a sense.&nbsp; Granted it was a faint sense and maybe it was wrong.&nbsp; But she felt as if she gutted out this storm that Lady Luck was going to turn her way.&nbsp; She just knew it, deep down.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Across from her, the Collector gave a cool smile. <em><strong> "What's the matter, girl?&nbsp; This ain't the penny ante games you're used to running at your table.&nbsp; This is the real deal."</strong></em>&nbsp; The man gave a laugh as he scooped up the pot.&nbsp; Of all the ones here, he showed off the most skill and the best reads on the others and consequently had been doing the best.&nbsp; The chinaman was in a similar position to Ginny, suffering a slow bleed of his cash reserves, and Bold Bill had managed to increase his earnings modestly.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;With a cool look from those green Whateley eyes, Ginny just tossed back another shot as she felt the liquor burn down her throat.&nbsp; <strong>"Yuh jist worry 'bout yerself, darlin'.&nbsp; Ah'm a big girl and ah kin handle m'self."</strong>&nbsp; Though she really wasn't certain she felt that way as a fresh pair of cards was dealt out onto the table.&nbsp; Though as the cards were coming out, sliding onto the table into the waiting players' hands, the young Whateley got an eerie premonition.&nbsp; This was it.&nbsp; This was the hand everyone had been waiting for.&nbsp; The hand where all the high suits came out.&nbsp; And as Ginny peeked, she saw two Kings.&nbsp; The King of Diamonds and the King of Clubs.&nbsp; A strong starting hand and there was some real potential to make a big push.&nbsp; She just had to be careful of anyone with aces high and most likely someone had it.&nbsp; The next three cards would tell everything.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And with a quick glance, Ginny looked at everyone else.&nbsp; Bold Bill didn't seem too pleased with his hand.&nbsp; Ginny had managed to pick up on a small tell of his, which was his left ring finger would twitch if he liked what he had.&nbsp; The chinaman seemed to feel pretty comfortable even as he reached across his face and rubbed at his ear, a sure sign he liked his hand.&nbsp; And the Collector was still a blank book to Ginny; she hadn't been able to get a bead on him the whole night.&nbsp; Though deep down, her intuition told her that he was the dangerous one this hand.&nbsp; There was just something to him that made her feel very cautious about her chances.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Since she was the big blind, the young Whateley flicked the golden eagle in to start the pot.&nbsp; The chinaman followed suit with the half eagle.&nbsp; And then, the three cards came up.&nbsp; Ace, Queen, King.&nbsp; The Ace of Hearts, the Queen of Spades, and the King of Hearts.&nbsp; So far, so good in terms of her prediction.&nbsp; And Ginny liked what she saw though she was patient and checked her bet.&nbsp; She didn't want to tip anyone off to her strong pair.&nbsp; Though the Collector made the first move as he placed a bet for fifteeen thousand dollars, using a few fat five-pound bags of ghostrock as currency.&nbsp; There was a bit of hesitation and then Bold Bill met him and then raised it another ten grand, bringing it to twenty-five thousand.&nbsp; Then, it came back to Ginny who wasn't feeling all that great, but her sense was telling to to stay put so twenty-five thousand was thrown in as well as that put her past the halfway mark of her savings.&nbsp; This hand would be boom or bust for the young Whateley no doubt.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The chinaman took the longest to decide as he tapped his fingers against the table in a way that made Ginny want to reach over and choke him.&nbsp; Finally, he also called and threw in twenty-five grand as the pot now looked obscenely huge.&nbsp; Colorless bags representing fortunes that were so staggering it was hard to believe were there.&nbsp; And then, the fateful fourth card dropped.&nbsp; The Ten of Diamonds winked as once again Ginny paused and then decided to make her move as she bet ten thousand to start off with.&nbsp; Those green eyes still seeking to see if she could figure out who was holding the aces high.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <em><strong> "Too small, sweetpea.&nbsp; But it makes sense cause you ain't got no balls to speak of.&nbsp; Let me show you how a man does it."</strong></em>&nbsp; The Collector remarked as he called her and raised her another twenty thousand as she caught another tell from Bold Bill.&nbsp; The man was obviously thinking about folding this hand and trying his luck with another hand.&nbsp; Yet he felt too committed to simply let go as he added to the pile.&nbsp; And this time, the chinaman was quicker as he called and...then paused and raised again another five thousand.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;At this point, things were absolutely ridiculous.&nbsp; Yet Ginny paused and gave a sigh and a shrug.&nbsp; Why the hell not?&nbsp; She was already this far in at this point she looked at the table, those Whateley eyes now chips of green ice.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'm all-in."</strong> Her voice was flat as she took out the rest of what she owed, every single coin, and threw it into the pot.&nbsp; Right now, a three of a kind with Kings wasn't too bad.&nbsp; The only thing that could beat her at this moment was a three of a kind with the aces or a high straight, ace high, if someone had a Jack in hand.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And at her brazen move was enough to get Bold Bill to fold.&nbsp; Apparently, it was simply too much to risk it on what he had.&nbsp; The chinaman spent longer, once again tap, tap, tapping his fingers as the young Whateley wanted to grit her teeth, but settled for another slug of whiskey instead.&nbsp; And then, he too finally folded as well.&nbsp; Leaving her alone with the Collector who seemed insufferably confident and smug.&nbsp; A bad sign for Ginny who suspected that he was holding the aces high.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Or he could be bluffing her.&nbsp; He was really hard to read.&nbsp; <em><strong>"Well, I guess I'm all-in too." </strong></em> And at that, he pushed all his winnings forward, easily double or even triple of what Ginny had.&nbsp; Which meant the Whateley would have to come up with some collateral to match him.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was a long pause of hesitation from Ginny, her eyes still boring into him as she sought to read him.&nbsp; Nothing.&nbsp; She still could fold and back out.&nbsp; Only she really couldn't.&nbsp; Slowly, she fetched out her land deed and showed it.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'm puttin' this in the pot tah match yuh."</strong>&nbsp; It went without saying that land property in Gomorra was really quite expensive.&nbsp; Losing it wouldn't be easy to acquire back even as a Whateley.&nbsp; Yet Ginny felt a strange type of peace, an odd sense of emboldened confidence that completely unjustified as she waited for "the River".<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And as she put it down, the Collector laughed.&nbsp; And flipped his cards, showing off a pair of Aces.&nbsp; The Ace of Diamonds and the Ace of Clubs.&nbsp; <em><strong>"Easier than taking candy from a baby.&nbsp; You'd better go home and cry to your Momma, girl.&nbsp; Spend a bit more time on her teat and learn how to play.&nbsp; Then, come back.&nbsp; I'll be happy to take everything you own anytime."</strong></em>&nbsp; And he continued to laugh long and hard as Ginny didn't bother responding.&nbsp; Instead, her whole being was focused on the deck of cards.&nbsp; Willing it for the final card she needed.&nbsp; Her green eyes bored into the deck of cards as she waited for it be dealt on the table.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Silently, the card spun and flipped up.&nbsp; The King of Spades.&nbsp; The black King stared up at her mutely as she looked at it and then the Collector who had stopped laughing.&nbsp; Then, at the card again.&nbsp; Not believing it herself, despite seeing it.&nbsp; Then, she gave a dumbfounded shrug. <strong> "Huh.&nbsp; Full House.&nbsp; Well, whatdid yuh kno'?&nbsp; Guess ah git a happy endin', after all."</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was a long, ugly pause before the Collector leaned in.&nbsp; His face dark and his mouth set in an angry line. <em><strong> "I call cheating.&nbsp; You had to be cheating.&nbsp; Nobody has luck that amazing that their card comes up right when they need it."</strong></em>&nbsp; His hand shot out over the table and gripped Ginny's right wrist tightly, almost painfully as she winced.&nbsp; <em><strong>"Show me your sleeves.&nbsp; I want your goddamned shirt off!&nbsp; I bet you are hiding cards all over yourself!!!" </strong></em>His voice had now risen in pitch and tenor as it looked like things were going to get ugly.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; And things did as Ginny pulled back her arm sharply.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah ain't showin' nothin'!&nbsp; Yuh dun got no proof!"&nbsp; </strong>Her own voice was surly as she stood from the table and moved away even as the Collector stood as well and then dragged her in again.&nbsp; &nbsp;And then, it was on.&nbsp; Back and forth, they wrestled, a pair of tangled bodies though both had the consciousness not to disturb the table laden with the winnings.&nbsp; If that was knocked, then all hell would break loose and nothing would ever get resolved.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Of course, the Collector was a man so he used his bigger frame to overwhelm the young Whateley, bending her right arm painfully.&nbsp; <em><strong>"You're going to strip, missy."</strong></em>&nbsp; Then, he used his free hand to slap her across the face even as she cried out.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Suddenly, Sloane's men broke it up, getting on both of them and dragging them apart.&nbsp; The Collector was dragged out of the room and Ginny was let go after a moment as she jerked her arms angrily away from them and then gently dabbed at her nose.&nbsp; There was a bloody stream coming from it in a red river as she smeared it across her left sleeve.&nbsp; A sleeve which somehow had been torn in the struggle as she looked at Deacon Sloane, who had come back to watch the private little game.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Ah think ah need a bit o'air,"</strong> Ginny said faintly, looking a bit pale.&nbsp; <strong>"Kin ah sit down somewhere and catch my breath?"</strong>&nbsp; A look to the other two players had them shrugging and then reluctantly agreeing unless Deacon Sloane said otherwise.&nbsp; Obviously, they didn't want to stop but at the same time, it would be churlish not to grant a lady her request.&nbsp; Of course, if Ginny was forced to keep playing, as shaken as she was, no doubt she'd be easy prey for the remaining men at the table.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>03-04-2013, 01:07:17</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a1/Onnecamug2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Two days before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jia Li<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>"Jia Li?" Very pleased with this, Onneca got up from the back step and dusted down the back of her dress, leading the way into the back of the bodega, the loveliest of its quarters. "Is Li a first name, or a family name?" She walked right through the changing room and the vigil of mannequins in dresses that could change a woman's whole identity, Cinderella gowns that promised to turn a pauper into a princess. The drawers and vanity were a treasure chest of magic potions to complete the look, a chemistry set for making dust-caked and sun-dried skin look luxurious, if only for a single night. Everything about it begged to be touched. Onneca was immune to its siren's call.<br><br>Her hand pat the laundry basket where much more ordinary clothes were awaiting Fu Leng's expert care. She was all smiles as she emerged from the back into a quiet and customer-free shop, and brought a little glass-covered platter onto the counter top with the biscuits she'd baked that morning. "My name is Onneca de Goni. de Goni is the family name. It means <em>from Goni, </em>but Goni is in Spain, and mi familia is from Mexico," she said, as though none of it were obvious. A spread knife pierced one of the soft biscuits, and without asking Jia Li's preference she gave the two halves a generous lather of the honey at the register. The doughy warmth of the biscuit was just right to pull the honey down into every pore as though it'd been baked right in.<br><br>A gift, that was what Jia Li had called it. Onneca dressed it up a little bit on an embossed plate from Mexico and gave it a gentle push to the laundry girl's side of the counter. Then she sat, with no pressing matters at hand, perhaps to watch Jia Li eat. If it were for conversation, she ought to have said something more significant, but nothing came to mind. She was, despite the wealth and traffic through the bodega, a lonely woman. She was trying to reach out, but she was not sure how. "Por favor, what is your most favorite color?"
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>04-04-2013, 22:26:45</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/39/Townsend.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; John Templeton<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Law Dogs (Deputy)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.) <br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Evening, One hour later<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Closed, Ginny<br><hr>Templeton slid closer, his eyes fixed on hers.&nbsp; Her mouth was running wild, but instead of intimidating him into backing off, it only seemed to entice him further.&nbsp; “You got some big damn britches for such a little thing,” he mused, but his voice had a growl, an unspoken threat beneath his words that was as cold as the ground beneath her rear.&nbsp; As she tried to intimidate him with her eyes, and her mouth continued to run on, he reached forward, seizing her jaw and beginning to squeeze.&nbsp; He was a powerfully built man, with a grip like iron, and up close sh could make out his yellowed teeth and the scent of whiskey which had been sweat into his long coat over years of heavy drinking, the acrid whiff of his cigarillos.<br><br>“Ah didn't see no other girls,” he said.&nbsp; “And you been causin' trouble for months.&nbsp; Drunk, bellicose little cunny thinks the whole world revolves around her, and e'ery oughta just bow down and kiss her little Whateley feet as she passes.”&nbsp; He reached down to the buckle of his belt, sliding it free with an ominous darkness in his eyes.&nbsp; He leaned in then, sniffing at her, inhaling the smell of her skin like a dog sniffing at a mate.<br><br>“Now, you get yourself one of them hard choices, little Ginny.”&nbsp; He squeezed her jaw harder, enjoying the tiniest hint of pain in her eyes.&nbsp; “You can keep quiet, and do as yer told, learn the proper place of a woman in this world - “ He finished drawing off the belt, slowly doubling it in his free hand - “Or I can unbind you.&nbsp; Then I'll haul your ass upstairs, toss your ass in the drunk cell, and there'll be a dozen drunk, horny miners who'll plug every one of your fine, proper holes from now til sun-up.”&nbsp; He gave a low chuckle.&nbsp; "That'll be as fun to watch as lil Ginny Whateley gettin' her lessons in manners."&nbsp; He loosed her jaw, and for a moment it seemed the lesson in terrifying her might be over&nbsp; &nbsp;Then his hand slapped powerfully across her jaw, his palm connecting hard enough to make teeth rattle, and he gripped her jaw again, kneeling over her.&nbsp; "Why dontcha call me a <em>schoolmarm</em> again, ye stuck up little cunt?"<br><br>He gave a cruel smile, calming, then slid a hand down inside her chemise, running a rough palm over the pale breast hidden within it.&nbsp; Whatever his intentions, earning a bit of gold certainly didn't seem to be among them.&nbsp; "Yer gonna be sweeter'n pie, little belle."&nbsp; 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Pumpkin Seeds</strong> on <strong>10-04-2013, 11:05:58</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ1DnvOXG8yfRJcl9oCLH9JK7uCu0ui5FQU47YO2vGN1qTD4nxY)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jia Li<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> Two days before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca de Goni<br><hr><br>A bow was made when the basket was touched upon.&nbsp; The offer of a biscuit almost forgotten as the task at hand became evident.&nbsp; Small hands moved to grasp and move the basket of laundry to be cleaned.&nbsp; Hands guided by experience began to sort and sift, moving the clothing to a mode that she could easily carry on her back and in her arms.&nbsp; Muscles showed themselves true as she worked and shoulders stronger than her size promised flexed to move the laundry.&nbsp; Few people considered clothing to be heavy, but Jia Li had learned the hard way to be careful in carrying such packs.&nbsp; Eyes flashed to look on the lotions and dresses, to see the hallmarks of the feminine condition.&nbsp; Jia Li knew that using such things was vanity and old words spoke shame to her.<br><br>“Jia Li is Jia Li.”&nbsp; <br><br>When the glass container emerged with the promised biscuit, the girl nearly dropped the laundry in surprise.&nbsp; People had promised treats in the past but always at cost.&nbsp; For someone to simply bring forth something so delicious without cause was unexpected.&nbsp; Brimming with excitement the small woman nearly leapt up into a seat.&nbsp; Seeming to defy the purpose of the chair, the legs folded beneath her in an odd formation.&nbsp; She bowed deeply from her folded position, accepting the biscuit with more flourish than might be necessary.&nbsp; Eagerly the biscuit was put into her mouth while the other woman continued to speak with words little understood.<br><br>Most favorite color struck her as an odd question.&nbsp; There had never been much thought about which colors appealed to her the most.&nbsp; Truth be told the color she could obtain had always been her favorite.&nbsp; The red of discard scarfs, the yellows of tattered silk and the rare purple of fallen stones were all important to her.&nbsp; Each was collected by her eagerly like a mouse taking bits back to the nest.&nbsp; A confused look crossed her features while she continued to nibble on the biscuit, giving thought to the question before she lifted her hand to gesture toward the simple color of green.&nbsp; Behind that simple color were lost relics of home and the green fields of endless grass, the rising trees and the land she had lost.&nbsp; Here there was so little green, so little beauty of such magnitude.&nbsp; Then her hand moved to gesture toward the color of yellow as she thought on the sun rise of her homeland.&nbsp; A shrug soon followed.<br><br>“Many colors, all pretty.&nbsp; How can one favorite when all pretty, all not same?”<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>10-04-2013, 16:14:40</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/5/58/Bowler.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong> Quinton Brassington III<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Muckraker<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; June 14th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Deer Creek, Arizona<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Closed<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Quinton knocked the road dusk from his blower hat and dabbed at his sweat covered forehead with his embroidered handkerchief before nestling into his pocket and settling the hat onto his well quaffed head at what he was sure was a dapper and jaunty angle.&nbsp; Deer Creek was such an odd little town for the infamous gunslinger Christian “Spooky” Specter to have settled in for a time.&nbsp; He must have been laying low or hiding out from the law.&nbsp; The imaginative wordsmith thought, a story already forming in his mind.&nbsp; Quinton Brassington III, had first heard of the notorious gunman in Amarillo and knew at once he had found the muse he needed for his stories.&nbsp; What better protagonist that an honest to God gunslinger.&nbsp; He had been dogging the man’s trail for months now gathering tales from strangers about the man called “Spooky.”&nbsp; &nbsp;That trail inexplicably led him to the little town of Deer Creek and even more inexplicably to the Deer Creek Saloon, the only eatery and watering hole in the dusty, dreary little place. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The saloon door swung open with a creek and he stepped into the cool dark interior letting his eyes adjust to the change from brilliant to less so.&nbsp; The Saloon was just as dusty and dreary as the rest of the town.&nbsp; It was early and there were only two men inside.&nbsp; The barkeep, a grizzly bearded, gentleman in an old suit stood cleaning a glass behind the bar while the other figure sat hunched over his drink at the far end of the bar lost in his cup.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “What can I do for you stranger?”&nbsp; The barkeeps voice sounded like he had been chewing gravel.&nbsp; Quinton plastered on his pearly white smile and tipped his hat.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I’m looking for information on a man that was rumored to have lived here for a time.&nbsp; A Mr. Specter.&nbsp; Christian Specter.”&nbsp; The barkeep stopped cleaning the glass and set it down on the bar.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Not the kind of man someone comes looking for.” The barkeep answered, but offered little else.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I am a writer good sir, Quinton Brassington, III.&nbsp; I am merely interested in the tales of the man’s exploits.”<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The bartender snorted.&nbsp; It was an insulting sound.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“He’s a lost soul.&nbsp; Seduced by the Devil.”&nbsp; The hunched figure spoke from the end of the bar, his once strong and sure voice now slurred by the empty glass before him.&nbsp; Quinton glanced at the barkeep who only shrugged.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Quinton motioned to the barkeep for a glass.&nbsp; It was much too early for a man to be drinking, but it would have been rude to use the man’s establishment without some form of payment.&nbsp; He then took a seat next to the man at the end of the bar.&nbsp; The hunched man was much bigger than his posture suggested.&nbsp; He had the look of a man used to hard work.&nbsp; His hands were knotted and veiny and his was broad of back and shoulder.&nbsp; His salt and pepper hair had turned more salt than pepper and was disheveled and unkempt.&nbsp; He looked to have weeks of wild beard grown covering his jaw and lips.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“You knew Mr. Specter?”&nbsp; Quinton asked, pulling out a notebook from his jacket pocket as well as a pen.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Aye, I knew him.” The drunkard said.&nbsp; “He helped this town once, before the Devil got him.&nbsp; Have you ever met the Devil Mr. Bassington?” the man’s voice lost a bit of its slur and was tinged with anger and sorrow.&nbsp; Quinton glanced up from his notebook to shake his head.&nbsp; The drunkard’s eyes bore into his own.&nbsp; Those eyes would keep the author awake at night, they were the most t terrible and wretched things Quinton had ever seen, both burning and haunted and looked deep into his soul.&nbsp; He gulped once and shook his head.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Well I have Mr. Bassington.&nbsp; Six months ago the Devil came to Deer Creek, the Harlot, the copper-haired devil Agatha Dunwich.&nbsp; She appeared in my congregation on a bright Sunday morning.&nbsp; She sat quietly in the back of the church and listened like the rest of my paritioners.&nbsp; My daughter and I greeted her after mass like we always did for someone new to the Church.&nbsp; She seemed like a polite and proper young woman, but that is the way of the devil.&nbsp; He comes in many guises not all of them terrifying to the eye.&nbsp; She smiled politely and made small talk.&nbsp; I should have notice how she smiled brighter at Eliza, how much more attentive she was to her, but I thought it would be nice for Eliza to have such a pleasant young woman to confide in.&nbsp; I was wrong.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; It seemed innocent enough.&nbsp; They met for morning tea or brunch after church.&nbsp; Eliza seemed happy.&nbsp; Why did I not see the Devil at work?&nbsp; Why did he taint my wonderful daughter?&nbsp; I found them one day when I went to pick up my daughter early from that devil woman’s den.&nbsp; I cannot describe the vile things that woman was doing to poor Eliza, but if that wasn’t horror enough.&nbsp; She had poisoned Eliza against me.&nbsp; Even as I sent her away with tears in my eyes, she pleaded with me not to make her go.&nbsp; She wanted to live in sin with that she-devil.&nbsp; I could not do that to my daughter.&nbsp; I had to save her soul even as it tore out my own.”<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Quentin was both disturbed and confused.&nbsp; “But what of Mr. Specter?”&nbsp; He asked seeing the madness growing in the old preacher’s eyes.&nbsp; “I don’t understand.”<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“The whore cast some sort of deviltry upon the man.&nbsp; When we came to burn her out of her home and see her purified by holy flame for her witchcraft, he was there.&nbsp; He gunned down two of the righteous as we brought down the Lord’s wraith on the whore of Babylon’s home and two more as they rode out of town.&nbsp; My men swear the steed they rode had hooves flame and breathed fire that matched the she-devil’s hair.&nbsp; That hair was the mark of Satan I tell you.&nbsp; I should have seen the signs.&nbsp; My poor Eliza.”&nbsp; &nbsp; The flames of righteous fury and suffering burned themselves out in his eyes, but the madness remained.&nbsp; The old preacher motioned for another drink and Quinton left his untouched on the bar.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Did you get what you were looking for Mr. Bassington?”&nbsp; The barkeep asked as Quinton walked towards the door.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“No, not really, but I think I have something I can use.&nbsp; Do you have any knowledge of Mr. Specter or Ms. Dunwich’s whereabouts?” She asked.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“West last I heard.” Was the only reply he got.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Thank you.”&nbsp; Quinton tipped his hat once more and left.&nbsp; If he hurried he could make it back to Tombstone by nightfall.&nbsp; He returned to where the coachman was just hitching up the horses and settled himself in the cab to look over his latest notes.&nbsp; &nbsp;The dapper young author was already mulling over a title for his new work...
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>11-04-2013, 01:39:59</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; August 11, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Heat of the afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>Onneca was crouched down by the dollhouse near the front of the bodega, a little alcove just back from the shelves of fresh produce, where the customers' daughters sat and waited for their mothers and tomatoes often went missing. A scuttling on the thin wood of the miniature house had betrayed an invader, its segmented six legs climbing the narrow avenues of the internal staircases, its bulbous and clumsy body a nightmare to the scale of the thing. <em>Phyllophaga sp., </em>what she suspected to be an emergent species of the family colloquially known as June beetles.<br><br>Her fingers grasped around the sandy-colored wing casing and pulled. The beetle's legs instinctively dug into the wood, and she could see the barbs at the leg-joints extend. An adaptation, one of several, that made this species much more than just a pest to crops. The legs held fast, and one broke off as she lifted it. The leg would grow back in the next molt. And they did molt, as adults, no longer dying in the daylight as their sister species did. They molted and they grew bigger, because the checks that kept the June beetle population under control no longer applied to them. Its ghastly mandibles scissored to bite at nothing, instinctively seeking the salt of human flesh. She carried it carefully.<br><br>The thimble-sized golden beetle plinked into an empty jar, and Onneca swiveled on a perforated tin lid. This was not something she could release back into the wild. It was a crop-destroying, flesh-eating foe with legs that would root onto skin and a hard carapace resistant to all but the most judicious application of force. It might be brimming with 600 or 10,000 eggs just waiting for a cereal crop or a dead body to propagate. She expected that it might live a month longer, or perhaps a season, as she tipped the jar on its side and watched the beetle slip against the glass walls of its prison. The experts would say that such a creature would not flourish in the Maze, but the same could be said for Onneca. Both were tenacious. Still, the tailor couldn't quite muster admiration for an organism that was lying in wait to bite a child.<br><br>A lifelong love of discovery motivated the great naturalists, the Mendels, the Darwins, the Lewises and Clarks. It was a love that for the señorita de Goni had been ignited on the trail of the railroad's progress, as a young girl, with Agatha her inseparable companion. It had been a friendship that could endure anything. It had endured a decade apart, and a divergence into such different disciplines that it was hard to imagine both passions for science blossomed over the same shared experience. There was almost no common ground now, and yet, Agatha was still her friend. Onneca observed the beetle under glass, wondering at where its own friends were and what damage they were causing, until it slipped backward off the glass and flipped over on its back. She was prepared to help it right itself with a little bit of string, but then it pulled in its head and legs like a turtle and simply rolled over. That was new. She began taking notes: <em>¿Phyllophaga o Polyphaga? El escarabajo retrae sus piernas. </em>In the margin, she doodled a tigerlily.<br><br>It was one of those days, those too hot days when hardly anyone could be bothered to come to the bodega.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>11-04-2013, 02:38:22</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a1/Onnecamug2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Two days before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jia Li<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>When Jia Li pointed to the colors, Onneca rose and tried to match the angle of reaching fingers to a single hue amidst the rainbow of the ribbon spools. "This plum?" she asked, not quite getting the guesstimate right. All colors, that was a little bit easier. She stepped over to the ribbon rack as Jia Li was turning the potential energy of a biscuit into the kinetic energy of an irrepressible laundry girl. She rolled out a short length of the red color, a dark brick that would go with the black of Jia Li's hair, and gave it a snip. A bolder orange, tangerine, and a faded watercolor yellow whose subtle shade would be enhanced against a dark backdrop were cut to the same length. Green the crisp youth of a spring bud, turquoise blue- always a popular blue- and a careful shade of indigo before plum like a Victorian jewelry box's trim.<br><br>She started to assemble the parts in tiny little bows, a not insignificant task even for a nimble tailor's fingers. Knots no larger than the head of a pin, tied like a cross, gave flourishes of four petals each like two-colored flowers at each of the joints. The whole thing took her a couple of minutes, but then, she was moving slowly. It was nice to have someone to talk to who might be a friend and not just a customer. A human connection. She held up the completed multicolored daisy chain. "I will put it in your hair, si?" She was expectant, and seemed to think that Jia Li had all the time in the world and was a doll to be dressed up at her whim. That was the social contract of the bodega, after all; women came in to have conversations and to be pampered, and never mind that the young woman had a job to do.<br><br>Most of them, she had to admit, did come into the bodega in a better state than Fu Leng's workhorse. She scrutinized the hair that the ribbon might adorn, and realized how nicely the laundry girl might polish up, if only Jia Li would let her. But a wet comb, steeped in oils to reunite and perfume the stray hairs that mapped the twisting of the Gomorra winds, that was a good start. She went to fetch one. "It is like a museum of colors here. Did you see the paintings on the side? The children from the school, they come at the end of school and paint that. The linseed oil makes it shiny and protected from water, but it is the most pretty the day it is painted." One day of loveliness, that was what Onneca was offering with a comb that would turn frazzle into silk and ribbon that would bring bright character to hair like stars in the dark night sky. It wouldn't last, but that was never a reason not to try.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>13-04-2013, 07:01:48</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://www.legendsofamerica.com/photos-oldwest/john%20m.%20bozeman.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Thommy Jones - NPC (Jaelyn Scot-Jones' father)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; near a year before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> evening<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; <span style="font-size: 12pt;" class="bbc_size">J </span>Mercantile &amp; Trade<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> closed<br><hr> <br><br>With a grateful smile, Thommy Jones closed up shop some time after sundown, locking the solid double doors at the front and the single door the led out into the back alley.&nbsp; He liked a solid door better than the half glass that some of the store fronts fancied.&nbsp; Who needed all that breakable glass, especially in a town full of ruffians and barkeeps?&nbsp; Just asking for trouble and wasted expense, Thommy figured for the umpteenth time as he took the stairs up to his living quarters.&nbsp; As always, there was no fire going, no dinner smells wafting.&nbsp; His good feelings waned as he stood staring at the cold cast iron.&nbsp; <br><br>The mercantile and trade was a good endeavor for a hard worker.&nbsp; And if Thommy was anything, it was that.&nbsp; Life was finally starting to lean favorably in his direction.&nbsp; If only Renae had joined him with their little girl, it would be perfect.&nbsp; Jaelyn; she was far from a little girl any more.&nbsp; But nearly a grown woman.&nbsp; And though he hadn't seen her in years,&nbsp; he knew she was pretty.&nbsp; She would have grown out of that tomboy stage into a real beauty.&nbsp; And what choice did she have with a momma like Renae?&nbsp; Even his own looks weren't nothing to sneeze at according to the girls down at The Gilded Feather and Casino Morongo.&nbsp; <br><br>Thommy poured himself a finger of whiskey to fortify himself against the lonely night ahead.&nbsp; He missed his wife, no matter that it wasn't a legal ceremony.&nbsp; He and Renae had said their own vows all those years ago.&nbsp; They made a family, the three of them, when they were together.&nbsp; Without Renae or Jaelyn, all he had was work.&nbsp; And no matter what the <em>fine</em> reverend said, man could not live by work alone.&nbsp; So he didn't.&nbsp; <br><br>Once every few months Thommy would take himself down the boardwalk to an establishment that might ease his loneliness.&nbsp; At first the guilt tore at his gut.&nbsp; But a man had needs and this was his best option short of finding a new wife all together.&nbsp; So he lived with the guilt, and each time it got easier to live with.&nbsp; Now that he was free and clear of vows and ideas of propriety, he saw no reason to change what had been working so well for so long.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>He poured another snort of whiskey, deciding if this was one of those nights.&nbsp; Company wouldn't be bad, but he was feeling pretty good.&nbsp; Business had been improving year over year now that he'd settled into the role of storekeeper.&nbsp; It took the locals time to get used to seeing him as such instead of the dirty, dusty miner he'd been for years.&nbsp; The change took some getting used to, and a whole lot of lessons learned.&nbsp; &nbsp; <br><br>Yeah, he was feeling good.&nbsp; He was feeling <em>RICH</em>.&nbsp; That was the difference.&nbsp; It wasn't loneliness plucking at his nerves, but spare coin.&nbsp; Something stirred inside the widower.&nbsp; <br><br>There was a day Thommy fancied himself a fair gambler, even when he lost more than he won.&nbsp; He could often be lucky at the right time, so his family never starved.&nbsp; No easy fete on the streets of Lost Angels.&nbsp; To keep peace in his home, he'd sworn off gambling but who was here now to tell him no.&nbsp; There was no one here to wag a finger or chastise with a silent gaze from sad, round eyes.<br><br>And life was leaning his way, after all.&nbsp; Moments later, accompanied by a hefty purse, the handsome storekeeper bounded down the outer stairs to stroll down the boardwalk, whistling on his way.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>14-04-2013, 08:15:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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>&nbsp; August 11th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; Sometime before dawn she extracted herself from the sweat soaked shroud of linen and tossed it across the room with an unwomanly curse.&nbsp; Not even the sweat that beaded her naked body cooled her fevered skin.&nbsp; When sleep did come it was fitful and offered little in the way of rejuvenation. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;This made Agatha irritable.&nbsp; She had snapped at Maria twice already and the poor girl had barely deserved it.&nbsp; Agatha had apologized of course, but that didn’t stop her from being surly and it affected her work.&nbsp; She had miscalculated the timing on Mr. Solomon’s self-winding cuckoo clock.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; But the real topper had been getting one of her skirts caught in the cogs of the rotor shaft she was testing.&nbsp; Only some very quick thinking and a nearby steel rod saved her lower half from a very unpleasant and potentially fatal chewing.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; That was going to set her back a pretty penny.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;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.&nbsp; Agatha ripped the hem of her dress extricating herself from the ruined contraption.&nbsp; She didn’t even bother to change back into the dress she had worn to work that morning.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Hola, Senorita de Goni.” She called out in her lilting accent.&nbsp; She tended to slip into it from time to time like an old comfortable pair of shoes.&nbsp; &nbsp;She spotted her childhood friend staring into a mason jar and drawing in her note book.&nbsp; Momentarily forgetting her earlier irritations she hurried over to see what she was looking at.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Oh he is a right feisty git, ain’t he?” She observed as the beetle rolled back over and gnashed his mandibles.&nbsp; “What is he?” She followed up.&nbsp; 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>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>20-04-2013, 01:37:12</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; August 11, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Heat of the afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>"¡Hola!" she called from the shelves, letting her voice guide Aggy into the avenues to where she was writing. She had a bright smile on fight sight of Agatha that frazzled once she caught sight of the inventor's ruined clothes. Any other church marm would be making a fuss and scolding Agatha for the condition she had allowed herself to fall into. Onneca was only reminded of the state of their clothes after every adventure into the foothills as girls, and how Onneca's madre- the laundry woman- used to bring them by their ears and make them stand in the river in their white underlinens while she washed those dirty and sticker-clung clothes. She giggled, even though she shouldn't.<br><br>There were still dimples in her cheeks as she turned to the jar and handled it to show Aggy her specimen. "It is a beetle, si?" she began, ever so helpfully, at the beginning, perhaps too accustomed to speaking to children. "I think it is like the ones that bite miners who faint in the night." It was a silly legend told by drunks who woke up with bloodied faces and shredded backs that she retold. Everyone knew those men had probably just tried to steal an ornery mule and invented the whole thing. "There are so many different beetles. I will have to look in my books. I think he looks like the June bug, but he is able to go into his shell." The jar gave a little slippery spin in her fingers to see if the beetle might lose his balance again. When he didn't, Onneca did not force the issue. She would not be cruel.<br><br>And there would not be much to learn until such a time as the beetle died of natural causes. Even if her inclination as a scientist was to dissect and understand the beetle's place on the chain of life, her instinct as a nurturing woman was to care for it as a pet. She passed the jar to Aggy just like they'd used to pass the queer and curious things they found in the hills- the fossilized wood and chunks of amber, the flint arrowheads and glittering quartz that nobody really appreciated. Few here in Gomorra would appreciate the discovery of a new species of beetle, but perhaps the scientific minds out east would see the merit in a synanthropic species with the ability and motive to chew through human flesh. Knowing scientists, they would call it <em>Onneca's beetle, </em>and people would be cursing her name every time one sank in its mandibles.<br><br>"Mi madre would give you such a scold for tearing your dress. She would scold me too, for picking up beetles. Do you remember when we would have to stand in the water like mewling calves? I do not know if it is better or worse to be scolded in Spanish if you do not understand it." Onneca got up from her writing and fetched a handful of pins to tidy up Aggy's hair and relieve the summer heat from her shoulders. She was in the business of making women feel beautiful. This came as naturally to her as crazy ideas must have come to Agatha. "Oh, but she passed on before I came out to the Maze. Did I tell you? She died peacefully, it was not a shock. She was very fond of you." All of it, God's honest truth. "I think she expected we would be friends forever."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>21-04-2013, 07:39:19</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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>&nbsp; August 11th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha took the dimpled giggle in stride.&nbsp; She was quite sure she looked affright, but her scientific curiosity had been peeked by the angry spindly legged critter Onneca had incarcerated in the jar.&nbsp; Agatha wrinkled her nose at the ugly little member of the Scarabaeidae family as she examined it in the jar.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Really?&nbsp; I wouldn’t have guessed.”&nbsp; She replied with an amused look on her face.&nbsp; “Onny, dear.&nbsp; I think I need to get you out of this shop for an evening.&nbsp; You are too used to speaking with little ol’ladies and small children.” She did however listen to Onneca’s observation with interest.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“That is strange.” She nodded and laughed a light happy laugh at the thought of the pretty Mexican woman scolding the two of them in their knickers.&nbsp; “Spanish or no, it did not matter.&nbsp; Your mother could make a grizzled boomer feel like a wet-nosed school boy.” She laughed. “It was her tone more than her words.&nbsp; I always felt like I had let her down or broken her heart.”&nbsp; Onneca’s mother was a second mother to Agatha.&nbsp; Agatha’s mother schooled many of the youngin’s and many of the young men from the Irish camp and was very busy, so Agatha had found herself often with the Mexican workers helping Onneca and her mother with the laundry so they she could finish her chores early and they could go out exploring or play at having grand adventures in the nearby fields.&nbsp; “Your mother was very good at scolding.”&nbsp; Agatha laughed.&nbsp; She had also been very good at keeping the two girls from too much trouble.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha continued to examine the beetle as Onneca began to work on her hair.&nbsp; She straightened up so that her friend could began to gather her loose copper strands and pin them like little insects into place against the mass of coils that hand remained.&nbsp; “You are a godsend Onneca de Goni.&nbsp; An angel sent from heaven.” Agatha was quite sure many of the women in Gomorra had said these very words to Onneca many times and each one of them meant it just as much.&nbsp; The new of Onneca’s mother was saddening.&nbsp; She hadn’t realized just how much the pretty Mexican woman had meant to her or how much of her lived in Onneca.&nbsp; “No, I did not know.&nbsp; I am so very sorry Onnecita.”&nbsp; It was very rare for Agatha to use that form of the Latina’s name, but it could not have been easy for Onneca, she knew how close they were.&nbsp; She reached up a hand to touch the one masterfully restoring her hair. She gave it a brief squeeze before releasing it.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;A sad smile touched her lips.&nbsp; It was nice to know that one of her mother’s felt that way about her and since she had passed Agatha would never be able to disappoint her like she had her biological one.&nbsp; She thought about those times shaking from the cold creek water with Onneca’s mother chirping at them in Spanish conveying her exasperation and irritation with gesture as well as word.&nbsp; As a young girl it had been a mixture of shame at upsetting Onneca’s mother and excitement at the wonderful adventure the two had completed.&nbsp; As a young woman it was a wonderful memory filled with humor and for all the sadness she felt at the woman’s passing she could not help but smile<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “And are we not? Friends forever,” Agatha asked lightly, “just like she thought.”&nbsp; She could feel pins slide into place as Onneca worked and she settled in to let her do her work.&nbsp; The talk of her mother made the frustrations of the morning slip away.&nbsp; A setback no matter how catastrophic was infinitesimal in comparison to the loss of a loved one.&nbsp; While Onneca had had time to grieve it was a new wound for Agatha.&nbsp; “Your mother was always able to do that, see things clearly.”<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>25-04-2013, 00:44:35</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; August 11, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>"Si- Aggy is still my best friend. Just like she said." There was a pause in her smile when she caught Agatha's solemn mood and felt the squeeze of her hand. She hadn't meant to imply how they had grown apart, but it had a way of slipping out. She was still discovering who this new Agatha was, after a decade of change in the harsh sun and sand-blasting wind of the West. One woman in her time plays many parts. Onneca was made to think about her mother through the lenses of Agatha's description of her, and made to remember how many lives her mother must've touched in her time. The wound was fresh again.<br><br>"It is not so bad being in the bodega all day," she put forward, to convince herself as much as to convince Agatha. "I like to sit and read. Sometimes a whole day passes and I do not know it." Her eyes lit up with a sudden urgency. "And, and! My customers are not all old ladies. Young ladies are interested in beauty, too. They are most of them married women, but they are there." Before the question could be begged what she meant by that, Onneca took it upon herself to elaborate. "They have families, so they go back to their lives. My work is my life." There was no self-pity. Onneca was a worker bee.<br><br>Even now, she was working. With Agatha's hair attended to, she moved through the bodega aisles with a swish of her low work skirt and began to sort through the racks for something in Agatha's size. The woman was in dire straits, after all, as anyone could stroll in right about now and be able to describe the constellation of freckles on Agatha's ankles. That kind of infamy could hound a woman for years. "You can wear this instead. It is okay to get oil on it. They are nothing fancy." Her wheels were turning as she surveyed the damage to Agatha's clothes. Shreds where the fabric had overhung her frame and been sucked into machinery. Stains where the heat of the summer sun and a steam engine had been absorbed rather than repelled. The clothes she wore were not fit for the work that she did. Something had to be done about that.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>25-04-2013, 04:59:08</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> February 3rd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> London<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed<br><hr> <br><strong>“Did you think you could just mug me awff?”</strong><br><br>The taproom of the Ale and Crown was normally a bustling place full of noise and chatter. A burning fire kept the cold of the London evening, the roaring of the logs and the sound of the patrons drowning out the harsh patter of the rain outside. The Ale and Crown was not a classy pub but neither was it a dive. The tables were made of solid oak, darkened with age and smoke, the pewter tankards had just a few chips and the dark porter beer was only watered down slightly. It was always busy as hard working men came to slake their first and fill their bellies with hearty roast beef, the smell of it slowly turning in the back wafting out to tempt a hungry drinker (and hide other, less delectable, smells). Stuffed and drunk these men would stagger back to their homes, their pay packet already spent, the prospect of another day of poverty and suffering. And then the next evening that poverty and suffering would drive them to the Ale and Crown's welcoming hearth once again.<br><br>All life was reflected in this place. In one corner a sharp was broading, hustling the naïve and the innocent out of their coin. In another a small group of workers were quietly drinking themselves into oblivion. Amongst the masses walked the Judy's, easy smiles painted on their lips, treasures on display, sad, painful eyes pretending to glisten, pretending to offer the promise of joy and satisfaction while their pimps watched with hooded, hawkish eyes, quickly deciding whether a john was one worth keeping or one only fit for robbin' when the dark deed was done. To one side sat two young gentlemen, slightly too well dressed for this place, two young, rich things who wanted a taste of the seedy underworld of London.without diving to its depths. They would be well-looked after. No inn-keeper wanted the hassle of a gentlemen causing him trouble and their coin was both good and plentiful. The prettier of the ladybirds were gathering around them now, those sad, painful eyes lighting up at the prospect of the heavy gold coins. The inn had rooms... small, functional ones for those who simply wished to stay the night, tiny rooms that were little more than a bunk for a working man who wanted to avail himself of a Judy and a single well appointed room, the linen relatively fresh, the mattress somewhat free of stains, for if one of those young nobles wished to stay or wished to take their own pleasure with one of the women of the night. The best for the best, as they say.<br><br>Serving maids were wandering too and fro, a platter of meat here, a handful of tankards there, trying to avoid the more lecherous advances of their patrons. Every so often an offended squeak would go up as one left her bottom too near to a grasping hand and on occasion a shrill scream and a rough cheer as one was pulled over a lap and had the forceful attentions of a wastrel's mouth placed on her own. It was a hard job but it paid well and in the great scheme of things it was a better role for a pretty girl without an education then to be a Ladybird. Inn-keepers liked pretty waitresses for they attracted customers and most of those pretty things soon learnt to give as good as they got. The entire place was normally alive with motion and sound and life itself. There were fights of course... there always were... but they generally ended quickly and any which found themselves spiralling out of control soon found themselves subject to the attention of the ruffians Hugh the inn-keeper employed to keep the peace, their loyalty bought with coin, ale and flesh (both cow and female... although the uses were different). And if even they failed then Hugh himself was not a small man and he quite enjoyed laying about him with Bessie, the heavy iron-clad club he kept behind the bar. You may get a split lip from a brawl in the Ale and Crown but that was likely to be about it unless you pushed the limit. Then you'd get a sore head and were likely to wake up naked and alone in a backstreet, bereft of all your possessions and coin.<br><br>But it looked like this evening may be a little different.<br><br>Walter Sinnett was a known man around London. Some had seen him in the boxing ring, competing under the London Prize Ring rules, the barely enforced code of honour that allowed wrestling grappling, biting and gouging. Others had seen him at work, seen his brutal fists break a man, seen his great, baleful eye descend upon an unfortunate target, heard his voice freeze the blood in someone's veins. Others had just heard stories about the man in the ragged suit and the dark deeds he had done. How he always got his man. How you could run and you could hide but he would find you and do you down regardless. About how he broke heads with the heavy head of his cane and how he broke ribs with the brass knuckles he wore on his fists and how he could do deeds too terrible describe with his long and heavy knife, the edge kept sharp and ready. Others yet had no idea who this mysterious man who had claimed the centre of the taproom was but the hushed tones and fearful glances from their compatriots indicated that there was something about the tattered figure. A sense of imminent violence, of barely controlled fury, of cold, malicious rage, of... however trite the term... evil. That the sight of the man in the ragged suit, his face somewhat gaunt, meant that something bad was about to happen.<br><br>The Ale and Crown was not Walter's usual haunt. The sophistication of the place, limited though it was, was far above his usual taste. Rumours said he settled on the Nag's Head, the disreputable tavern on Tooke Street which was famed as being a scoundrel's pub. Rarely was there a night when a body wasn't found dumped outside or where some lurk wasn't devised. It was dark and it was grim and Walter Sinnett had made it his home. And for him to leave its loathsome embrace for the relative beauty of the Ale and Crown meant he was working. And when Walter Sinnett was working a god-fearing man should be minded to keep his head down and hope he had put his affairs in order.&nbsp; <br><br>One man in particular seemed to be more affected than any other by Walter's appearance. Sat at the bar within a group, if one was paying attention to him they would see the blood drain from his face and his eyes widen, giving him the appearance of a freshly found corpse. In truth it was probably the only notable thing about him... in every other way he was utterly indistinguishable from any of the other denizens of the place. His face had the dark and swarthy look of a working man... but so did many here. His clothes were rough but functional... but so were most here. He was with a&nbsp; group of friends... but so were many others. But for all that he had Walter Sinnett's attention and for that the rest of the tap room breathed a sigh of relief.<br><br>For the man had got Walter's attention.<br><br>The man appeared to be trying to sink into the bar, hoping the wood would open up and claim him, hide him from Walter's gaze. He had no such luck. Those damned eyes surveyed the bar, causing a shudder in each person they fell upon until they fixed on this poor soul. And then Walter approached. Two of Hugh's heavies glanced nervously at each other, at Walter, at Hugh. Both were big men, hulking brutes... or maybe brutish hulks, both bigger than Walter. Each could give a child nightmares with their looks, neither were men you would want to meet in a dark alley late at night, both had broken bones and killed men in hot and cold blood. Neither man was soft, neither man was weak and neither man was given to backing down. Yet both were nervous and both were... though they wouldn't admit it... scared. This was Walter Sinnett. This was death given legs. And not a clean death. Not a quick death. A painful, brutal, demeaning death. He was not a man you went up against. He would get you. Maybe at the time, maybe later but he would get you. You could hit him, punch him, kick him, club him, shank him, shoot him. He would pull himself to his feet and hunt you down. He was a legend in the deepest, darkest pits of the underworld, the man people went to when there was no other choice.<br><br>Hugh waved them back. He was not a man easily intimidated. One couldn't run a pub like this and be like that. More than once he'd confronted men with a reputation, more than once he'd seen that reputation shattered and broken down at his feet. But he knew Walter. And he knew what he could do. Inwardly he cursed. Why his pub? Why had this bloody fool done whatever he'd done to get Walter's attention and then come to his pub of all bloody places? There was nothing to it. He could send his men in... but then all he'd get was a bloody brawl in the middle of his tavern and likely some dead bodies lying on the floor. Possibly his own if Walt took it personally. And you never knew if he would. Normally the man was able to separate business and pleasure but if he felt you'd wronged him he was not a merciful man. Rather the opposite in fact. His voice was normally famed for being loud and booming but even that seemed diminished as he slunk behind the bar, leaving the poor victim to his fate.<br><br><strong>“Don't want barney Walt.”</strong><br><br><strong>“Fen don't you be gettin' my bloody way. This bastard's due a dewsktich.”</strong><br><br>Hugh shrank back further as the crowd parted around the unfortunate man, even his own friends circling away. The man was in the room packed full of people but he was utterly alone. Except for Walter. And that was a position no man would wish to find himself in. Few women for that matter, even the ones who had been paid good coin.<br><strong><br>“Walter... I...”</strong><br><br>Walter didn't even pause in his step as the man's nervous voice rang out. He simply walked up, grabbed him round the throat and slammed him hard against the bar. Walt was not a huge man but he was strong, scarily strong and his grip was like iron.<br><br><div class="floatright">(http://www.history.co.uk/shows/pub-dig/pub-gallery/carouselGallery/0/assetPhotos/014/image/victorian-pub-2.jpg)</div><strong>“Are you trying to bloody mug me off Calvin?”<br><br>“Walter... you're choking...”<br><br>“I can't bloody 'ear you Calvin.”</strong><br><br><strong>“You're chokin...”<br><br>“I should choke the bloody life from you, you bloody runt”</strong><br><br>One of Calvin's friends was either braver or dumber than the rest. No-one quite knew what his intentions were, whether he intended to attack Walter or to be the voice of reason, to give an eminently sensible suggestion about how this dispute could be resolved. What they did know was that as he stepped forward Walt turned his head and stared deep into his eyes.<br><br>It's never been explained why one of Walt's eyes sometimes appeared to turn red. It was not the red of the Chinese poppy or a man who had got smoke in his eye. It was more sinister than that, darker, deeper, more powerful. The medically inclined suggested it was the result of a blow to the head he had taken, something having changed inside him. The more spiritually inclined suggested that it was a gift from God, a way for the innocent and the naïve to know that death stalked the land and his name was Walter Sinnett, a way to know that violence was imminent. What everyone did know was that to catch the red eye was to feel your strength drain away from you, to feel fear grow in your belly, to feel your legs start to weaken, to feel your body start to quiver and to feel your bladder and bowels twitch and want to open. More than one mark had pissed themselves, their urine staining their britches at the very sight of the red eye. This poor fool was made of something strong then that but he still froze in place as Walter eyed him, whatever his intentions were fading away as Walter raised the cane in his fee hand, the tip touching the bottom of the interloper's jaw. The cane wasn't as infamous as his knuckle dusters or his knife but people still knew of it. Thick and strong it had a heavy head. In truth that was why Walter carried it... less of a cane, more of a club. After all, while his knives and knuckledusters may be confiscated, who would take a cane off someone?<br><br><strong>“Sit your florin arse down before I make shillings.”</strong><br><br>The poor man did what he was told. He didn't really have any option. Leaving Calvin alone with Walter once more while a whole taproom looked on. Walter finally released his grip on Calvin's throat, hurling the man to the ground where he gasped and whined for air, hands clutching at his throat as he desperately tried to get his breath back.<br><br><strong>“Do I look like a feckin mug t'ya Calvin? Do you fink I'm a bloody mug?”<br><br>“No Walter I...”</strong><br><br>The man was virtually crying now. He knew what was coming. Maybe not the specifics but the general tone. Walt was angry. You did not want to deal with Walt when he was angry. Especially when you were the cause of said anger. Walter kicked him hard in the stomach, digging his boot into Calvin's ribs.<br><br><strong>“Don't you backchat to me, you scum. You need to pay your bloody debts...”<br><br>“I will... I will...”</strong><br><br><strong>“Fats what you told Morris last week. And you still aint paid your bloody debt”<br><br>“I don't have enough mon...”</strong><br><br>Walter kicked him again, eliciting a scream followed by a groan. The entire tap room was silent. Some openly stared, others hid their eyes but everyone was paying attention to a acts of violence being perpetrated. The Judys, ever conniving, we using the opportunity to sidle even closer to the young lordlings, mock looks of horror and fear on their faces, hands covering open mouths, the perfect picture of feminine vulnerability needing a strong (and preferably rich) young man to save them. A couple of dippers were working the scene as well, hands delving into pockets, knapsacks and purses. Walter didn't care.<br><br><strong>“Don't have enough money? You got enough chink to come to a fine place like this aint ya? To spend my scurf's chink on beer and whores? You made a bloody choice Calvin. And I'm the feckin' consequences.”</strong><br><br>While he was speaking Walter had leaned his cane against the bar and from within the confines of his coat produced two knuckle dusters. Now these were infamous. Solid brass they were splattered with the dried blood of his previous victims. Walter had beaten more than one man to death with them in the past, bones breaking under his assault, organs failing, blood seeping, skulls cracking. Walter's fists were hard and powerful enough on their own, the knuckles scarred from constant use, nerve endings deaden from blow after blow. To add a layer of solid brass to that was to turn them into lethal weapons. Calvin was holding his ribs and sobbing, unable to even crawl away from the monster that confronted him.<br><br><strong>“You see Calvin, I don't like feckless wankers who try ta mug me off.”</strong><br><br>Walter grabbed Calvin by his shirt collar, hauling him to his feet. Still holding him up by the neck he sunk a punch into his ribs, the sort of shot Tom Cribb would have been proud of. Of course, Tom Cribb boxed bareknuckle. He didn't have the advantage of having his hands sheathed in brass. Across the silent room the sound of Calvin's ribs breaking was audible, a slight gasp rising up. Calvin himself screamed from the pain, the only thing keeping him on his feet Walter's grip as he doubled over his hands clutching his gut. He was almost incoherent now, screaming and crying from the pain. Walter didn't care. He pulled him upright again and hit him in the jaw, feeling it shatter with the blow, a jolt running up his arm telling him the shot was good, letting go with his other hand as his victim tumbled to the floor. Walter was starting to enjoy himself now. He hadn't been in a good fight in days. This wasn't a good fight. It wasn't even a fight. But he was at least getting to punch someone. He took a savage enjoyment from that, from feeling his physical power overwhelm someone. It was as close as he got to joy. Calvin wasn't enjoying it. Not at all. Calvin was spitting blood now, barely conscious, his broken jaw hanging lopsided on his face. There were more gasps and shouts from the patrons but still none dared intervene. If any had doubts about Walter's wrath when he first arrived then this short display had removed those.<br><br><strong>“It's the damn whores ain't it Calvin? You been spendin' all my scurf's shillings on the ladybirds. Cos you like to get fucked don't you Calvin? And you're proper fucked now.”</strong><br><br>He lifted Calvin again, this time slamming him onto the bar, mugs and tankards flying. He pinned Calvin down with a single hand to the chest, making sure he couldn't move or roll off the bar and with the other drew his knife. “Knife” was perhaps an understatement. It was almost a short sword, a Bowie knife in the Sheffield style, 10 inches of steel, sharpened on both sides yet with a lethal point, heavy enough to slash and parry with yet sharp enough to pierce. It was a lethal weapon and experience had made Walt a master with it. Not that he would need to be a master if he decided to gut Calvin now. It would be little more than butchering a hog.<br><br>But Walt had something less final in mind. Dead men tell no stories but they also pay no debts. And Walt had been told to teach Calvin a lesson. A harsh lesson but a lesson none the less. Make an example of him but leave him alive. It was Calvin's lucky day.<br><br><strong>“The way I see it Calvin, only two things could 'ave 'appened here. The first is that you decided that my scurf weren't worth payin' back and that I was a feckin' mug and you could bloody mug me off. Now that would be damn stupid and you ain't a stupid man. So it got to be the other thing. You just need to get your prick wet don't ya? You got too much feckin' spunk in your balls so you spend all your money on Judys and then you try spreading the broads to get more money. And you're a shit card player so you lose money and you borrow off my scurf and then you spend all that on whores. So you can't pay 'im back and I 'ave to come round here and sort you out. All cos you got too much spunk in your balls.”</strong><br><br>The knife flicked out, a light, almost dainty stroke, incongruous compared to the brutal man who held the knife. Yet the effect was instant. Calvin screamed, a high pitch scream, a soul destroying scream, a heart wrenching scream. He screamed on and on, higher and higher, always rising until there was no breath left in his lungs. His hands dropped to his groin and he screamed again, tears streaming from his eyes.<br><br><strong>“So now you only got one ball,, so you only got half as much spunk to give to the whores right? So you can get me the blooming money! Or I come back and take the rest.</strong>”<br><br>The screams had descended to a wailing keen, piteous sobs that racked Calvin's entire body. He had been broken, physically and mentally. Literally half-a-man. All because he had the ill-fortune to draw Walter Sinnett's ire. In truth that's not really fair. Walter didn't give a toss about him. He was just another face, just another job. He'd have likely forgotten poor Calvin by the morning, lost in a haze of whisky and wine as Walter went back to the sewer he once crawled from, the tattered king of the Nag's Head.<br><br>Well, went back eventually.<br><br>Because he had one more job to do this night.<br><br>A certain posh bastard called Byron Horatio who wouldn't pay his debts either.<br><br><em>I think you hear me knocking<br><br>I think I'm coming in.<br><br>Something wicked this way comes... </em>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>27-04-2013, 08:44:49</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; August 11th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca, Elizabeth (mentioned)<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; While Onneca continued to work on her hair Agatha watched the angry little June Bug explore his new environment.&nbsp; She wondered what this little bugs’ mind must think of its glass cage where it could watch the world go by yet no longer experience it.&nbsp; She wondered if the June Bug would become lonely.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Be that as it may.” Agatha said, the idea of a night out with her friend had already taken root in her mind and there was no letting go.&nbsp; Onny would protest, she always had, but Agatha was sure she could wear her down.&nbsp; “There are many wonderful shows in Gamorra and I think we should go.&nbsp; I have a friend Elizabeth that I am sure would love to join us.&nbsp; She owns the London Royal Apothecary.&nbsp; It will be fun. I will set it all up.”&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha felt the industrious hands leave her hair and was confident there wasn’t a strand out of place.&nbsp; She turned her attention away from the jar and its lonely little captive and turned in her seat to watch Onneca fret over dresses.&nbsp; The dress she held up was a deep orange.&nbsp; It was sturdy looking and none too fancy, but like all of Onneca’s creations it was beautifully crafted and held a dignity and elegance that made an ordinary woman feel like a lady by wearing it.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; “No, no.&nbsp; I couldn’t soil it.” She protested, the offer reminding her of why she had come and the current state of her dress.&nbsp; She stood quickly and glanced towards the front of the shop to see if anyone was milling aroundt.&nbsp; It was to miserably hot of a day for there to be many about.&nbsp; Seeing no one she gave Onneca a mischievous grin and stood taking her hand.&nbsp; “Come with me.” She said brushing by Onneca, tattered and frayed shirts swishing around her legs revealing tiny peaks of forbidden ankles and scandalous calves.&nbsp; She grabbed the hand Onneca was using to hold the dress and would half lead and half drag Onneca through the privacy curtain into her dark space.&nbsp; Agatha loved to look at the wonderful dresses there.&nbsp; They were so pretty.&nbsp; So pretty she had refused all of Onneca’s offers to try them on.&nbsp; They were to intimate to touch.&nbsp; To touch their beautiful silk would be like caressing olive skin, to be wrapped in them would be like being wrapped in their creators’ arms.&nbsp; It did not feel right for her to touch them, but they were so pretty she could spend all day admiring them. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Have you ever wished you didn’t have to be clad neck to foot in yards of cloth Onny?” Agatha asked letting go of Onneca’s hand and spun slowly in the small room letting her tattered skirts flare out around her just a little.&nbsp; “I do.&nbsp; &nbsp;Sometimes I wish I could walk about in just my corset and knickers like the girls at Miss’s Greene’s or The Gilded Feather.&nbsp; It would be so much more comfortable.&nbsp; I could let my ankles show.” She parted the tatters of her dress to flash a stockinged leg and make an overly exaggerated wink at her friend then giggled. “And be free to move." Here in the soft darkness of Onneca’s secret place she could be as bold and outrageous as she used to be.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>01-05-2013, 22:06:20</strong>
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				<div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/b/b7/Marguerite_Tuerny_12.jpg)</div><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/8/8f/Marguerite_Tuerny_07.jpg/600px-Marguerite_Tuerny_07.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Saturday, April 16th, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Early Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Virginia Secession Debutante Ball and Cotillion<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Open<br><hr>"You're lovely, My dear Marguerite."<br><br>The girl addressed blushed, but then looked past her mother to the mirror hung near the entrance to the grand ballroom of the Virginia governor's mansion.&nbsp; <strong>"It is a pretty dress,"</strong>&nbsp; She admitted.&nbsp; <strong>"But couldn't we have put something in the bodice?</strong>"&nbsp; The frilled collar of the vividly turquoise dress covered a decidedly boyish chest.&nbsp; At sixteen, it was high time she started filling out!&nbsp; Other girls had much lower necklines, and assets worthy of display.<br><br>Her mother simply smiled. "Ah, l'impatience de la jeunesse!<sup>*</sup>"&nbsp; Élisabeth Tuerny scolded rather fondly.&nbsp; "You have plenty of time for such things, and you are beautiful très.*&nbsp; &nbsp;I am sure the men will not notice what you think is lacking."<br><br>That was all well and good for her to say, Marguerite thought with a petulant pout she well knew was adorable.&nbsp; Her mother was the real beauty.&nbsp; Why, this was a debutante ball, a showcase for the cream of&nbsp; Confederate youth and beauty, and even dressed to mute rather than accentuate her radiance, Élisabeth was already turning heads.<br><br>Some of the heads might be turned toward her, but Rita really didn't consider the possibility that she was able to draw male attention when near her mother.&nbsp; <strong>"Easy enough for you to say."</strong>&nbsp; She replied, maintaining the pout, though with effort.&nbsp; Her mother had a way of making her smile even when she didn't want to.<br><br>"Now Marguerite."&nbsp; Her mother went into lecture mode.&nbsp; "There are many fine gentlemen here, and you must seriously consider each one, weigh his assets against his flaws and decide which are both suitable and interesting.&nbsp; Do not over value the later!"&nbsp; <br><br>Marguerite had heard all this before, on the ferry across the Chesapeake and on the road to Richmond, and during her fittings and... She was tired of it.&nbsp; These balls were nothing more than marriage brokerages, with mothers proffering their daughters to other mothers presenting their sons, and it was all so callous.&nbsp; Only her dress was lovely, and she certainly wasn't going to become betrothed this evening, and this was her first grown up ball!&nbsp; The first time she was the star and was able to dance with men other than her father or uncles or cousins.&nbsp; She was excited despite her misgivings, and she did so wish she looked more grown-up!<br><br>"...&nbsp; and Edward Baldrick."&nbsp; While she'd been daydreaming her mother had continued the lecture, moving on to her list of most-suitable bachelors.&nbsp; "True, he's a rebel, but they all are at this ball, I hear he's a handsome man,&nbsp; he's of good family with solid holdings, and he's just the right age."&nbsp; In her mother's opinion an older husband was best.<br><br><strong>"Yes Mamma."</strong>&nbsp; Rita replied dutifully.&nbsp; <strong>"I will make sure all your choices appear on my dance card." </strong> And then they were Announced, and Marguerite became the center of attention for a swarm of young and not so young single gentlemen.&nbsp; Her card filled quickly, and she rather enjoyed the flirtatious byplay and the dancing.&nbsp; <br><br>And as much as she hated to admit it, her mother had been right - out of all the dashing men in the room, Edward was the most intriguing.&nbsp; Handsome and quite a good dancer, with the confidence to lead correctly and the grace not to step on her toes.&nbsp; And funny in a dry way, and oh-so-handsome!<br><br>Only... try as she might, she couldn't keep his attention!&nbsp; He was obviously a teat-man, because his eyes kept straying to exposed cleavage, of which she had none.&nbsp; Why, he had even thrown more than a passing glance toward her mother, the cad.&nbsp; Such a pity, because he was nine-tenths of what a girl wanted from an affair like this.&nbsp; No matter!&nbsp; She made do with other, less interesting companions and thought the night rather a success.<br><br>On the way home her mother quizzed her.&nbsp; "Were there any gentlemen that impressed you, my dear?&nbsp; Anyone that might want to call?"&nbsp; And the answers were no, and yes.&nbsp; Just the one fellow was of any interest at all, and she did not think he'd want to call on her.&nbsp; As for the others - several had made it plain they would like to come calling, but none that she would like to encourage.<br><br>There were other balls this season, in Washington and Philadelphia and of course in Baltimore.&nbsp; The girl looked forward to those.<br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">translations</div><div class="spoiler_body">Ah, the impatience of youth!<br><br>...very beautiful.</div></div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>05-05-2013, 03:40:39</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/7e/Ginny_07a.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening, One hour later<br><strong>Location:</strong> Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, John Templeton<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Yep, this was definitely the fire.&nbsp; She hadn't realized it from a first look, but Townsend was mighty strong if his grip was anything to go by.&nbsp; A pained, choked gasp escaped Ginny's lips as he seized her by the jaw and began to squeeze even as her bare feet scrabbled against the cold floor.&nbsp; She tried to find some purchase to push back against him, but there was no good place to dig in.&nbsp; This close and she could smell him, the scent of the cigarillos and male musk invading her personal space as the cuffs holding her hands above her head clinked and clanked against at the beam.&nbsp; The steel bit into her wrists, digging into the tender flesh cruelly as she bit her lip to stop from crying out.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Ironically, his smell was not unfamiliar to Miss Whateley, who spent the better part of her days in the saloons and at the poker tables.&nbsp; No, Townsend smelled a good bit like a number of the other men she was around.&nbsp; Truth be told, he smelled better than a lot of them; a ungodly number were also miners and rougher sorts that came in from the Maze.&nbsp; The types that only bathed when it rained.&nbsp; In fact, it was that familiar scent that helped her stay calm, helped her pounding heart from really racing out of control.&nbsp; Though it did start to pound as she felt him begin to tighten his grip on her jaw even as her ears, heightened by the rush of terror in her, caught the sound of his belt sliding free.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And as he made his offer, her blood ran cold.&nbsp; He wasn't serious, was he?&nbsp; <strong>"....ssttuupp..."</strong> Ginny slurred out weakly in pain even as she felt him increase the pressure on her jaw.&nbsp; Did he intend to break it?&nbsp; The barbarism of the action shook her to the core a little.&nbsp; Oddly enough, all she could think about was how difficult it would be to get married if he marred her face.&nbsp; The whole scenario still seemed a little surreal and the pounding in her head didn't help at all.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Didn't he know who she was?&nbsp; Admittedly, it was a rhetorical question; John Templeton knew she was a Whateley and that fact didn't seem to intimidate him.&nbsp; The belt though?&nbsp; What did he mean to do?&nbsp; Though he was firmly in control of her jaw and consequently how much she could see, Ginny managed to catch the sight of the strip of leather doubled up for a brief moment.&nbsp; It reminded her of the one and only time she had been spanked by her father, Jebediah.&nbsp; Ginny didn't even remember the circumstance or situation; she had been quite young at the time.&nbsp; But he had her bend over and grab her ankles where he had slipped off his belt and doubled it over before giving it a sharp snap.&nbsp; And then, he had dealt three whopping blows, which had Ginny bawling bloody murder by the end of the first stroke as the leather had cracked her behind.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; But the thought that he might beat her didn't make much sense.&nbsp; After all, her current position wasn't one for a spanking.&nbsp; And she was far too old to be spanked like she was a spoiled little brat!&nbsp; Ginny had long outgrown those sort of things.&nbsp; But what did it mean?&nbsp; Did he intend a raping?&nbsp; That thought was even more bothersome to the young Whateley.&nbsp; Here?&nbsp; In this cold place?&nbsp; He'd hang!&nbsp; There was no way that he could really be thinking what he was thinking!&nbsp; And tossing her in the tank with the miners?&nbsp; That was an even more ridiculous notion.&nbsp; No, it was like he was trying to scare her and doing a damned good job of it.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Really, she couldn't imagine him going unpunished for his actions.&nbsp; <em>"Think, Ginny!&nbsp; Think!"</em> she scolded herself, trying to treat this like a hand of poker.&nbsp; Was he bluffing?&nbsp; Or not?&nbsp; Did she fold? Or did she raise?&nbsp; But before she could decide, Townsend raised the stakes again.&nbsp; Ginny cried out as she was slapped across the face as her head pitched to the side, her golden tresses flying all around.&nbsp; Then, her jaw was grabbed again as it was obvious that her sassy wit had not been appreciated.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Then, all attempts at rational thought and analysis went out of the window as Townsend released her aching jaw as she hung there, trying her best not to cry, as he reached inside her chemise to roughly fondle at her.&nbsp; It seemed as if it was a raping he intended.&nbsp; And at his lecherous smile, she shrank back as far as she could, wishing she could disappear into the beam.&nbsp; Then, she let loose a piercing shriek even as she tried to kick at him ineffectually.&nbsp; <strong>"Yuh git away from muh!!"</strong> she shouted, straining against the cuffs as her wrists were beginning to bare angry, red lines from where the skin was being rubbed raw from the force.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>"Quit touchin' muh!&nbsp; Or ah'll..."</strong>&nbsp; her voice faltered a little as she grasped at straws.&nbsp; What could she possibly do?&nbsp; Her name wouldn't help her here.&nbsp; Neither would her money.&nbsp; And this time, her looks were a disadvantage.&nbsp; <strong>"...ah'll..."</strong>&nbsp; It was like trying to bluff your way out of a bad bet when all you had was a jack high and you knew your opponent was holding a pair of aces.&nbsp; You just had to keep throwing good money after bad and hope your opponent would blink.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <strong>"...ah'll tell muh Unca!&nbsp; He'll show yah!"</strong>&nbsp; Okay, so not the best threat in her repertoire but it was the only one she could think of.&nbsp; It wasn't as if anyone in her family was really known for being a sharpshooter or tough son of a bitch.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>06-05-2013, 02:50:23</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; August 11, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>Her pulse raced at Agatha's fingertips. What on earth was the tinker doing? She was getting less dressed when surely the objective was to be more dressed. It was Onneca's job to see her well dressed while she was in the bodega. With a puff, she pinned the dress she'd been holding against Agatha's hipbones to cover that split in her dress. It was impossible to hold it there without Agatha's cooperation, and so she was twisting around in circles with Aggy. "¡Basta!" Her willowy arms went around Agatha, and she felt a slap against her wrist. That was how a slap fight started. Her delicate hands were paddling in the air, and her face was turned away from where her hands were meeting Agatha's in a rhythmless and finger-numbing clap she could not see. "¡No! Va a arruinar la ropa!" Every <em>r </em>was deliciously rolled and her voice was a squeak, and once she started to giggle, it was impossible to see the grown woman she'd become through the ten year old girl she'd been.<br><br>She toppled onto a changing bench and gave up her ridiculous struggle. Now she was certainly feeling the oppressive summer heat. Agatha's question begged to be answered. "Si, sometimes," she said, though that wasn't totally accurate. She didn't have to wish, now- she was a single woman, a woman with a place all her own for the first time in her life, and she'd already discovered that liberating freedom. She studied the face of Agatha, who perhaps didn't have the same freedom just yet. But why couldn't she? The bodega belonged to Onneca, and she could do with it as she wished.<br><br>Her work apron was deftly untied and pushed at Agatha's grasp in lieu of herself. That was the first layer. She was almost skipping as she unbuttoned her blouse, darting right out of the back room and into the empty shop. "So irresponsible!" The chemise beneath was no more revealing, but it was loose and light, affected by the gusting breeze, the tailor's unmentionables. She was sliding in her socks by the time she reached the bodega door. The latch was fastened, and the curtains drawn down, and with the summer sun still glaring in through the opaque fabric, she slipped out of her work dress. The world was so much more comfortable in her chemise and bloomers. The bodega air could enter through her sleeves and balloon through the cloth that ran from hip to knee. She was, yes, very free to move. She could slide up onto her tiptoes and pinwheel her arms to take the corners of the bodega aisles with youthful recklessness. "We will be punished!"<br><br>Onneca could match Agatha's mischief. As she waited for Aggy to peek her head out from behind the privacy curtain, her long fingers went into the spools of colored ribbon and gathered them like snowballs to her chest. It never seemed to snow in the Maze, but the spirit of the thing was the same. The ornery tailor cocked back a tidy roll of ribbon, and was ready to send it streaming and uncoiling at the first sight of coppery red hair. Her aim was not terrific. It would probably take five or six before she landed one.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>06-05-2013, 21:10:31</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; January 9th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The Back Room<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Sloane<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/d1/Mrlee.png)</div><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0b/Msgreene.png)</div>Mr. Lee’s lips quirked lightly at the mention of his whores, though it wasn’t a pleasant smile; it was an abiding one.&nbsp; His eyes narrowed imperceptibly at the mention of John Jacob Astor, and he gave a small, dry chuckle, politely feigned mirth.<br><br>“Ah, well – I hope his tastes are all you share.&nbsp; Things could grow unpleasant here in Gomorrah if you also shared his business interests.&nbsp; He was fully aware of the dislike in the room held for him; those who were familiar with the Den seemed to suspect its owner was some kind of horrific sociopath, and many in the town had difficulty reconciling the soft-spoken, bespectacled man and the rather vicious form of prostitution practiced within.<br><br>He fell silent, though, at the arrival of the Whiskey Nick and a new bottle for Sloane.&nbsp; He kept his inscrutable smile in place as Sloane refreshed his ‘tea,’ and sipped at his own, thick with the smell of Chinese herbs.<br><br>Greene pursed her lips.&nbsp; “He’s going to have a monopoly on the selling of ghost rock either way – he managed to negotiate that with the Rockies.&nbsp; The way I understand it, the only bulk ghostrock sales coming out of Gomorrah will be going through Sweetrock, so even the independent miners will eventually be selling him their fundament.&nbsp; But he’s trying to control the entire line – from production to distribution, and likely every place miners might care to cool their heels or wet their… whistles.”<br><br>She gave a tiny smile at the last.&nbsp; “Something which affects us all.&nbsp; Going toe to toe with Sweetrock will likely end up with the three of us finding out if we can fly.”<br><br>She leaned forward slightly.&nbsp; “Believe it or not, Black Jack and his brigands – they’re the best thing that’s happened to this town.&nbsp; With Sweetrock losing shipments of ghostrock, they have to buy the independent miner’s stock.&nbsp; And with the Raider’s keeping Findley on his toes, he doesn’t have a lot of spare bodies to go shaking down miners for their claims.&nbsp; He needs them on protection rackets.&nbsp; All I’m proposing for now is that we keep the heat on.&nbsp; Make sure coin, food, supplies, <em>information</em> – keeps ending up in the Raider’s hands.&nbsp; Without it, me might blink and become a company town, and that’s bad for everyone’s bottom line.”<br><br>She smiled, a certain wicked humor in her eyes.&nbsp; "That's my proposal.&nbsp; I can get the information.&nbsp; I just need some help making certain it gets to them."&nbsp; Her gaze flicked to Mr. Lee.&nbsp; "And that it gets through the Maze without trouble."<br><br>Lee raised an eyebrow.&nbsp; "You are a... dangerously well informed woman, Miss Greene."<br><br>Greene's smile was light.&nbsp; "I find it infinitely preferable to the alternative."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>06-05-2013, 22:36:37</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/39/Townsend.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; John Templeton<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Law Dogs (Deputy)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.) <br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Evening, One hour later<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Closed, Ginny<br><hr><strong>“Stop,”</strong> he mocked, his grip still tight on her jaw.&nbsp; But he didn’t need to mock her anymore.&nbsp; He could see the fear in her eyes, the fingers on her jaw could feel the rush of blood through her neck.&nbsp; He knew her heart was racing, knew she was terrified.&nbsp; He had her where he wanted her, and he knew it.&nbsp; He drew the leather of the belt down the side of her cheek, stroking the side of her face gently – and then his hand pulled back, the leather slapping down against the beam behind her, the leather cracking like a whip and not quite touching her.&nbsp; It simply made a loud ‘CRACK!’ and brought a smile to his face when she jumped.<br><br>The shriek brought another chuckle, and he leaned in to whisper in her ear.&nbsp; “I don’t wanna get away from ‘yuh.’&nbsp; I want to get deeper’n you than any man ever has.&nbsp; And I think yer gonna keep it to yerself, lest you want the whole town knowin’ yer spoiled goods.”&nbsp; His hand tightened on her breast, squeezing the orb and then releasing, giving her face a pat where he’d slapped it earlier.&nbsp; <br><br>His eyes widened in horror as she mentioned her uncle.&nbsp; “Oh no!”&nbsp; For a moment he sold the look, seeming genuinely terrified, and then he threw back his head and gave a dark laugh.&nbsp; “The <em>card-player?</em>”&nbsp; His laugh echoed through the room.&nbsp; “I’m so verrah terrified,” he mocked.&nbsp; “And so <em>verrah</em> tired of your mouth.”&nbsp; He reached to his boot, slipping a knife from within.&nbsp; He brought the blade up alongside her face, letting the tip of it trace over her lips, the folded belt still in his free hand.&nbsp; “Temptin’ as it to cut it out – there’s some damn fine things yer tongue can do once yer feelin’ a little friendlier.”&nbsp; The blade continued to trace downwards, over her pale, full breast, and then he slipped the tip beneath the material.&nbsp; In one quick swipe, the chemise came free, and he tore it from her body.&nbsp; He discarded it on to the box which held her other clothes.&nbsp; <br><br>But he wasn’t done.&nbsp; He reversed the Bowie knife, driving it down hard, fast enough to feel the wind whoosh between her bare thighs.&nbsp; Then his fingers traced up her thighs, grabbing hold of her panties, and yanking them free.&nbsp; He wadded the torn undergarments in one hand, then casually punched her in the belly, forcing the underwear into her mouth when the punch forced her mouth open.&nbsp; A moment later he was tying the leather of the belt around her mouth, forced between her teeth, making a very effective gag that he cinched behind her head.<br><br>He smiled at her.&nbsp; “Now.&nbsp; Now your company might be downright enjoyable.”&nbsp; He squeezed a bare breast, then began to trail his hand down her belly.<br><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Pumpkin Seeds</strong> on <strong>07-05-2013, 10:49:21</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://t1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQ1DnvOXG8yfRJcl9oCLH9JK7uCu0ui5FQU47YO2vGN1qTD4nxY)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jia Li<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> Two days before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Onneca de Goni<br><hr><br>The biscuit was taken to eagerly but delicately.&nbsp; Small teeth nibbled at the edges of the honey coated bread while the owner of the bodega moved about quickly.&nbsp; Almond eyes watched her movements with a passive air as if unconcerned with the workings of the other.&nbsp; Colors flitted and moved across the air in a dazzlingly display, but Jia Li kept her mind focused on the task at hand.&nbsp; The biscuit was enjoyed in a manner few could understand or relish.&nbsp; Warmth of the bread was touched on her tongue, the sweetness of the honey enjoyed on her palate along with the thickness of the texture.&nbsp; Moisture from the surface slipped between her lips and the smell filled her nostrils.&nbsp; She had learned to enjoy the pleasures of life as if they were her last and to immerse herself in the world while remaining detached.&nbsp; Legs were brought up to fold before her as the biscuit became a memory, but a memory she could relish.<br><br>Each finger was touched to her mouth to touch sweet honey to her lips.&nbsp; Jia Li tilted her head slightly in partial confusion at wonder at the owner.&nbsp; So enthusiastic she seemed for what the young, Chinese girl did not understand.&nbsp; Lips took on a pouty expression as one finger rolled down, tugging on her lip while eyes examined the pictures pointed toward.&nbsp; Jia Li gave a nod as she thought appropriate before turning to consider the comb.&nbsp; Even at this distance Onneca could tell there would be much work to have the hair of this girl straightened and presentable.<br><br>“This hurt?”<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Mister Grimm</strong> on <strong>07-05-2013, 23:01:03</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/d9/Alexandervalentinepushe.png)</div><br><hr><strong>Name:</strong> Alexander Valentine<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> December 20th, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Future Site of Valentine's Oddities - Second Floor Workshop<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed<br><hr> <br><br><br>The scratching of Alex's charcoal pencil against parchment joined in with the cacophony of odd noises that filled his second floor's workshop and made it feel as if the room was alive, while a nearby candle provided him with some warmth for the cool winter night and cast little light about the room. Sure, it wasn't much, but it was more than enough for him to see by without wasting too many of his supplies and he wasn't really cold enough to burn another. Life was harder here than it was back East, but Alex was slowly starting to adjust to things and it would only get better (hopefully) when his shop was opened. <br><br>Or, maybe, when he stopped spending his money so frivolously. An example being what he spent on the prostitute that was sitting prettily on his bed as instructed, her agitation clearly growing the more he had insisted that she stopped her damned fidgeting and posed as requested. She was only there for that reason and nothing more, because sketching was the best way for Alex to get his creative juices flowing after having hit a roadblock on one of his inventions earlier in the day. Funnily enough, the brunette was the one who propositioned him this evening, but she probably hadn't expected the night to go the way it had. And while Alex wouldn't have minded taking her up on her original offer, the brunette's body sparked his creative muse in a way that it may have lit another man's lust and he didn't want to pass up the opportunity to sketch it. <br><br>"Can I a'least look a'it when yer done?" the brunette asked. She had a name, but it - like most others - escaped him at the moment. Alex scowled in response as his eyes lifted from the parchment and let them rove over her form, admiring her curves with an artistic eye and how her curly hair flowed over her shoulders only to pool at her waist. However, her hips were a bit lacking, her breasts a bit small and her shoulders were a touch too broad, so Alex figured her to having grown up accustom to hard labor rather than cashing in on her looks. It had also been clear in her tone and how she kept fidgeting that she was new to the work and still felt a bit awkward about being naked, since a more skilled woman in her profession would have been more used to a man's gaze. Or held less - or more depending on her clientèle - disdain in her eyes. Hell, if it wasn't for what she was wearing or the softness of her voice when she first approached him, Alex would have figured her as a boy if she wore trousers in place of a corset and stocking and put her hair up under a hat. But Alex didn't dare puzzle out why she did what she did, because it wasn't really any of his business. Nor did he want it to be. <br><br>"Maybe," was all he offered as his hand moved to hover over another part of the paper and frowned. She was sitting sideways and facing slightly away from him at the moment with her legs tucked under her and slouching forward, but he had finished those sketches of her and tried to think of a new position to observe. It wasn't often that he got to study human anatomy outside of figures in a book, and looking at cadavers wasn't as much fun because it was difficult to manipulate them once rigor mortis set in. And while Alex could guess at the build of others by looking at them with their clothes on, his margin of accurately picturing how they looked was fairly low. So having paid someone to pose for him - even if the original offer was sex - seemed pretty well worth it if it helped broaden his field of knowledge. "Face me, spread your legs slightly and lean backwards, jutting your chest out as much as you can," he ordered calmly and waited for her to comply. There was hesitation in her movements now, but Alex hardly seemed to mind as he continued to assess her. He was set on finishing a few more sketches, but he was probably pushing the limits of what he paid her. One more and then he'd send her on her way. <br><br>When she finally turned to face him fully, the first thing that Alex noticed was the slight flush in her cheeks that betrayed her professionalism and shamelessly displayed her inexperience, but it was worth a murmured compliment if anything for her having boldly come this far. Next, Alex noticed that the chill in the room had brought her darkened nipples to a taut pertness which almost seemed painful, and that her stomach was tight as well. The position that he asked her to sit in showcased her ribs - or most of them - and much more, but he tried to push any physical interest he might have in her away so that he could focus on the task at hand. Finally, Alex noted what would have probably been his undoing, but the shadow play of the burning candle shaded most of her sex and the brunette hadn't spread her legs far enough apart to fully expose herself. <br><br>"Do you have any siblings?" Alex asked suddenly, mostly in hopes of shifting his thoughts away from her petite form and his desires by changing a bulk of his focus and introducing a different set of stimuli for his mind to entertain. He didn't exactly have enough money to spare on another night like this, so he wouldn't waste what he paid by ending it before he could finish his sketches.<br><br>"What?"<br><br>"Siblings. You know... small human children that you share common blood with," he answered lamely, drawing a bell like laugh from the girl. He felt his frown slip away, along with a small shred of his lust, but it still wasn't enough. <br><br>"No. I know what siblin's are. Just... surprised that ya'd ask <em>that</em> is all. Why?"<br><br>Alex gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and scowled as he felt his face heat slightly. He tried to school his features with his tin man expression, but found some difficulties in doing so. "Curiosity got the better of me. I have two sisters myself and haven't figured out what to get them for Christmas yet. I figured that I should still send something back home for them despite them telling me not to, even if they got there late, but I haven't puzzled out what that <em>what</em> is exactly. Have any ideas?"<br><br>A sigh sounded from where the brunette was and Alex arched an eyebrow in her direction. She wasn't posing anymore, but he had already seen enough to remember what she looked like and could finish the sketch from memory if he wanted too. Her expression had turned quizzical as she brushed a strand of hair out of her face before big brown eyes met his again. She sprawled forward on the bed and stretched out before like a cat, propping her head up with her hand and went about watching him as he had her. "Ain't got no siblings, but I was young not too long ago myself. Didn't get much gifts I'm afraid, on account of being poor, but have ya ever thought about goin' back for a'visit?"<br><br>"That's... difficult," Alex responded and it was his turn to sigh. His circumstances weren't something he ever talked to anyone about, not here in Gomorra at least, and it wasn't a conversation he wanted to have right now either. Not here. And definitely not with someone he barely knew. "I've entertained the thought, but I can't go back yet. I don't have the money," he half lied. <br><br>"But ya can afford someone like me?" she asked and Alex grimaced. Her retort stung a little, but it also exposed his lie. He shrugged only because he was poor at spinning lies and turned to pack up his sketches. When he didn't offer a better explanation, the girl spoke again with a light tease,"What 'bout a'pony? Little girls love those." He already lied and said he couldn't afford a train ticket, so she most likely knew there was no way he could afford a horse. <br><br>"What? Did you want one when you were younger?" he asked around a rough laugh as he played along and pretended to entertain the thought. It wasn't often that he enjoyed the company of another, but there were a few things that could only be obtained from interacting with people. Well, less than a few if anyone ever perfected a machine for a man that took the place of needing another to receive pleasure while still leaving vital body parts unmangled. <br><br>The brunette gave a shake of her head and smiled at him, her uneasiness from being nude seeming to melt away the longer he engaged her in conversation. Perhaps her brain was digesting the new stimuli as well. "Had one, but she was my Pa's. Died kinda young," she trailed off sadly, "Figure she worked too hard." Swallowing hard and blinking her eyes a few times, she rolled onto her back and focused intently on the ceiling. Her knee bent as she lifted them and hooked one over the other which unfortunately drew Alex's attention back to her body and the neatly trimmed patch of hair near the bottom of her smooth belly. Unless, of course, she had planned on it. If so, maybe she was more cunning than he had originally pegged her for. "What about a'doll?" she asked, craning her head backwards to better glance at him.<br><br>"They already have too many I fear. Our mother would probably explode if I sent them any more. Although I doubt that would be a bad thing," he said after a small bout of chuckling. She'd probably have the nanny toss out a few, or give them to her for her own kids. But Alex wanted to get his sisters something special. Since a train ride back to New York was out of the question, he was still coming up short despite having a pretty soundboard to bounce ideas off of.<br><br>"How 'bout we clear that head of yers then? Might help ya think of somethin' to get them," she purred softly when she rolled back onto her stomach and slipped off the bed. Even though he was grimacing again, Alex let her approach and undo the snaps of his suspenders. If he was going to be honest with himself, Alex had already fallen victim to his desires when she had first undressed and he took in her form. But maybe she had a point. He already knew enough of her body to finish the sketches whenever he wanted, so this was nothing more than moving from one way of clearing his mind to another. So he let her help him out of his shirt before taking over from there and carrying her to the bed. The candle had been blown out by then, but its flame was no longer needed for its light or its warmth. The rest of the night would take care of that and more.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kuroneko</strong> on <strong>08-05-2013, 06:56:40</strong>
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				<div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Ginny</div><div class="spoiler_body"><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote"><a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=167460.msg7973703#msg7973703">Quote from: esclavage on 31-03-2013, 01:34:27</a></div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote"><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/c/c0/Ginny_Avatar-01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> December 14th, 1875 (Approximately six months before game start)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Deacon Sloane<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Ah kawl, sugah,"</strong>&nbsp; Ginny rasped out, her voice slurred a bit from both the whiskey she'd been downing, plus the nerves that she was trying to hide.&nbsp; Irritated because she didn't feel as if anyone else felt the pressure, she poured herself another shot and downed it to hide those nerves even as she threw four bags full of golden eagles onto the ever growing pot.&nbsp; It was business as usual at Casino Morongo, except that it wasn't.&nbsp; This Saturday night was a very special one because of the game of poker was being played.&nbsp; It was the biggest one ever seen in Gomorra and all the big-shots had come to participcate.&nbsp; &nbsp;The chinaman from Shan Fan whose name Ginny didn't bother remembering.&nbsp; It had some chinky noise to it though.&nbsp; The sharp from Sacramento who went by Bold Bill though he should have been called Bold Balls given how he could raise someone over ten grand without a bat of an eyelash.&nbsp; And finally, the devil himself from the City of Lost Angels known only as the Collector because no one escaped him after they owed him a debt and everyone ended up owing him when he was done playing.&nbsp; Then, there was little old Miss Virginia Whateley in the mix, the teeny, tiny sheep midst a bunch of wolves.&nbsp; These were the real players of the game and they had come with all their considerable wealth.&nbsp; For Ginny, that meant hiring four burly men to help her carry a large lockbox that she kept in her house that was literally stuffed full of golden eagles.&nbsp; There must have easily been over a hundred thousand dollars in there, a staggering, obscene amount of wealth that represented her lifetime.&nbsp; There were also some personal effects that she kept safe in there like the deed to her large Southern home that was here in Gomorra, an old, faded card desk that had been what her Unca Nico had first bought her, a picture of her family with a stern, frowning Jebediah as her father, an equally sour-faced Mary-Ann as her mouth and the young, innocent Virginia Whateley at the tender age of four before she had moved out west.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Of course, Deacon Sloane was more than happy to sponsor the event since Casino Morongo would be taking a handsome cut of all the winnings that were being displayed here at the very end.&nbsp; And given how everyone was playing, they'd make him enough to get him a whole extension to the damn place.&nbsp; It was why there were plenty of Sloane's men around.&nbsp; With this much money at stake and potential ruin meeting every single man and woman, this was a delicate business.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; In fact, they weren't even playing their usual five-card draw.&nbsp; Instead, this was some fancier game that came from Texas called Hold'em.&nbsp; You got a pair of cards and the dealer and left of the dealer posted up a big blind and small blind.&nbsp; The big blind was a full golden eagle and the small was a half eagle.&nbsp; Then, three cards were put out and everyone bet.&nbsp; Then, a fourth card was flipped and another round of betting occurred.&nbsp; And finally, the last card was flipped on "the River" and fortunes were won and lost.&nbsp; So far, Ginny hadn't been doing terribly though she definitely wasn't the best one at the table and had taken some hefty losses.&nbsp; So far, over thirty thousand dollars gone.&nbsp; Normally, that was even too rich for her blood and she would have bowed out but they all had an agreement to keep playing until the dawn broke.&nbsp; Basically, there was only going to be one winner to this little game and the rest would be destitute.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Ginny's face fell as the next card that came out was a four of clubs as she lost the hand.&nbsp; And with it, another six thousand dollars.&nbsp; She sucked in her breath and reached for another drink.&nbsp; It might ave been making her sloppy, but she felt as if she needed it for her nerves.&nbsp; And for some odd reason, the young Whateley had a sense.&nbsp; Granted it was a faint sense and maybe it was wrong.&nbsp; But she felt as if she gutted out this storm that Lady Luck was going to turn her way.&nbsp; She just knew it, deep down.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Across from her, the Collector gave a cool smile. <em><strong> "What's the matter, girl?&nbsp; This ain't the penny ante games you're used to running at your table.&nbsp; This is the real deal."</strong></em>&nbsp; The man gave a laugh as he scooped up the pot.&nbsp; Of all the ones here, he showed off the most skill and the best reads on the others and consequently had been doing the best.&nbsp; The chinaman was in a similar position to Ginny, suffering a slow bleed of his cash reserves, and Bold Bill had managed to increase his earnings modestly.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;With a cool look from those green Whateley eyes, Ginny just tossed back another shot as she felt the liquor burn down her throat.&nbsp; <strong>"Yuh jist worry 'bout yerself, darlin'.&nbsp; Ah'm a big girl and ah kin handle m'self."</strong>&nbsp; Though she really wasn't certain she felt that way as a fresh pair of cards was dealt out onto the table.&nbsp; Though as the cards were coming out, sliding onto the table into the waiting players' hands, the young Whateley got an eerie premonition.&nbsp; This was it.&nbsp; This was the hand everyone had been waiting for.&nbsp; The hand where all the high suits came out.&nbsp; And as Ginny peeked, she saw two Kings.&nbsp; The King of Diamonds and the King of Clubs.&nbsp; A strong starting hand and there was some real potential to make a big push.&nbsp; She just had to be careful of anyone with aces high and most likely someone had it.&nbsp; The next three cards would tell everything.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And with a quick glance, Ginny looked at everyone else.&nbsp; Bold Bill didn't seem too pleased with his hand.&nbsp; Ginny had managed to pick up on a small tell of his, which was his left ring finger would twitch if he liked what he had.&nbsp; The chinaman seemed to feel pretty comfortable even as he reached across his face and rubbed at his ear, a sure sign he liked his hand.&nbsp; And the Collector was still a blank book to Ginny; she hadn't been able to get a bead on him the whole night.&nbsp; Though deep down, her intuition told her that he was the dangerous one this hand.&nbsp; There was just something to him that made her feel very cautious about her chances.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Since she was the big blind, the young Whateley flicked the golden eagle in to start the pot.&nbsp; The chinaman followed suit with the half eagle.&nbsp; And then, the three cards came up.&nbsp; Ace, Queen, King.&nbsp; The Ace of Hearts, the Queen of Spades, and the King of Hearts.&nbsp; So far, so good in terms of her prediction.&nbsp; And Ginny liked what she saw though she was patient and checked her bet.&nbsp; She didn't want to tip anyone off to her strong pair.&nbsp; Though the Collector made the first move as he placed a bet for fifteeen thousand dollars, using a few fat five-pound bags of ghostrock as currency.&nbsp; There was a bit of hesitation and then Bold Bill met him and then raised it another ten grand, bringing it to twenty-five thousand.&nbsp; Then, it came back to Ginny who wasn't feeling all that great, but her sense was telling to to stay put so twenty-five thousand was thrown in as well as that put her past the halfway mark of her savings.&nbsp; This hand would be boom or bust for the young Whateley no doubt.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The chinaman took the longest to decide as he tapped his fingers against the table in a way that made Ginny want to reach over and choke him.&nbsp; Finally, he also called and threw in twenty-five grand as the pot now looked obscenely huge.&nbsp; Colorless bags representing fortunes that were so staggering it was hard to believe were there.&nbsp; And then, the fateful fourth card dropped.&nbsp; The Ten of Diamonds winked as once again Ginny paused and then decided to make her move as she bet ten thousand to start off with.&nbsp; Those green eyes still seeking to see if she could figure out who was holding the aces high.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <em><strong> "Too small, sweetpea.&nbsp; But it makes sense cause you ain't got no balls to speak of.&nbsp; Let me show you how a man does it."</strong></em>&nbsp; The Collector remarked as he called her and raised her another twenty thousand as she caught another tell from Bold Bill.&nbsp; The man was obviously thinking about folding this hand and trying his luck with another hand.&nbsp; Yet he felt too committed to simply let go as he added to the pile.&nbsp; And this time, the chinaman was quicker as he called and...then paused and raised again another five thousand.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;At this point, things were absolutely ridiculous.&nbsp; Yet Ginny paused and gave a sigh and a shrug.&nbsp; Why the hell not?&nbsp; She was already this far in at this point she looked at the table, those Whateley eyes now chips of green ice.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'm all-in."</strong> Her voice was flat as she took out the rest of what she owed, every single coin, and threw it into the pot.&nbsp; Right now, a three of a kind with Kings wasn't too bad.&nbsp; The only thing that could beat her at this moment was a three of a kind with the aces or a high straight, ace high, if someone had a Jack in hand.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And at her brazen move was enough to get Bold Bill to fold.&nbsp; Apparently, it was simply too much to risk it on what he had.&nbsp; The chinaman spent longer, once again tap, tap, tapping his fingers as the young Whateley wanted to grit her teeth, but settled for another slug of whiskey instead.&nbsp; And then, he too finally folded as well.&nbsp; Leaving her alone with the Collector who seemed insufferably confident and smug.&nbsp; A bad sign for Ginny who suspected that he was holding the aces high.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Or he could be bluffing her.&nbsp; He was really hard to read.&nbsp; <em><strong>"Well, I guess I'm all-in too." </strong></em> And at that, he pushed all his winnings forward, easily double or even triple of what Ginny had.&nbsp; Which meant the Whateley would have to come up with some collateral to match him.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was a long pause of hesitation from Ginny, her eyes still boring into him as she sought to read him.&nbsp; Nothing.&nbsp; She still could fold and back out.&nbsp; Only she really couldn't.&nbsp; Slowly, she fetched out her land deed and showed it.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'm puttin' this in the pot tah match yuh."</strong>&nbsp; It went without saying that land property in Gomorra was really quite expensive.&nbsp; Losing it wouldn't be easy to acquire back even as a Whateley.&nbsp; Yet Ginny felt a strange type of peace, an odd sense of emboldened confidence that completely unjustified as she waited for "the River".<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And as she put it down, the Collector laughed.&nbsp; And flipped his cards, showing off a pair of Aces.&nbsp; The Ace of Diamonds and the Ace of Clubs.&nbsp; <em><strong>"Easier than taking candy from a baby.&nbsp; You'd better go home and cry to your Momma, girl.&nbsp; Spend a bit more time on her teat and learn how to play.&nbsp; Then, come back.&nbsp; I'll be happy to take everything you own anytime."</strong></em>&nbsp; And he continued to laugh long and hard as Ginny didn't bother responding.&nbsp; Instead, her whole being was focused on the deck of cards.&nbsp; Willing it for the final card she needed.&nbsp; Her green eyes bored into the deck of cards as she waited for it be dealt on the table.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Silently, the card spun and flipped up.&nbsp; The King of Spades.&nbsp; The black King stared up at her mutely as she looked at it and then the Collector who had stopped laughing.&nbsp; Then, at the card again.&nbsp; Not believing it herself, despite seeing it.&nbsp; Then, she gave a dumbfounded shrug. <strong> "Huh.&nbsp; Full House.&nbsp; Well, whatdid yuh kno'?&nbsp; Guess ah git a happy endin', after all."</strong><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There was a long, ugly pause before the Collector leaned in.&nbsp; His face dark and his mouth set in an angry line. <em><strong> "I call cheating.&nbsp; You had to be cheating.&nbsp; Nobody has luck that amazing that their card comes up right when they need it."</strong></em>&nbsp; His hand shot out over the table and gripped Ginny's right wrist tightly, almost painfully as she winced.&nbsp; <em><strong>"Show me your sleeves.&nbsp; I want your goddamned shirt off!&nbsp; I bet you are hiding cards all over yourself!!!" </strong></em>His voice had now risen in pitch and tenor as it looked like things were going to get ugly.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; And things did as Ginny pulled back her arm sharply.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah ain't showin' nothin'!&nbsp; Yuh dun got no proof!"&nbsp; </strong>Her own voice was surly as she stood from the table and moved away even as the Collector stood as well and then dragged her in again.&nbsp; &nbsp;And then, it was on.&nbsp; Back and forth, they wrestled, a pair of tangled bodies though both had the consciousness not to disturb the table laden with the winnings.&nbsp; If that was knocked, then all hell would break loose and nothing would ever get resolved.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Of course, the Collector was a man so he used his bigger frame to overwhelm the young Whateley, bending her right arm painfully.&nbsp; <em><strong>"You're going to strip, missy."</strong></em>&nbsp; Then, he used his free hand to slap her across the face even as she cried out.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Suddenly, Sloane's men broke it up, getting on both of them and dragging them apart.&nbsp; The Collector was dragged out of the room and Ginny was let go after a moment as she jerked her arms angrily away from them and then gently dabbed at her nose.&nbsp; There was a bloody stream coming from it in a red river as she smeared it across her left sleeve.&nbsp; A sleeve which somehow had been torn in the struggle as she looked at Deacon Sloane, who had come back to watch the private little game.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"Ah think ah need a bit o'air,"</strong> Ginny said faintly, looking a bit pale.&nbsp; <strong>"Kin ah sit down somewhere and catch my breath?"</strong>&nbsp; A look to the other two players had them shrugging and then reluctantly agreeing unless Deacon Sloane said otherwise.&nbsp; Obviously, they didn't want to stop but at the same time, it would be churlish not to grant a lady her request.&nbsp; Of course, if Ginny was forced to keep playing, as shaken as she was, no doubt she'd be easy prey for the remaining men at the table.<br></blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div></div></div><br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane5_zpsfbdee107.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Deacon Sloane<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> December 14th, 1875 (Approximately six months before game start)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Ginny (closed)<br><hr><br>Money.&nbsp; <br><br>Cold, hard cash. <br><br>Deacon Sloane, once one of the most feared gunmen in the west, a bounty hunter of extreme reputation, who once existed for the hunt and the danger and the gut burning thrill of collecting a bounty, now lived for it. It was the only reason he had allowed Virginia Whateley to rent a table in the casino that he had established with the sum total of his accumulated wealth from a lifetime of chasing down men for varying amounts of reward. He tolerated her playing at running her fancy games because she had a pretty face and a nice ass underneath all her finery, and making nice with one of the Whateleys was good for business. Her table certainly brought in a tidy little profit, from which he took a generous cut. Consequently, when she’d approached him about hosting a sky high stakes poker game, he’d been willing to hear her out, and finally allowed himself to be won over to the idea.&nbsp; Hell, the amount of money that would cross the felt that night was too damn high for him to even think about turning down, even if the girl did fall flat on her ass.&nbsp; Tempers could always be soothed with whiskey and women.&nbsp; There was very little pussy couldn’t solve. And so here they were.<br><br>Sloane had made all the arrangements.&nbsp; A private room had been set up for the men that had come running at the hint of Whateley money, complete with all the necessary fineries and accessories that such a game demanded.&nbsp; Rumors of the high stakes of the game had called out the biggest players this side of Chicago.&nbsp; The three remaining men sitting at the table had come from as far away as Lost Angels, and had been bleeding money hand over fist all night long. Sloane was already counting up his cut in his head, and no doubt the men specially handpicked to provide security for the event were planning out how to spend their night’s bonus. And so far, Whateley was holding her own; but Sloane was beginning to wonder how long it would last.<br><br>Ginny had taken some serious losses over the course of the evening and had covered up the sting by drinking heavily.&nbsp; Even now, as the Collector from Lost Angels won yet another hefty pot and verbally challenged the girl over her ability to run a ‘real’ game, she gulped down another shot of whiskey and admonished the man to see to himself in a thick, slurred, southern drawl. Sloane looked her over with a practiced eye, noting a genuine flicker of nervousness underneath her bravado before flicking his gaze towards his men. <em>Be on guard</em>, his eyes warned, as another hand was dealt and the pot began to grow again.&nbsp; <br><br>The cards were played and bets were made.&nbsp; Before long, the pot in the center of the table had grown to gigantic proportions, and one of the players had pulled out.&nbsp; Banter was growing more and more personal as the bets were called and raised as the tension grew, waiting for the final card.&nbsp; The Collector, in particular, was taking Ginny to task, but Sloane felt no particular need to step in.&nbsp; If she wanted to run a Big Game then she needed to learn how to take the heat.&nbsp; Then the final card was turned, and things turned as ugly as a two bit whore. <br><br>The accusations of cheating leveled at Ginny made Sloane narrow his eyes at the Collector.&nbsp; The girl might be more than a little high and mighty but as far as he could tell – and his eyes were good, with more than a little practice at his business – she was no cheat, and he was just about to say so, before deciding to pause for a spell and see how she handled the challenge.&nbsp; Dark, hooded eyes slid towards her as the man demanded she take off her shirt.&nbsp; <br><br>Of course, she refused, in true Whateley form. Sloane’s gaze turned back to the Collector, who reached out to take her arm in an iron grip before slapping his hand across her face.&nbsp; <br><br>Even Sloane thought that was a little much.&nbsp; Nodding to Yanko as they began to tussle over the table, his men swooped in to pull the two of them apart. But, not before Sloane caught a flash of sliver in the low light of the room.&nbsp; It happened in the blink of an eye, and then his men were dragging the Collector out of the room under his watchful gaze, a carefully school expression of neutral tolerance pasted to his face as Ginny looked to him and quietly begged for a moment of reprieve. <br><br>Tearing his eyes away from the high stakes player as the door closed behind him, Sloane reached into his pocket to remove a handkerchief and crossed to Ginny’s side.&nbsp; Taking her arm, he lead her off to the far corner of the room with a strong grip as he offered her the folded white cloth, stepping up close enough for her to feel the brush of his lightly stubbled cheek as he whispered firmly in her ear.&nbsp; <br><br>“You listen to me, girl,” Sloane began, pressing the handkerchief into her hand and lifting it to dab at her bloodied nose, giving him a chance to glance down at her arm in the process and confirm his suspicions about what he’d seen. “If you walk out of this room now you’ll never be taken seriously by anyone in Gomorra ever again.&nbsp; Word about a thing like this travels faster than shit through a goose, and by sunup you’ll just be the pampered cunt that bit off more than she could chew, thought she could play with the grownups. Now, you pull yourself back together, get your ass back to that table and see this thing through, before you ruin my casino’s goddamn reputation.”&nbsp; <br><br>Taking a step back, Sloane wiped the last of the blood from Ginny’s face, glancing pointedly down at her arm before moving away and back towards the table, giving her a moment to compose herself before resuming the game.&nbsp; “Bring Miss Whateley some water,” he said to the waitress standing by the buffet at the other end of the room.&nbsp; “And make sure it’s cold.”&nbsp; Once he had the cool glass in hand he turned around to face Ginny with the drink extended towards her.&nbsp; <br><br>“Miss Whateley, are you ready to continue the game?"<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>08-05-2013, 07:15:49</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; May 1st, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Gomorra Orphanage<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Delores Mayberry, Matty, Closed<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; “Why do you torture yourself dear?&nbsp; My decision is final.”&nbsp; Delores Mayberry stared down her pointed nose at the woman standing before her while the woman’s Indian servant brought in a load of books for the children.&nbsp; The woman insisted that the man was her employee, but really he was a redskin, nobody paid them and if they did it was in food or alcohol.&nbsp; It wasn’t proper when there were other good folk around that could use the money.&nbsp; It only reinforced the decision in her mind.&nbsp; Agatha was a nice girl.&nbsp; Smart as a whip and maybe to smart.&nbsp; Her parents should have dumbed her down some, maybe she would have been married like a proper woman and this wouldn’t be so hard on her.&nbsp; No matter how much she liked the girl for the time she spends reading and teaching the children, she was a spinster and was known for keeping strange company and having ties to those crazy Collegium folk.&nbsp; No, as nice as she was, it was up to Delores to find good homes for these young’ins and Agatha Dunwich was not mother material of that she was sure<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Yes, I am quite aware that you consider me ill fit to raise a child,” Agatha replied stiffly.&nbsp; “That does not change the fact that Matty and the other children shouldn’t know their letter and numbers and I have the time, so...” She left the rest hanging with a shrug.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Delores Mayberry wouldn’t be able to argue that fact, being an old schoolmarm herself.&nbsp; Delores was prim and proper and everything a young boy or girl hated in a teacher.&nbsp; It wasn’t that she didn’t care, Agatha knew that wasn’t true, but she was a stern and disciplined woman and she ran a stern and disciplined orphanage.&nbsp; Delores looked at Agatha over her owl-eyed spectacles, her pinched features pinchy-er with dubiety.&nbsp; &nbsp;Behind the two women and completely engrossed in a strange puzzle filled with whirling and twirling thing-a-magigers and whats-a-mahoosits was a girl of around eight years old.&nbsp; She had ragged and wild brown hair that she blew out of her face every minute or so when he interrupted her concentration.&nbsp; She twisted a dial here to match a shape there.&nbsp; She had already solved the first two puzzles and when she did the box would whirl and click and change into a new puzzle for her and she would give a little whoop of success.&nbsp; &nbsp;The little joy in her voice made Agatha smile and Delores frown. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“You shouldn’t fill her mind with wild notions Miss. Dunwich,” Agatha could swear the woman stressed the Miss a bit more than necessary.&nbsp; “She knows her letters and her numbers, what she needs now is to know how to cook and mend and take care of a home.”&nbsp; It was Agatha’s turn to frown.&nbsp; &nbsp;Matilda was different.&nbsp; She reminded Agatha of herself at that age.&nbsp; She had a brilliant and inquisitive little mind.&nbsp; She asked thoughtful questions and listened to the answers.&nbsp; She had a head for puzzles and mathematics and gobbled up the lessons Agatha had presented her.&nbsp; Agatha had come to look forward to her visits to the orphanage as she knew Matty would be waiting for her with completed lessons in hand and a million questions on her lips.&nbsp; It was months before Agatha had approached Delores with the idea of adopting Matty and she had been crushed when the old schoolmarm had turned her down.&nbsp; It hadn’t stopped Agatha from visiting and bringing lessons, but each time it brought a deep ache and she left with an urge to drink herself to sleep that night to make the hurt go away.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha ignored Delores’s concern and instead made her an offer.&nbsp; “I want Matty to come work for me.&nbsp; Two day a week to start.” She said and held up a hand to stall Delores before she could speak. “I will pay her a good wage for her time and an equal wage will go to the orphanage.”&nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha knew that it would be an offer that Delores could not refuse.&nbsp; The orphanage may have been paid for by the Whateley’s but it was by no means rich and there was no shortage of new orphans in Gomorra.&nbsp; “If she works out I will make it four days a week and she will be required to learn all of the rules of etiquette that you deem necessary for a proper young woman.&nbsp; Is this acceptable?”<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha didn’t have to wait for the answer she already knew was coming, but she did.&nbsp; Agatha had been raised as a proper young woman too, even if she wasn’t.&nbsp; Delores acquiesced to the offer, though she did not like it one bit. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I will go tell her.” Agatha was certain she was going to try to talk Matty out of it, but the cry of delight and look of abject happiness and disbelief on her face gave Agatha all of the answer she needed. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Is it true?&nbsp; I can come work with you?”&nbsp; Matty asked wrapping little arms around Agatha’s hips and hugging tightly looking up water-filled emerald eyes that smiled down on her.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; “Yes.” Agatha nodded fighting back tears that she felt needed to be hid from the pinchy faced schoolmarm.&nbsp; “I will pick you up tomorrow, but you have to listen to everything Delores tells you to do and be a good girl.&nbsp; Do you understand me?” She asked.&nbsp; <br>Matty’s shaggy head bounced up and down grinning ear to ear.&nbsp; They were a lot alike.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kuroneko</strong> on <strong>08-05-2013, 09:27:30</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane6_zps63e694fc.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Deacon Sloane<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> January 9th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Back Room<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Miss Greene, Mr. Lee <br><hr>Unperturbed by Lee’s show of feigned obsequious politeness and propriety, Sloane took a healthy gulp of his drink before setting the cup back down on its saucer and turning his dark gaze on the man.&nbsp; “To which business interest are you referring, Lee?”&nbsp; He’d never bother to add ‘mister’ ahead of the Chinaman’s name.&nbsp; “The fur trade?&nbsp; Real estate? Or, are you speaking of his surreptitious transport of certain botanicals, perhaps concerned that Turkish opium might, in fact, be far superior to the Canton shit you import and peddle to the masses?”&nbsp; Lifting his cup, he let it hover momentarily in front of his mouth.&nbsp; “Who do you think I am?&nbsp; You?”&nbsp; <br><br>Whiskey Nick arrived in a timely fashion just as Sloane drained his cup, and he took a moment to refill the fine china with an undiluted shot of whiskey as he listened to Green say her peace. “I assume you have something to tell me that I didn't <em>already </em> know,” Sloane replied when she paused, setting the bottle on the table without bothering to cork it as he raised his eyes to her face, waiting for some truly useful information or insight that might make the trek through the bone chilling streets worth his fucking while. What she had to say didn’t do much to warm him up. <br><br>While it was true that Sloane wasn’t keen on the idea of being beholden to Findley for anything, or being told what to by the man or how to run his business, he also didn’t like having Greene essentially do the same goddamn thing.&nbsp; More so than her, his business relied on Sweetrock’s employees for a fair share of its income, and Lee was the same.&nbsp; Dangerously well informed or not, Sloane didn’t like the idea of being under her thumb any more than he liked being under Findley’s.&nbsp; Rock, meet hard place.<br><br>The reality was, Gomorra was already a company town.&nbsp; It became a company town the minute Findley walked into the city with his pile of lawyers and the deeds to half of Humphrey Walters’ land.&nbsp; Sloane knew it, even if Greene and Lee didn’t. But something just didn’t sit right about all of this, and it was nagging at the back of his mind.<br><br>“Tell me, Maybelle,” Sloane began, leaning back in his chair as he considered her request.&nbsp; “Just what is Black Jack giving you – oh, <em>and </em> us - in return for your … <em>generous </em> support?”<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>10-05-2013, 20:55:45</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; January 9th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The Back Room<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Sloane<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/d1/Mrlee.png)</div><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0b/Msgreene.png)</div>Lee actually chuckled aloud at the mention of Turkish opium.&nbsp; He’d let the stream of rhetorical questions pass, without a batted eyelash, quite certain both businessmen knew exactly what he was referring to, and Sloane liked the sound of his own voice.&nbsp; “Fortunately for me, my customers do not possess your <em>rarified</em> tastes,” he mused.&nbsp; He seemed even more amused at Sloane’s final remark – perhaps intended to be cutting.&nbsp; He seemed fully aware it had been intended as an insult, but there was brief, dismissive gaze that suggested whatever esteem Sloane held himself in, the Chinaman looked down his own nose at the former gunslinger.&nbsp; <br><br>A flash of annoyance crossed Greene’s features.&nbsp; There was more, but Sloane’s cavalier disrespect was trying her patience, as was the hostile back and forth between Sloane and Lee.&nbsp; “I do.” She said, her tone growing curt for the first time.&nbsp; “And yet, before I volunteered everything I know, it seemed prudent to know what exactly you would be bringing to the table.&nbsp; I have a great respect for your business sense, but I would need to see a little more stake in these affairs than just the pleasure of your company.”&nbsp; She gave a saccharine smile after that.<br><br>Her eyes narrowed, flashing in a bright spot of anger at the familiarity of her first name.&nbsp; Her patience, worn thin, was hanging from a thread at the disrespect.&nbsp; “I haven’t approached him yet,” she said.&nbsp; “A more useful question is what would <em>we</em> want.&nbsp; But you miss the point – supporting him is summarily worth every dollar invested, because it keeps our businesses free of unwanted influence.&nbsp; Sometimes a little charity goes far further than quid pro quo.”<br><br>She shook her head, and moved to rise.&nbsp; “It was my hope we could find some sort of mutually amenable arrangement, one that could extend to the other hotels, saloons, casinos, brothels – an alliance that could keep Sweetrock out of our business and ensure our survival in the years to come.&nbsp; But as it stands I doubt we’re going to make it to our entrees before someone’s throat is opened.&nbsp; I do apologize for dragging you all out into the cold.”&nbsp; She was already reaching into her purse, preparing to pay for their meals and their drinks and depart.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kuroneko</strong> on <strong>11-05-2013, 00:56:55</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v622/Jagwaar/Sloane6_zps63e694fc.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Deacon Sloane<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> January 9th, 1874<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Back Room<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Miss Greene, Mr. Lee <br><hr><br>“That they do not,” Sloane agreed amicably, over another sip of whiskey.&nbsp; Fuck it; he’d made it to fifty in a profession that saw most men dead before they reached the age of thirty.&nbsp; He’d earned a little comfort in his retirement and he certainly didn’t give a rat’s ass for the Chinaman’s - or anyone else’s – opinion of him.&nbsp; Lee could scrunch up his beady eyed yellow face and discount him all he wanted.&nbsp; There was no competition between their clientele and never would be.&nbsp; It was for the better if the man thought Sloane wasn’t a threat. <br><br>But Greene now … ohhhh, she was another matter.&nbsp; And how Sloane <em>did </em> like to work her up.&nbsp; She was so fetching when the color rose to flush her cheeks and whenever he managed to crack that vaunted veneer of smug, self-righteous superiority and self-importance.&nbsp; It was even more amusing to see her mild annoyance turn into a full on fit of bluster, watching her shift and posture in her chair, skirts and lace shifting around her like the ruffled feathers of a prize fighting rooster that had seen a rival.&nbsp; Sloane could barely keep the smile from spreading across his face as she pretended she was offended enough to leave.&nbsp; Now <em>that </em> was well worth the bitter walk across town in the cold. <br><br>“Oh for fuck’s sake ‘Belle, sit your goddamn ass back down and stop acting like I pissed in your tea,” Sloane drawled, draining his cup and reaching for the open bottle to refill it again.&nbsp; “It’s just me and Lee here, not the fucking town council, so there’s no need to stand on propriety - and we all know that none of us care about extending any goddamn thing to the other similar businesses in town.&nbsp; We all make our living by being unique in our own way, which is why we’ve survived for so long.”&nbsp; Setting the bottle down, he turned his palm over and gestured at Greene’s seat, indicating she should settle back into it.<br><br>“I haven’t missed a thing.&nbsp; Charity is a noble idea my dear but Black Jack is not a man that will take kindly to such a gesture.&nbsp; Men rarely do.&nbsp; More importantly, he won’t respect it,” Sloane began, eyeing Greene over laced fingers. “It’ll just weaken our position and make us vulnerable to him and his men as well as Findlay and his greed. What he <em>will </em> respect, is coming to a mutually beneficial agreement.”&nbsp; Pausing, he took another long swallow of whiskey that went down fine and easy on the back of his throat. <br><br>“My stake in these affairs is just as high as anyone sitting at this table, as you rightly know, or else I wouldn’t be sitting here in the first place,” Sloane drawled, cradling his cup against his chest with one hand.&nbsp; “So stop acting as if I’m not invested in the matter at hand.&nbsp; The cold, coy bitch act only works for so long, and you and I know each other far too well to play games when it comes to serious business matters.”&nbsp; <br><br>Leaning back in his chair, Sloane drained his cup again and set it down on the table.&nbsp; “Now, you’re not the only one with information, and I’m sure that Lee here is sitting on his own goldmine of celestial wisdom.”&nbsp; Hands resting on the arms of his chair, he gestured generously towards the Chinaman with one hand.&nbsp; “The Morongo’s full of miners every goddamn day of the week.&nbsp; Sweetrock, independent, young, old.&nbsp; New in town and seasoned veterans.&nbsp; They win big, they talk.&nbsp; They lose, they talk.&nbsp; They get their dicks wet, they talk even more - and my god, if they don’t say the most <em>interesting </em> things. There’s a reason Black Jack’s here and you might say, we share some common interests, the four of us.”&nbsp; Deacon pulled up one corner of his mouth in a wry smile.&nbsp; <br><br>“We have <em>far </em> more to offer here than mere charity,” he said.&nbsp; <br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>14-05-2013, 08:39:28</strong>
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				<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>&nbsp; August 11, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Onneca<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha spun faster keeping her hips just out of reach of the pirouetting Onneca.&nbsp; A kaleidoscope of silks and cottons whirled in vertiginous color before her.&nbsp; She brushed insistent fingers from her waist as they danced comically around one another batting and swatting until…<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<em>Slap!</em><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha stopped spinning and tattered skirts flapped against Onneca’s legs trying to continue their little dance.&nbsp; Agatha’s eyes grew wide for a moment as they met the shocked expression on Onneca’s face.&nbsp; For a moment there was quite, like two gunmen meeting at high noon and then a flailing of fingers and hands flapping at her.&nbsp; She defended herself valiantly giggling at the assault and buffeting blows, turning her head and swatting back with little thwacks of her own until Onneca collapsed in a fit of giggles.&nbsp; Agatha stood breathless asking her question playfully.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Her eyes widened when Onneca loosed her apron and pushed it into her hands, a feint Agatha thought would lead to another playful assault.&nbsp; When she realized it was not, she dropped the skirt to the floor and made a lighthearted lunge for her now fleeing assailant.&nbsp; She recovered in time to see a blouse drifting to the floor and hear phantom words on the warm afternoon breeze.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; “Onny!” She called. “In the shop, people can see!”&nbsp; &nbsp;She stood shocked and surprised for a moment before she giggled and quickly unhooked her shredded skirt letting it pool around her silk sheathed legs.&nbsp; Agatha’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of her busk as her feet fumbled to be rid of the tangling skirts.&nbsp; She felt a button pop, her corset to tight to be opened by busk without damaging it, but she cared little, the dress was ruined anyway so she worked the busk open and tugged and pulled the corset free.&nbsp; Free from the constricting device Agatha took a big breath as freedom filled her lungs.&nbsp; She stood in naught but a billowy chemise and ruffled bloomers from which rich silken stockings sprouted.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp;“¿Dónde estás, Onnecita?” She called in a sing-songy voice, Irish accent and all.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Outside the dark safety of the room the shop had gone quiet.&nbsp; Agatha’s coppery head popped out from behind the curtain fearing someone had walked in. “Onny?” she called questioningly.&nbsp; A ball of steaming ribbon bounced off the curtain next to her.&nbsp; “Hey!” She jumped in surprise as another one slapped the curtain above and dropped onto her head.&nbsp; “Not fair!” She cried in mock indignity hearing a giggle in answer.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I am under attack.&nbsp; The Pirate Queen off the starboard bow!” She laughed and ducked down an aisle for safety as streams of colors began to fall in earnest.&nbsp; Agatha’s silken feet found little traction on the polished floor of the Bodega and little feet slipped and slid down the aisle, merry laughter ruining any chances of a stealthy approach.&nbsp; She did however find a rack of baskets filled with fluffy yarn wads, perfect for a counter assault.&nbsp; &nbsp;Aggy poked her head up quickly seeing nothing of her friend.&nbsp; She lobbed a ball of yarn then another and another until she heard a little squeak and laughter, the game was afoot and no string or streamer or soft fluffy projectile was to be spared.&nbsp; It was a losing battle to be sure.&nbsp; Agatha was fighting on Onneca’s home battlefield an while her friend was not nearly that accurate Agatha soon found herself slipping off a garter and waiving it as sign of surrender.&nbsp; She popped her ribbon bedecked hair and shoulders up over the shelf she was hiding behind.<br>&nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Parlay!” She called laughing “Parley.” <br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>15-05-2013, 00:04:24</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/7e/Ginny_07a.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening, One hour later<br><strong>Location:</strong> Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, John Templeton<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It was funny.&nbsp; Ginny had never thought of herself as a very religious person.&nbsp; Sure, she attended Mass every Sunday and even went to confessional once a month like a good girl but she wasn't all that willing to buy into the thought of a higher power.&nbsp; In her experience, people tended to do what they wanted and would suffer the consequences of their actions.&nbsp; No, church-going was a means to an end; after all, she had appearances to keep up with in town to some extent.&nbsp; When her mother came visiting, Ginny didn't want to find herself in the unenviable position of needing to explain why she had been foregoing her devotionals.&nbsp; That and it was fun to dress up on occasion and parade around for a few hours in the finest of silks while twirling a little parasol before going back to her comfortable cowboy duds, gambling, and drinking whiskey.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;I mean, a girl needed something to confess, right?&nbsp; Otherwise, she'd imagine it would get quite boring for the priest listening on the other side.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Yet her mind was whirling, recalling a familiar and loved passage of Scripture known by the devout everywhere.&nbsp; As the knife came out and she feared for her virtue and perhaps her life, Ginny recalled the first line.&nbsp; It was something her mother read to her before she went to bed at night while she was still living in Georgia.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <span style="font-size: 12pt;" class="bbc_size"><span style="font-family: georgia;" class="bbc_font"><em>The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...</em></span></span><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She felt the cold steel against her chest, her skin prickling, as it tore apart her chemise like it wasn't even there.&nbsp; Exposing her fully before the beast before her.&nbsp; And Ginny resisted the urge to scream again as she bit her bottom lip.&nbsp; After all, who would hear?&nbsp; Townsend was right; no one was going to be coming to her rescue.&nbsp; She was down in a dark pit, far away from the protection her name afforded her.&nbsp; Chances were she was about to be raped and if she were lucky, that was the worst thing that would happen to her.&nbsp; Yet while she understood that, the verses came racing through her mind like a babbling waterfall.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<span style="font-size: 12pt;" class="bbc_size"><span style="font-family: georgia;" class="bbc_font"><em>He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters...</em></span></span><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And as John Templeton stabbed down, Ginny froze in fear.&nbsp; Certain that he was intending to cut her.&nbsp; But no, he was just making it so she couldn't close her legs against his unwelcome intrusions even as she felt her undergarments tear.&nbsp; The punch to her exposed midriff was enough to double her over as she opened her mouth as a gasping cough escaped as her bile rose, but then the torn and wadded garments were shoved between her lips.&nbsp; Letting her taste the dirt of the floor, her sweat, and her fear.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<em><span style="font-size: 12pt;" class="bbc_size"><span style="font-family: georgia;" class="bbc_font">He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake </span></span></em><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; As the belt was tightened around her face, cutting a bit into her jaw, the tears began to come.&nbsp; At first, they were a tiny trickle, a small crack in that confident demeanor, as they filled her large green eyes.&nbsp; Then, they began to trickle down in big, fat drops, staining her cheeks as she gave a muffled sob between the makeshift gag, turning her head to the side.&nbsp; Trying to get away from Townsend as he began to grope at her exposed breasts.&nbsp; As she felt him trace down her taut stomach.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <em><span style="font-size: 12pt;" class="bbc_size"><span style="font-family: georgia;" class="bbc_font">Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.</span></span></em><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; She could feel his callused hands tracing her soft, pampered skin.&nbsp; Skin which was quite inexperienced when it came to the matters of the flesh.&nbsp; Because for all her bravado and bluster, Ginny really didn't know much.&nbsp; After all, she had been saving herself for marriage like any other woman would have done in this day and age.&nbsp; She tried to clench her thighs, but couldn't, knowing that the cold steel was close as she freshly sobbed some more as her nose also began to run a bit.&nbsp; Her head was beginning to freshly pound again as she felt nauseous, but she didn't dare get sick, realizing that it would not end well for her, gagged as she was.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Instead, she simply prepared herself for the worst.&nbsp; Even as she uttered a wordless prayer to God, a god, any god, to come and save her from this hell that she found herself in.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>15-05-2013, 00:50:10</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/c/c0/Ginny_Avatar-01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> December 14th, 1875 (Approximately six months before game start)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Casino Morongo<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Deacon Sloane<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;There were wolves in sheep's clothing.&nbsp; &nbsp;And then there were simply wolves.&nbsp; While Ginny might have fancied herself as one of the former, she also understood that Deacon Sloane was one of the latter.&nbsp; The owner of the Casino Morongo, nothing ever escaped his watchful eye.&nbsp; In fact, the young Whateley was a bit put out he hadn't stepped in earlier.&nbsp; No doubt he had seen the whole thing and had just wanted to see what would happen and how she would react to everything.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Even now, a dangerous game was being played.&nbsp; On the surface, Mr. Sloane was being a true gentleman.&nbsp; He was letting her get her nerve back and offering her a handkerchief.&nbsp; However, his grip was like iron on her other arm and as he pressed the cloth into her hand, the one with the torn sleeve, and lifted it to dab at the bloody nose she had received their eyes met.&nbsp; And Ginny knew in that instant she was busted.&nbsp; She could see it in his eye as&nbsp; her heart really began to pound--the damning weight of the dagger hidden in her sleeve leaving like a brick that would drag her straight to Hell.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She was tempted to jerk her arm away from him angrily, playing up her attitude.&nbsp; After all, he was intruding on her personal space in a very invasive, abrasive way.&nbsp; But the damage had been done.&nbsp; This close, she could feel the brush of his stubble against her cheek, could feel the fine tobacco that he had been smoking earlier, the malted whiskey he had enjoyed.&nbsp; Deacon Sloane was as close, or even closer than the Collector was, but this time, Ginny was not inclined to do what she had just done.&nbsp; It would never work in this case.&nbsp; He wasn't taken in by her guise.&nbsp; A wolf in sheep's clothing would never be able to beat a wolf.&nbsp; If so, what need would there have been for the sheep's clothing?<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Still, there was little choice but to bluff for all she was worth.&nbsp; <strong>"Thank yuh kindly, Misttuh Sloane,"</strong>&nbsp; Ginny lied smoothly even as she delicately dabbed at her nose some more, returning to the table.&nbsp; Still staring at the chinaman and Bold Bill.&nbsp; <strong>"Ah'm sorry tah keep ya'll waitin', gentlemen,"</strong> she remarked even as the fresh cards were dealt.&nbsp; And as the glass of cold water was brought, she gave a wide smile to the waitress serving it as she indicated it could be placed next to her.&nbsp; <strong>"Thank yuh, sweetie-pie,"</strong> she said politely, the perfect picture of southern manners before she turned her full attention to the game, her face somber and focused as the cards came out.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;And it was obvious that the young Whateley still had not regained her form.&nbsp; After the flop, which showed a five, six, and eight, and a round of large bets from both Bold Bill and the chinaman and then the 'Turn' where the fourth card was an jack of diamonds, and finally at the 'River' which was a deuce of clubs, Ginny accidentally flashed a card from her hidden pair.&nbsp; It was subtle, the glint of the glass of water reflecting a seven of hearts to both the chinaman and Bold Bill as they both promptly folded after Ginny raised the group one hundred thousand coolly.&nbsp; No doubt suspecting that the young Whateley had gotten the 'nuts' on the flop and had a straight draw with her other card being nine.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Except that was a lie.&nbsp; A big fat lie.&nbsp; Ginny had a six of hearts for a pair of sixes.&nbsp; But she knew the chinaman had gotten an ace for one of his two and Bold Bill had both a deuce and an eight for two pair.&nbsp; In truth, her hand was the lowest, but her subtle use of misdirection won big for her.&nbsp; Both of them were still operating under the assumption that she was '<em>shaken up</em>' and couldn't play straight.&nbsp; And before they realized their mistake, it would be far too late as Virginia Mary Lou Whateley would reel off the next six games in a row as the cards and everything seemed to turn her way, her earlier unlucky spell having been swallowed up at a massive tidal wave of good fortune.&nbsp; Almost casually, she took them like one of the yellow coolies would bring a load of laundry to Fu Leng's, cleaning them out of the rest of their fortunes in short order.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; In fact, both of them still couldn't believe the final hand as Ginny flipped her next pair over, showing an ace of spades and Jack of diamonds, off-suit as she did have the straight draw this time to beat a three of a kind and a two pair.&nbsp; And with that, Virginia Mary Lou Whateley became one of the most singularly, richest people in Gomorra.&nbsp; Piles of golden eagles and ghostrock and who knew what other wealth.&nbsp; Though it hadn't been the wealth, Ginny had been seeking in the game.&nbsp; What she had been looking for, she couldn't say.&nbsp; But she did feel as if she had finally found it as she poured herself a shot of whiskey and downed it in triumph.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Both Bold Bill and the chinamen were thanked by the Casino for so generously donating their life-savings before they were unceremoniously dumped outside the doors.&nbsp; The early morning upon them, two former kings had become two paupers.&nbsp; Destitute and desolate, they stumbled along to their unknown fate.&nbsp; A cynic would have noted that whatever luck the Collector possessed earlier, it now seemed firmly in Ginny's hands.&nbsp; Along with whatever other luck the other two gamblers had also possessed.&nbsp; Supporting that old wives' tale about how gamblers would '<strong>eat</strong>' one another's luck at the table.&nbsp; &nbsp;Though those were simply old wives' tales.&nbsp; No one believed them.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<em>Right</em>?<br><br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Ginny was alone at the bar, nursing a drink of whiskey and ice.&nbsp; Her bloody nose had long since stopped though the young Whateley still kept the handkerchief close at hand.&nbsp; And without bothering to turn around, she knew that Deacon Sloane was nearby.&nbsp; The money had long keep divvied up; the men guarding the event had been paid and of course, Sloane had gotten his big, fat cut.&nbsp; In a little while, Ginny would be packing up the rest and hiring a dozen or so to help her carry her lockbox away.&nbsp; Then, it would be wise to deposit a good amount of this with the First Bank as soon as possible.&nbsp; Before someone started getting funny ideas.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Sipping at her whiskey and feeling it burn, Ginny half-turned to keep Sloane in the corner of her eye.&nbsp; And despite the large amount of alcohol imbibed, she wasn't drunk.&nbsp; Not like she had been earlier.&nbsp; Instead, she refilled her glass and sipped it again.&nbsp; Seemingly content to be in complete silence, an odd contrast to someone who was known for being such a talker.&nbsp; The torn sleeve had been carefully tied in her free time, though the blouse was still undoubtedly ruined.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Though it seemed as if Deacon Sloane was good at the quiet game too.&nbsp; Much better than Ginny at least.&nbsp; So after about half a minute or so, Ginny broke the silence first.&nbsp; <strong>"So..."</strong> her tone was drawled out, acting slurred like she was drunk.&nbsp; <strong>"Wot did'yuh want?"</strong>&nbsp; Nice and innocent.&nbsp; Sweet and perfectly vulnerable.&nbsp; Still wearing the lambskin close to her own.&nbsp; Ginny wasn't quite willing to drop the ruse just yet.&nbsp; 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Wulfspire</strong> on <strong>18-05-2013, 19:16:52</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://[url=http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/20/Christian_Bale_Cowboy_3.jpg]http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/20/Christian_Bale_Cowboy_3.jpg[/url])</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Christian Specter, Wallace Carmichael<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>1865<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Overtime<br><strong>Location:</strong> Tombstone, Arizona<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed.<br><hr><br>Wallace Carmichael was getting old. He knew it, his friends knew it, and his congregation knew it. As he stood finishing his sermon he was grasping the oaken pulpit more than normal, steadying his form. He had built that pulpit with his own hands three years ago when he settled in Tombstone, Arizona. Now, just the thought of working with a hammer made his arthritis flare in his hands. Sundays were always the worst.<div class="floatright">(http://[url=http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/28/Captain_call.jpg]http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/28/Captain_call.jpg[/url])</div> <br><br>“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,” Wallace spoke, his Scottish accent picking through despite years spent west of the Mississippi river. His voice was weary, and some of his congregation, small as it was, looked on him with concern. Still he tapped his Bible in rhythm to his speaking. “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.” <br><br>Wallace spoke parts of the Sermon on the Mount without looking to his Bible in front of him, the Beatitudes etched into his mind years ago. His congregation of fifteen was dutiful Baptists who had been missing a Pastor when Wallace and his friends had strolled into town five years ago. He told his friends that God called him here, and it was time they parted ways. They were sad to see him go, especially Nicholas, but Wallace was adamant. It was time he retired from their life and went back to preaching.<br><br>The words he spoke, however, were not for his congregation. His sermon was for the young man who had stepped into the sanctuary shortly after services began. Wallace had grimaced upon seeing him at first, though not just because he recognized the lad, but also because of how rough he looked. He was dirty from head to toe looking exhausted, starving, and suffering from exposure. To the lad’s credit, he sat patiently while Wallace preached, though the ice-cold stare told Wallace he was right. <br><br><em>That is definitely Nick’s boy.</em><br><br>His sermon lasted another hour and a half, and he spoke on seeking God’s Kingdom through charitable acts, fear of the Lord, and forgiving those that wronged you. He never looked at the lad directly, worried it might spook him, but the words were meant for him regardless. With his sermon over, services let out and the congregation went to break bread with one another. Wallace excused himself from the fellowship politely, speaking of urgent chores needing done on his ranch. <br><br>The lad did not show up until that evening. Wallace had been unsaddling his horse after a long afternoon of work with his small herd of stallions and mares. He ran a barely profitable horse ranch outside Tombstone, his income supplemented by the pay from the congregation he was able to live comfortably, or as comfortably as a man with a guilty conscience could live. Wallace heard him coming yards away, but gave no indication. He waited to acknowledge the lad when he felt the cold iron press against his back, and the soft click of the hammer being pulled back echoed in his ears.<br><br>“Now,” Wallace spoke slowly, calmly, but did not move, “don’t ya be doin’ anyting hasty, lad.”<br><br>“Why did you do it?” the boy spoke, his voice dry, husky, and deep despite his young age. The question was punctuated by a sharp poke with the revolver the kid held.<br><br>“If you be lookin’ for the bastard that killed yer father, yer lookin’ at the wrong man,” Wallace spoke slowly, fear never touching his voice. He realized now why the boy was here, and he cursed himself a fool for not seeing it sooner.<br><br>“More like the wrong direction,” the voice that spoke was raspy, almost tinny, and punctuated immediately by the bark of a gun. The bullet came from behind the lad, though he turned just in time to take it in the shoulder instead of the back. There the boy saw the true source of his pain, the damnable Man in Black. Through the pain all he could see was the Man’s form, his features obscured by his eyes welling and the overwhelming urge to sleep.<br><br>The next few moments were a blur to the boy. All he could remember was Wallace and the Man exchanging unpleasant words before he saw what must have been impossible. The Man fired again at Wallace who seemed to ignore it and just knelt beside the boy, lips murmuring a prayer of some kind. Every shot missed which was miraculous considering the distance was only a handful of yards. Wallace never stopped his prayer, even as he picked up the gun the boy had dropped and fired back. The boy blacked out then.<br><br>___________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br><br>The room Christian woke up in was a small one, though Wallace would later comment it was cozy, not small. His shoulder felt like it was on fire, and he remembered what had happened. Before he could so much as sit up, Wallace was sitting at his bedside, calmly but firmly holding him down.<br><br>“Lad, you’ll need a bit more rest a’fore ya try ta kill me again,” the preacher said gently, a smirk on his face, “lay back now, I’ll get ya somfin ta eat. I’d bet me left leg you’re starvin’.”<br><br>Christian admitted the man was right. He was hungrier than he had ever been in his life. The phrase so hungry he could eat horse did not seem to quite apply; he was hungry enough to eat the herd. Christian’s shirt was off him, but he saw it hanging by the fire, washed and drying, it had a new hole to it in the shoulder. Christian realized he should have one too.<br><br>His hand went to his shoulder and he found no wound, no bandage, just an inexplicable, agonizing burning where it should have been. All of it was impossible, miraculous, even maddening. Christian by all rights should be dead right now, and from what he could remember, so should the man who was caring for him. The man he had approached with intent to ventilate. <br><br>The smell of the stew cooking made his stomach growl, roaring loud enough for Wallace to catch. The preacher chuckled, and finished fixing him a bowl and brought him some corn bread to go with it. After handing Christian the meal, he sat on the end of the bed and watched him eat. Christian found the entire situation awkward at first, and then realized the look the old man was giving him was one just like his father used to give him when he was worried about him.<br><br>“Hurts like hell, but I’ll be fine,” Christian said, his voice returning to him slowly as he filled his gullet. He ate so quickly, and with such abandon, much of it found its way to his chin and chest, but Christian did not seem to mind. “Did you kill him? How am I alive? How did you save me?”<br><br>“Jesus saves, lad,” Wallace said with a cryptic smile, knowing just how enigmatically frustrating that sentence had been. He patted Christian’s knee and stood again. The old man moved to the door where a well-made duster and beautiful Stetson hat waited. “I be havin’ some chores ta be doin’ lad. When ya feel up to it, I could use some help.”<br><br>Christian nodded slowly, still eating. When he was alone, the only thing he could think about was how he and the preacher had survived. He had caught wind of the Man in Black heading into Tombstone, all the way from Texas, and it made him assume that was where he lived. After some digging, Christian had discovered an old friend of his father’s lived in Tombstone, a preacher, and he had assumed that must be his Man. He was wrong, and it almost cost him his life, and the life of the preacher. That certainly put a foul taste in his mouth, despite the deliciousness of the stew.<br><br><em>Time to make up for that.</em> <br><br>Christian spent the next weeks with Wallace Carmichael, learning to take care of the horses, attending church, and discovering that Wallace Carmichael was a good man. Christian had hoped his father was also a good man, though he knew Wallace better now than he had ever known his late father. Despite dozens of attempts to learn more about him, Wallace refused to discuss Nicholas Specter. Christian could not get him to give more details.<br><br>After Christian had spent a long time cleaning stalls, feeding the animals, and watching everything Wallace did learning all the while, the old preacher finally took him out hunting with him. Ranching was as much about new stock as it was about taking care of your current stable of animals, Wallace had told him. Now, they were out looking for more wild horses to bring home. <br><br>Wallace was an expert hunter, Christian had discovered. He could spot trail signs from what seemed miles away with but a hope and a prayer, though Wallace always emphasized the latter was the most important. Before the sun had risen to noon, they were riding behind a herd of almost twenty horses, and the preacher already had his lariat at the ready. Christian followed suit, and then they were off. One after another they lassoed the horses together, bringing them into a tight circle between the two of them. <br><br>Laughing, hollering, and yelling playful insults and hearty congratulations to one another as men often did after a successful, tiring adventure, the two drove the herd back to the pens at Wallace’s place. Christian realized that this man, whom he had set out to kill two months ago, was becoming more like his father than his actual father ever had. Upon returning to the ranch, Wallace gave Christian a very big responsibility. It was his turn to break in the horses to the saddle.<br><br>Christian had never done this before, even at his father’s cattle ranch back in Texas, he had never been allowed atop a wild stallion. His mother would not allow it. Now, however, Wallace was entrusting the entire new herd to Christian, and he swelled with pride at the thought. He hopped the fence and without much trouble managed to saddle one of the horses. Once he mounted, however, he discovered things would not be so easy. Within moments the horse was bucking and jumping so wildly it threw Christian to the ground, which Christian responded to with a grunt and a curse at the beast.<br><br>“Horses, lad,” Wallace hollered at him, “are like a good woman. They require a lot of attention, a lot of patience, and all the stamina Heaven can give you. That applies in and out of the bedroom, mind ya.” Wallace gave him a wink and sent back to the task at hand. <br><br>A dozen attempts later, Christian had finally broken the stallion. He also gained a black eye, and bumps and bruises across his entirety that would not be going away any time soon. Wallace told him that was God’s way of reminding him of his lessons. With every horse, Christian was thrown less and less, until with the final mare he broke her in the first try. <br><br>Several days came and went before Wallace decided it was time for Christian to learn to shoot, but found a surprise in the deadeye that the boy already possessed. He could hit a tin can off a fence post at three hundred yards with a cold barrel weapon, and keep that same can dancing in the air for twelve shots between two pistols. He was also incredibly fast, almost too fast for what seemed possible, on the draw. <br><br>After performing this feat, Christian looked to Wallace with a grin but found only a concerned frown on the man’s face. Christian would not let the matter go, and finally Wallace revealed a bit about Nicholas Specter, Christian’s father.<br><br>“He was the best shot I had ever seen in me life. He could kill a man at a thousand yards with nothin’ but a moment and his rifle. I dare say you’re a mite better, Christian, and it is a bit spooky,” the old man said, and Christian again swelled with pride, but the preacher still did not look happy. “That skill got’m an early grave, lad. I think it might do the same ta you if ya aren’t careful. “<br><br>“Stop yer worryin’, old man,” Christian said with a smile, trying to calm the preacher down from a moment of regret, “Ya got the Lord on yer side, don’t yah?”<br><br>“That I do son, but I’m afraid you don’t,” Wallace said, sadness touching every syllable. “I got word on the Man. He hired some men to kill you, to kill me. I suspect they’ll be here in the next few days.”<br><br>“What?! Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Christian exclaimed, hurt, anger, and fear filling him simultaneously.<br><br>“My plan was ta send ya off lookin’ for more horses. The men would come, find but me, what would happen would happen, and you would be safe, lad,” Wallace spoke of tricking Christian without a hint of regret or remorse. “But, now, I suspect ya’d go after them men just like the Man in Black. I wouldn’t be doin’ ya any favors that way.”<br><br>The revelation of Wallace trying to steer him away from vengeance did not come as a surprise to Christian. Over the last weeks Wallace had even come to preaching to him on forgiveness and turning the other cheek. None of those lessons had stuck. Christian could not even hold it against the man; he was just trying to protect him, just like his father had done when the Man had showed up at their family home.<br><br>“Yer concern is appreciated,” Christian finally said, nodding once, “but tagether, I don’t reckon them bastards got a chance.”<br><br>“We’ll see, son,” Wallace patted Christian on the shoulder as he passed, “We’ll see.”<br><br>___________________________________________________________________________________________________________<br><br>It was a quiet Sunday in October of 1865, the 8th in fact. Wallace and Christian were making their way to the little chapel Wallace held service in. The town was very quiet that morning, and for good reason. Everyone in town knew the five strange men in town were there for violence. A humming bird was the only motion that either Christian or Wallace could see. <br><br>The local tailor was a fan of hummingbirds, and even built a feeder for the things to attract them to his shop. What that really did was attract a lot of pretty women to the shop with whom he might “assist” in trying on a dress or two. Wallace, and by extension Christian, did not socialize much with that man. Today, only one bird visited the feeder.<br><br>The wings of a humming bird flap at an incredible rate, Wallace had told Christian a few weeks ago when they first started appearing before fall really set in. Most of the birds flap their wings at more than a dozen times per second, the preacher had taught him. They were discussing the creation and God’s role in why they were all there.<br><br>“God created all of this for us, designing an amazing world for us to live in, with wondrous things to see,” Wallace had told him. Christian nodded and listened, but more out of respect to the old man than out of any belief. If God was there, Christian had decided the day his father died, then he was a cold-hearted bastard. “God has a plan for all of us, even if that plan is like Him, very mysterious.”<br><br>Wallace knew about the ambush a moment before it happened. Perhaps it was intuition, perhaps it was a whisper from the Almighty, but either way it saved Christian’s life. The old man grabbed Christian sharply by the wrist as he spouted off a prayer. Then the shots rang out.&nbsp; A dozen rang out in near unison and lead flew at the pair before Christian really knew what was coming.<br><br>Christian did not feel a thing, though he fully expected that same burning sensation he felt the first time he talked with Wallace, when the Man had shot him. Instead, his friend, his mentor, was covered in wounds. Somehow, all of the shots fired at the two of them had been pulled or attracted to Wallace, and he crumpled to the ground and on to his back, eyes blinking and lungs taking in its final breaths. <br><br>Time seemed to slow as the wings of the hummingbird flapped once.<br><br>Christian spun on his left heel, his pistol erupting from its holster into his hand. Those bastards were going to pay.<br><br>Flap.<br><br>The hammer of the revolver was slapped back three times as Christian held the trigger held down. Three men who had stepped around corners as the pair had passed earlier fell to the ground, gaping holes in their stomachs.<br><br>Flap.<br><br>The other two lowered their weapons to begin reloading, the beginnings of a curse erupting from their mouths at their empty cylinders.<br><br>Flap.<br><br>Christian slapped the hammer back again, another shot erupting from his weapon. The bullet tore into the man’s throat, throwing him backwards off his feet. Again, Christian’s palm collided with his weapon and it barked again, catching the last man in the shoulder.<br><br>Walter Carmichael lay motionless on the ground. Through the pain, and ragged breaths, he whispered final words that no one would hear, “Forgive him, Father, he knows not what he does.”<br><br>Christian reloaded his weapon slowly, now, as four of the men lay on their backs groaning in pain. When he had finished, he walked to each in turn and kicked their faces to the side, holding them there with his boot. He was tired of the pain, tired of losing people, and tired of those that wronged him getting away with it. He let loose another round on the men’s faces, ripping their visages asunder ensuring an open casket was definitely not in their future. Christian, in a single moment, was no longer just a tool of vengeance, he was now revenge incarnate. <br><br>Days later, after a funeral service was held for the late pastor of Tombstone Baptist Church, Christian walked out of the tailor shop. The old man’s duster and Stetson stitched and repaired, looking like new. The tailor was uncomfortable with the job, but his fear of the man who had gunned down five men in front of his store ensured the work was done to the best of his ability. He had paid the gunsmith for a fine piece of work as well, a brand new pistol.<br><br>Christian left Tombstone that day, duster and Stetson snug in place, memories of a man that had tried to protect him. There was no protection for Christian, though, the Lord had seen to that. There was only vengeance. There was only justice. He made a final stop by Wallace Carmichael’s grave, the slab of stone marking it reading, “He lived by Faith, and walked with Thee.” <br><br>As Christian rode out of town, a voice in his head whispered to him softly, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the children of God.”<br><br>“I know, old man,” Christian said as he patted the gun at his side, “I know.”
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Mister Grimm</strong> on <strong>20-05-2013, 03:46:10</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/70/Alexworkingdoomtown.png)</div><br><br><hr>Name: Alexander Valentine<br>Faction: None<br>Date: April 24th, 1876<br>Time of Day: Late Evening<br>Location: New Moon Saloon<br>Tagged: Annabel Montgomery [Closed]<br><hr> <br><br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Darkness blanketed Gomorra tonight as the moon stayed hidden in the sky, which meant that Alex had trouble making his way from his shop at the outskirts of the city to the - amusingly enough - New Moon Saloon. While he wasn't a superstitious man by any measure, it didn't stop him from wondering if he was inviting bad luck by visiting such a place on a night like tonight. He noted that a few older men were squabbling about it when he entered as well, but he paid them little mind after his initial observation and scanned the area for a place to seat. It took him longer than he would have liked, but there was little point in griping about&nbsp; it on account of the place being packed. The New Moon Saloon was one of the more affordable places in town and the stuff they sold, while not great, wasn't too bad either. So it was only reasonable that they seemed to make good business even if more than a handful of them were drunks and old leeches. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Once Alex was finally settled on his seat at the counter, he flagged down one of the barmaids so he could order his drink and pulled out a small leather-bound journal from his work pants to sketch in while he waited. He figured it would take some time before he got any service - one of the downfalls of going out on a busy night - but he was in no real rush. Well, that wasn't true. The trip back home would only get increasingly more difficult the longer he stayed there tonight and the more he had to drink, but the man had more than earned the night off after toiling around in his workshop for a better part of the day. If that meant going home piss drunk and stumbling around in the night, then so be it. Unless, of course, he just got a room at a cheap inn for the night. While he knew he could handle the drunken stumbling, he wasn't very confidant that he could combat a flight of stairs while inebriated without <em>some</em> assistance. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Most of the night seemed to pass (or drag on, rather) without incident, but it wasn't busy night until the sound of breaking glass cut through the rabble of the saloon. The cacophony ceased for nothing more than a long moment as most heads turned to investigate the noise, but like guppies in a glass bowl of water, the crowd rapidly lost interest and returned to what they were originally doing. Aside from Alex, of course. His light blue eyes stayed focused on the group of men that were centered around the source of the momentary interruption, the tip of his charcoal pencil pressed harshly against the piece of parchment he was sketching on and marred the image slightly. He hadn't noticed until he turned back to the sketch, at which he frowned and flipped to the other side before looking back at the group.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; The men in question had lewd looks on their faces as they harassed the staff, but it was too loud in the saloon and they were too far away for Alex to even make out anything that they said. One man - perhaps the head of the bunch - had black hair and reminded him of a gorilla he saw once in a New York zoo that he took Annette too when she was younger, while another was balding, hunched over and possessed a sharply hooked nose and an almost&nbsp; nonexistent chin. Alex likened him to the vultures that circled high overhead the mesas whenever there was a carrion feast to be had. The last had scrunched up features, beady eyes, a nub of a nose and a slight overbite that made Alex think of him as a rat. Alex smirked to himself as he half-turned on the barstool so that he could draw them as the animals they reminded him of, but made sure to not focus on them in case they noticed and came over to start something with him as well. While he was already on his third -almost fourth since it was almost empty - mug of alcohol, he was still sober enough to know that no good would come from getting too involved with them. Probably. Things could change that of course, and alcohol was one of those things. 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>25-05-2013, 17:30:38</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 22, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> London<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed<br><hr> <br><br>Sometimes you just know not to catch a man's eye.<br><br>Walter Sinnet was one of those men. He was young, dirty and ragged but even so people knew to cross the street when he came their way. It wasn't anything they could put their finger on... Walter looked like any other rag-a-muffin who scrambled his way through the back streets of London, all tattered clothes, dirty faces and filthy, grime-encrusted, cracked nails. No, it was something that they couldn't quite verbalise, couldn't quite explain. A sense... yes, that was a good term... a sense perhaps, a sense that this was a young man who would not be trifled with, would not take a perceived insult lightly, one who could snap at the slightest provocation. A sense of imminent danger, imminent risk, that there would be no mercy from this man, no pity and no real thought of the consequences. Even those who considered themselves tough, even those who considered themselves dangerous, even they took care when Walter walked down the street.<br><br>For his part Walter didn't pay any mind to this or even really notice it. He was as happy as a man like him could be. His face ached, dull pain throbbing through him whenever he tried to move his jaw. Beyond that were the sharp shooting pains from the cuts that adorned his face, the large one on his right eyebrow still dripping blood, the rough stitches having already split. Walter had been sloppy, not lowering his head at the right time, leaving himself open to a butt from his opponent that had caused him to see stars and have to desperately hold on for a few moments as he cleared his head. Any sour memories however were quelled by the jingle of coin in Walter's purse. The London Prize Ring may have been no place for soft men but it was one that offered good rewards to those who succeeded. Walter had already feasted on roast beef, drank his bodyweight in beer and tumbled a whore who had all her teeth and he still had more coin than he could ever recall.<br><br>Walter hadn't been meant to win this bout. John “Fisticuffs” Banner was a known man in the Fancy, the loose fraternity of boxers. He was not a champion and never appeared likely to become one but he was a solid boxer who knew every trick in the book, had heavy hands and experience of stepping in with the best. For the last few months he had been putting on a weekly exhibition in the back room of the White Hart. A man could pay a small fee and venture a few coppers and see if they could last a turn of the glass with Banner. None had been able to so far. And the thought of trying to beat Banner? He wasn't just a fighter, he was a boxer; he understood the art behind the brutality. He knew how to form a fist, how to tuck his chin, how to roll with a punch, how to hammer the body till the opponent dropped his hands and then loop a shot up to his jaw. And yes, how to butt, how to gouge, how to wrestle, how to grind. A man could be undefeated in dozens of bar brawls and still be like a child when in the ring with a man like Banner.<br><br>Walter hadn't given a toss.<br><br>The London Prize Ring was not a place with no knowledge of corruption or deceit but there was no hidden motive behind Walter's decision to box that night. He'd been in a few boxing bouts before, small affairs in even less well appointed locations than the White Hart, against people with more alcohol in their system then sense. He knew what he was doing but it hadn't been a plan. He'd simply had a few bevies and fancied a bit of a brawl. And unlike most nights when he figured on throwing some fists if he stepped into the back room with Banner there would be no landlord chasing him with a heavy club, no blue bottles coming after him in the streets. So he'd paid his coins, intimidated his drinking companions into paying some more on him and then stuck a few more on the fact he'd not only last a turn of the glass but he'd knock Banner out. The bookie, a small, crooked man, teeth stained yellow with tobacco had looked at the young man before him and smiled, happy to take the pup's money. Walter had seen the doubt in his eyes but paid it no heed. He just wanted to fight and as far as he was concerned once two men raised their fists there was no man who could match him. Perhaps it was just a young man's bravado but he truly believed it.<br><br>The first few seconds of the bout did nothing to change Walter's opinion. Banner had come cannoning in, doubtless confident that this lean young man before him would simply crumble before the assault. Walt had grinned and slipped to the side, countering with a sharp jab to the face which snapped Banner's head back. Walter's grin only grew as he saw the anger in Banner's face. And then the two got down to business.<br><br>In some parts of London the sport of boxing had moved beyond bareknuckle fighting. In those bouts the participants wore gloves, thick leather encasing their hands. This wasn't to protect their opponent. It was to protect their own fists. In the bareknuckle prize ring any boxer worth their salt knew to duck their head as an opponent punched at their chin, trying to make the opponent end up punching his skull. Now, that may give the boxer a headache... but if the opponent's broken his knuckles then he's got it a damn sight worse. The end result of this was that bareknuckle and gloved bouts had vastly different tactics and played out in completely different ways. Not able to rely on flurrying punches to a opponents chin bareknuckle bouts were a drawn out, brutal affair with boxers aiming sickening body shots into each others ribs and gut, trying to suck the wind out of them, trying to break their will, to make them quit. That's not to say that they didn't punch to the head but a man had to be careful and pick his shots. And well, just because you couldn't punch didn't mean you couldn't give someone a nice Glasgow Kiss to the face.<br><br>Banner was the bigger man and he used his size and weight well, grappling with Walter, trying to weaken him,wear him down, his bulk behind every one of his shots. Walter could feel the air sucked from him every time one of those hurtful blows landed, could feel himself wince and gasp. He was getting his own licks in though, using his speed to box around Banner, slipping away and ripping his own counter shots in, relying on his footwork and agility to hurt Banner without getting pinned down.<br><br>And he knew he was going to win.<br><br>It wasn't easy. Despite his best efforts Banner had managed to stalk him down a few times, trapping him against the edge of the room and hammering his body. Walt could feel each breath coming with more difficulty, could feel a fire in his lungs. He faced was a mess from the times he'd been butted, his legs were weak from the constant movement and having to carry Banner's weight and his arms were like lead. But he could feel Banner's own punches lose some of their snap, see his pursuit lose its steam, watch a slight doubt and confusion appear in his eyes.<br><br>And it was that doubt and confusion that Walter honed in on.<br><br>Banner was a bully. Walter recognised this because he was a bully himself. But Walt was a bully who had crawled up from the gutter, who had been forced to fight and scrap for the right to even call himself a bully. Banner had been born a bully, always bigger than the rest, always stronger. He'd never had to truly fight to be a bully, never had to rely on anything but his physical gifts. He'd spent the last few weeks boxing day labourers and sailors, men with an idea on how to fight but not idea how to box. Men who would collapse at the first body shot, who would leave their chin hanging out just waiting for a huge hook to spear into it. Walter was not one of them. He knew how to fight and he knew how to box and he knew how to keep going. You could break his body but you couldn't break his mind and each shot Banner landed just angered him more. Banner had hit him with his best shots but Walter was still there and still grinning, his heart filled with a fierce, singing bloodlust. Walter Sinnet had very few moments of happiness in his life, even the transient joys of whisky and whores being more about slaking his anger and hatred then about real happiness. But when he was happy... or at least closest to happy... he could normally be found in a fight, in a brawl.<br><br>The end when it came was chilling, quick and brutal.<br><br>Banner lumbered forward, his right hand sweeping round with a lunging, wide hook to the body. Walter danced to the side, the punch missing by a mere inch or so and immediately countered with his own chopping left hook, driving it deep into Banner's guts as the larger man was still extended out (http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2012/11/25/article-0-1632D87B000005DC-236_634x408.jpg), open, vulnerable. Walt felt his punch sink in, felt the shudder run through his arm that told him it was a good shot and best of all felt the sudden snap of a rib. Banner cursed and crouched even lower, his hands instinctively dropping. Walter immediately followed up with a right uppercut, deliberately pulling the punch short so his fist whistled past Banner's face... but the elbow that followed connected squarely with Banner's nose (http://phukettopteam.com/admin/resources/9429534517087749065471696480836n-w1024h768.jpg), shattering it, blood spraying out. Banner reeled back, his vision, hazy, his composure gone. Walter immediately followed up, chaining lefts and rights, his earlier caution gone. This was the moment, this was the end. Banner was caught, desperately trying to cover up to protect himself but also trying to fire back to stem the flow of offence. When he covered his head Walter hammered shots into his broken body, when he covered his bod Walter smashed punches into his shattered face and when he punched back Walter dodged the crude, desperate blows and returned fire himself. Banner made one last hopeful effort, throwing a right hook and trying to walk Walter into a straight left. Walter ducked to the outside of the right hand, his own right winding up, his shoulder rotating, his arm following it, his right hand detonating&nbsp; on Banner's jaw as the bigger man stepped forward (http://i0.wp.com/www.eastsideboxing.com/wp-content/uploads/jmm_ko_pac1.jpg?fit=400%2C400). The effect was instantaneous, Banner dropping like a puppet with his strings cut, collapsing face first onto the filthy taproom floor as a great cheer went up.<br><br>And that's how Walter, bloodied, hurt but victorious... and by his standards rich... came to be walking down a street without a care in the world.<br><br>Until he turned down a back alley and saw the sights.<br><br>Walter had spent some time working as a butcher's boy in his youth. He hadn't lasted long... the butcher had soon started to notice sausages disappearing and off cuts mysteriously going missing... but he'd been around long enough to watch animals slaughtered, to do some slicing and dicing, to pull out a chopper and cut a living thing to bits, to be covered in blood and gore, entrails slipping through his grasp, the metallic, iron stink filling his nostrils. He'd spent his life seeing sights no-one was meant to see and doing things no-one was meant to do. He beat and he stabbed and he slashed and he cut and he killed. He was a nasty piece of work, a nasty, viscous man and he'd seen a lot that would chill a normal person's soul without blinking.<br><br>But his soul was chilled.<br><br>There was blood everywhere. His bout with Banner had been bloody but this... this was like someone had gathered together a dozen buckets of blood and splashed them everywhere. The street, the walls, everywhere. Barely an inch didn't have at least a splatter of claret on it. And not just blood. The street was a charnel house, body parts littering the ground, ripped, torn, shredded. A limb here, a head there.<br><br>And Walter Sinnett was chilled.<br><br>Walter was not a conventionally brave man but little made him flinch. Neither was he learned but he knew a little. He knew of the creatures that went bump in the night, in the monsters that haunted the shadows, in the fiends from nightmare that could descend upon a man. He knew of the werewolves which could rend a man in half, of the vamprye who came from Eastern Europe to drain a man of blood, of Spring-heeled jack and Herne the Hunter, of the Wild Hunt and the ghostly Black Dog. Let it be known that Walter Sinnet was afraid of no man... but there was no man who could do this. Walter knew he was a dangerous man, a frightful man, a powerful man. But he also knew he was outmatched. That whatever could do this was beyond him. Beyond his power.<br><br>And so Walter Sinnet turned on his heel and walked briskly away, eyes flicking left and right, fear in his mind and in his heart.<br><br><em>Something wicked this way comes.</em>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>27-05-2013, 11:14:24</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a1/Onnecamug2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; Two days before game start<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jia Li<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>"Hurt? No no." Onneca considered the comb in her hand, and the narrowness of the teeth against the tangles of Jia Li's hair. "I do this many times," she promised. She smiled until her cheeks dimpled, an authentic smile, and stepped in against the laundry girl's hair like a servile beautician. The first pass of the comb, to let Jia Li acclimate to its pull, was almost no tooth at all. It was just the lines of the comb and the moisture of the softening oils, gentle as a lamb, repairing the dryness of the California sun and Maze waters. "Mi madre taught me the right way when I was little. A girl is not a doll, she said to me. You must treat her with care. But, even the dolls, I treat them with care. I am sure there is some life in them."<br><br>The teeth of the comb arrived slowly, to find the tangles and test their resistance. No hard pulling- that was absolutely not in Onneca's nature. "It is relaxing," she said. Another layer of softening oil, like a painter blending layers together and spending a whole afternoon doing it. She loved her work. "And it is nice to have someone to talk to." The comb clinked on the edge of the counter, and she used a softer tool on the tangles. It was a brush without bristles, a cushion for removing lint and kitten hairs from cloth. No tug-of-war was needed. It was the oil, which adhered to the hairs and made them slip and cascade from one another, that would cause the knots to disintegrate.<br><br>The brush was a gentle pet, rhythmic, sliding, almost seductive in its caress of the scalp. Jia Li's hair needed so much attention, and so that was what Onneca gave it, not for money, but to satisfy a deep-seated need. If chance had happened to land Onneca at some barber shop out east, they never would have let her leave. She might've died there, an old woman, never having done more than wield a brush and scissors and make a handful of women happy. "How is everyone treating you?" It was so easy to get most of her visitors started on slander and gossip, but no- that didn't seem like Jia Li at all, if she knew her from the way she ate a biscuit. "Have you found the fireflies on the mesa? They are shy, but they are here, if you know their secret place."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>27-05-2013, 21:34:58</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> John “Townsend” Templeton, Nathan Hunter<br>&nbsp;<strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening, One hour later<br><strong>Location:</strong> Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Ginny<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/39/Townsend.png)</div>Townsend was oblivious to the prayer going on in her mind, and the small noises she made around the gag of her underwear only seemed to encourage him further.&nbsp; He stood from his groping, straddling over her hips, his crotch inches from her face, and he slid a hand to the buttons hidden behind the flap of his breeches.&nbsp; He worked them open, one at a time, and Ginny could see him grasping his hard shaft, exposing it to the moist, hot air of the basement.<br><br>“Little Cunny Whateley,” he hissed, in an approximation of wit.&nbsp; “S’what I’m gonna call you.”&nbsp; He took a step back, kneeling between her legs, forcing them apart.&nbsp; He took the blade back, drawing the flat of it across her bare thigh, then slid the edge up to her throat.&nbsp; “I’m gonna teach you to fuck real nice,” he promised.&nbsp; “So you scream into that gag all you want, but when I tell you to clench up that cunt o’ yours, you do what I tell you to.&nbsp; Don’t give a damn if it hurts.&nbsp; I promise it won’t hurt half as bad as if I roll ye on yer belly and fuck ye arseways.”<br><br>Then he was drawing the head of his shaft, purple and shadowed, down her belly while he prepared himself to mount her.&nbsp; He hissed, ready to take what was hers, nearly to her lips when there was the thunderous clatter of footsteps on the stairwell.&nbsp; Another was coming down, and in a flash John Templeton ,was slipping his hard cock away with a grunt, and hiding the knife in the belt at his back.&nbsp; He did his best to stand in front of Ginny, to hide her from view, but the torn clothes and the pale legs were impossible to quite conceal.<br><br><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0d/Natehunter2.png)</div>&nbsp; She caught a glimpse of dark hair, but the thick New York accent was easier to place – the new lawyer in town was decidedly Yankee, with a thick accent and an easy laugh everytime he got called a ‘greenhorn.’&nbsp; Despite that, he’d seemed affable enough, and Coleman had already had him prosecuting a number of cases in town.&nbsp; <br>He came to a halt in the doorway, looking a little surprised.&nbsp; “Oh, Deputy Templeton.&nbsp; I thought no one was – Coleman had mentioned – “&nbsp; He thumbed upstairs, then froze at the sight of bare, ivory leg.&nbsp; Templeton took a step to the side, obscuring her as best he could.<br><br>“Nothing to worry yourself on, New York,” drawled Templeton.&nbsp; “One of the whores from the Casino, and she likes it rough.”&nbsp; He gave a rough smile of his own, and Nathan leaned, softer brown eyes searching Ginny’s face and seeing the tears stream down her cheeks, her sobbing chest.&nbsp; His jaw tightened, and the deputy loomed at him, daring him to become involved.&nbsp; Templeton was a rough, muscular veteran of the west, and Nathan Hunter – Nathan looked every bit the soft, New York lawyer, down to the gun which sat awkwardly on his hip.<br><br>There was a moment where he paused, where he looked to the Deputy and the crying woman, where he knew – <em>knew</em> this was going to be trouble.&nbsp; He could walk away and have a sleepless night and an ally in the Law Dogs, the only friends he’d really made in Gamorra, or…<br><br>“I’d say she’s had it rough enough,” said Nathan, his voice soft, nearly a whisper.&nbsp; The fear was still in his eyes, but he stood straight, and his voice didn’t quaver.&nbsp; “Let her go.”<br><br>Templeton just gave a chuckle.&nbsp; “That ain’t gonna happen, New York.&nbsp; Get your ass back upstairs to your courtroom.&nbsp; This ain’t no business of yours.”&nbsp; Ginny saw his hand slip back towards the knife in the back of his belt.&nbsp; “Tell you what, you can have a round with her after I’m done.&nbsp; Believe me, she’s got it coming to her.”<br><br>Nathan’s eyes flashed with anger.&nbsp; His hands moved to the cuffs of his collared button down, and he slipped off the cufflinks, rolling back his sleeves.&nbsp; “I don’t think I shall,” he shook his head.&nbsp; “Release her, or I shall be forced to thrash you – and I should warn you, I studied pugilism at college.”<br><br>He raised his fists, turning his thumbs inward and keeping his elbows tucked close to his hips.&nbsp; Templeton sniggered at the proper stance.&nbsp; He loosed his grip on the knife, smiling wickedly.&nbsp; “New York,” he chuckled.&nbsp; “I been wanting to shove your teeth down your throat since you came to Gamorra.”&nbsp; He rolled his neck with a crack, beginning to circle the smaller, paler lawyer.&nbsp; He turned, and winked lewdly to Ginny.<br><br>"I'll be with you in a minute, sweetheart."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>esclavage</strong> on <strong>29-05-2013, 01:04:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/7e/Ginny_07a.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Virginia 'Ginny' Mary Lou Whateley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whateley Family<br><strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening, One hour later<br><strong>Location:</strong> Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, John Templeton<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The good Lord had a funny way of answering prayers.&nbsp; First, it seemed as if He didn't care even as those green Whateley eyes, full of wild terror, lingered on the thick cock that Townsend displayed.&nbsp; While it wasn't her first time seeing such things, it was still a bit of a shock as she shied away even as he forced her legs apart.&nbsp; Wildly, she tried to kick at him, unable to contain herself or stop herself even if it got her into more trouble.&nbsp; Panic was really settling in as it looked like a raping was going to happen any second.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The purple head stared at her like a poisonous rattler as Ginny reached the end of the Psalm with no savior in sight.&nbsp; Surely goodness and mercy seemed to be in a short supply at the moment.&nbsp; Silently, she offered a curse instead between a mouthful of her own undergarb even as she could feel her tears still rolling down her cheeks.&nbsp; It was now hard to breathe, her nose running a bit and her mouth packed full, as she gave a very unladylike snort to try and get air and jerked as her wrists bled a bit even as she could feel the heated skin of John Templeton's cock draw down her stomach and press close to her womanhood.&nbsp; Feeling the devilish heat radiating from his throbbing member even as she pulled as hard as she possibly could, and bit into the cloth as much as she could.&nbsp; No doubt this was the Hell the Father had always spoke about from the pulpit.&nbsp; In a singular instant, she was about to have her rights as a woman brutalized and ripped away from her.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Such a deep, black silence, befitting of what was about to happen.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Then, someone came.&nbsp; And for an instant, Ginny's heart leapt even as she cried in the gag, shouting at the top of her lungs and sobbing in relief that someone had come after all.&nbsp; Making sure that she go to the confessional twice this week if this was someone who could save her.&nbsp; Hoping that it was someone who would be able to stop the monster, yet half-terrified that this person would act like so many in Gomorra did.&nbsp; Tuck their head under their hat and act like things weren't any of their business.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; And thankfully, this mysterious stranger didn't leave though it also seemed as if his efforts were in vain and even foolhardy.&nbsp; For Ginny had wanted a savior, an angel of light, full of righteous fury, come to deal out punishment to the wicked.&nbsp; Instead, she had gotten a pasty, fairly thin man who looked like every inch of an unblooded greenhorn.&nbsp; More suited to the books and utterly awkward in his manner compared to John Templeton who had been raised out west and lived a hard life.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The wolfish grin from Townsend told her all she needed to know.&nbsp; Unless her eyes deceived her, her so-called rescuer would soon be lying on the ground unconscious and things would proceed as they had already been laid out.&nbsp; So as the men began to slowly circle one another, Ginny wanted to yell at the other man to get out.&nbsp; To get away!&nbsp; To get help!&nbsp; Real help!&nbsp; What did he think he could do?&nbsp; John Templeton, swarthy and muscular, would chew him up and spit him out in a matter of seconds.&nbsp; A bit of self-righteous indignation rose in her breast at this other man, his good will and charitable noble actions not overly respected.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; For such things mattered little unless they could alter the result.&nbsp; Still, his appearance had its benefits.&nbsp; Like helping Ginny get her tears and terror under control even as she gulped for breath.&nbsp; Her eyes were still streaming and she still couldn't really take a good breath without first blowing her nose, but she at least wasn't hysterical.&nbsp; Because even as bad as this milk-faced northerner was, it was better than being alone with Townsend.&nbsp; If only by a smidgen.&nbsp; And so, Ginny did what she did best.&nbsp; She resourcefully gathered herself and waited for her chance, her spine once again stiff and hard now that Townsend's fat rattler was tucked out of sight.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; He didn't think her a threat.&nbsp; And it was right; she wasn't.&nbsp; But Virginia Whatlely would be looking for her chance to trip up the bigger man if possible.&nbsp; If John Templeton got a bit too close, then she could use her legs and try and cause him to stumble.&nbsp; If it worked then all the better.&nbsp; If not, then it wasn't as if anything else was going to happen to her that was worse than what already was going to happen.&nbsp; It was barely nothing, but Ginny would be damned if she didn't take some form of action to try and save herself!<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The Father in heaven above knew no one else present was capable of doing so.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Dhi</strong> on <strong>30-05-2013, 03:44:25</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Onnecamug1.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Onneca de Goni<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; August 11, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Agatha<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>Onneca could not stop smiling. It ached, in her smile and in her heart, because it'd been so long since both were exercised like this, like a girl at play, her friend at her side, the weight of the world carried by somebody else. "Si! Prepare to be boarded." She was looking very silly, with yarn in her dark hair, and it only worsened when she plucked a diaphanous lace pattern from the shelves and fastened it around one eye. It was intended to be a play eye patch, but it was far too fancy, and on olive-toned Onneca it more resembled a gypsy wrap.<br><br>Giggling was how she worked out her energy, and her laughter was infectious as she scooted in beside Aggy, dressed as a pirate or a gypsy or a gypsy pirate queen, or as the case was, not very dressed at all. The cool bodega air, without the heat of the sun glaring down on her, turned her deep breaths into purrs. This was how she had wanted to live, free, in the wild plains with Aggy, a naturalist at awe with the world around her. Why had they both needed to grow up? Perhaps that kiss, so long ago, had been to blame. That was how adult troubles tended to start. There was a brief moment of lucidity, as she thought about this and met Agatha's gaze with her dark, shy eyes. But it was forgotten in the wave of happiness that Aggy's smile crashed over her. It wasn't fair of the redhead to pull out that smile, but neither one of them could help it.<br><br>"We can be ourselves here." At first, she thought she meant the bodega, but it was something larger than that. It was being an unwed and fully realized woman, a lady scientist, a Mexican, and making it in the West. Gomorra was not a fantasy any rational mind would concoct, but for an Onneca, it was the promised land. It was the land at the end of the railroad. Her fingers sought out and intertwined with Agatha's, warm, lotioned, soft. Many women lotioned their hands to reclaim their youth, but Onneca had never been as soft as she was now. She had metamorphosed, in the intervening years, into a butterfly.<br><br>There was a glint of gold in her cleavage, pure, solid gold. She fished it gently from the tanned globes of her breasts with a rasp of ordinary chain, the conquistador crucifix that had been passed down in her household since the fall of the Spanish dons. It had hung on the wall, in her home in Texas, and before that, when Agatha had known Onny's gruff father, it had graced his person. Perhaps the man who had shot him down in cold blood had been too drunk to steal it, or too distraught by the sign of the Lord. It had a dark history, even before that- these crosses were melted down from Aztec idols, of great snakes who feasted on men, and remade to suit the gods of the great conquistadors.<br><br>It was heavy, when she laid it into Agatha's fingers and grasped it with her. Onneca was pious, she was Catholic, but it was not about that. It had belonged to her father, and to her mother, and its outstretched arms were an icon of their love. Onneca was not sure what to say, and so her breath caught in her throat. It just felt right for Agatha to hold it, too, as though her madre might sense her through it, and know that they had found each other again, and be pleased.<br><br>"Sometimes," she whispered eventually, when her breath was not fixing to sputter out in raw emotion, "it is so quiet in the evenings and so dark, we could go out into the mesa like this. If we are very bold."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>30-05-2013, 09:06:02</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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>&nbsp; August 11, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Bodega de Goni<br><br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha twirled the simple garter around her finger watching the pirate gypsy queen’s approach, doing her best to stifle a giggle at the queen bedecked in a fabric worth more than the remaining underclothes Agatha wore, she was doing a poor job of it.&nbsp; The flicker of harsh reality was hidden by gossamer cloth and Onneca’s infection laugh.&nbsp; She slipped the garter over both wrists, loose silken bonds easily tightened with a twist of a captor’s wrist.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I surrender.” She managed between laughter.&nbsp; Much of the ribbon had fallen from her but for a rich deep blue strand draped across her shoulders.&nbsp; A simple glance about the bodega would reveal the extent of “damage” of their girlish game.&nbsp; Ribbon and yarn littered the shelves and bolts of cloth.&nbsp; Agatha herself stood in a puddle of color, deep and rich in the darkness of the shop.&nbsp; Onny’s smile was bright and happy and reflected in Agatha’s eyes and lips.&nbsp; She had needed this, much more than she realized.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“It has been a long time since I felt like myself.” She admitted realized with a hint of sadness that the game was now over.&nbsp; “I think I had forgotten.&nbsp; Thank you Onny.” Agatha said feeling soft fingers take her outstretched hands.&nbsp; The garter slipped up her arms fleeing fingers curling together with her own.&nbsp; For Agatha Gomorra was a final hope, a place where maybe she could stop running from herself.&nbsp; A place where a strange young Irishwoman could be allowed to live how she wanted, in the way she wanted.&nbsp; Like Onneca did.&nbsp; But did she dare too?<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; The touch of the cross was warm from its resting place and heavy like the wearer bore a bit of the weight of the savior on their shoulders.&nbsp; Agatha remembered the cross and Onneca’s father.&nbsp; He reminded Agatha of her own father, stern and rough, with much love for the little girl he brought into the world.&nbsp; She stepped closer when Onneca covered the cross in their hands and her head bowed in silent benediction, her forehead coming to rest against Onneca’s.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Onneca’s words shocked and surprised her.&nbsp; The moment broken by another giggle at the thought of them sneaking out onto the mesa in nothing but there unmentionables. “That would be very bold.&nbsp; Someday I am going to hold you to that Onneca de Goni, but I think it is time that we clean-up your wonderful shop and there is the issue of my attire, or lack thereof."&nbsp; Agatha said stepping back but not letting go.&nbsp; &nbsp;She had ideas for something functional and elegant and she knew Onneca could come up with something Agatha could wear at work and still look beautiful.&nbsp; Her friend seemed to always make her feel beautiful.<br><br>(End Scene)<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>31-05-2013, 20:31:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> John “Townsend” Templeton, Nathan Hunter<br>&nbsp;<strong>Date:</strong> July 18th, 1874 (Two years before game start.)<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening, One hour later<br><strong>Location:</strong> Basement of the Sheriff's Office<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed, Ginny<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/39/Townsend.png)</div><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0d/Natehunter2.png)</div>The two men circled one another – the basement was cramped with the wooden crates, piled high and stacked against the walls.&nbsp; There was merely the space around the support beams that was cleared way – which left very little room for a boxing match.&nbsp; Templeton didn’t so much as spare Virginia a glance – but Hunter did, glancing down at her.&nbsp; Templeton seized the moment, taking advantage of Nathan’s concerned gaze to rush towards the soft-skinned lawyer.<br><br>There was the lightning fast flick of a fist, the crunch of cartilage, a turn and pivot, and Nathan stepped back, assessing his opponent.&nbsp; Templeton blinked, holding his hand up to a nose which hadn’t just been bloodied – it had been broken.&nbsp; For a second, he was dazed – but the gentlemanly lawyer seemed unwilling to capitalize on the moment, instead searching Templeton’s face for some sign of surrender, the hope that quick flash of pain would bring him to reason.&nbsp; <br><br>He could not have misjudged his opponent more.&nbsp; Templeton’s surprise became a flash of rage, a genuine berserk, and he roared and crossed the distance between himself and Hunter in a leap, tackling Hunter to the ground and crashing atop him into a trio of crates, the flimsy wood cracking and shattering under their weights.&nbsp; Ginny couldn’t see all of the fight – only Templeton’s hand rearing back once, twice, thrice, and coming down with a heavy thump on each occasion.&nbsp; <br><br>Templeton rose, chest rising and falling, sneering at his fallen opponent, and turned back towards Ginny.<br><br><strong>“Now… where were we, darling?”</strong> he growled, oblivious to the shadow of the man rising up behind him.&nbsp; Nathan’s hair was in disarray, an eye beginning to blacken and puff closed, but he formed his hands into fists again, calmly reaching forward and tapping Templeton on the shoulder.&nbsp; He gave Templeton only the briefest of moments to realize Hunter was not so unconscious as he’d expected, unwilling even under the circumstances to throw a sucker punch – but an eyeblink after Templeton had registered the ‘soft’ lawyer’s consciousness, another lightning fast haymaker smashed cross Templeton’s cheek, and Nathan Hunter stepped inside his guard, following up the haymaker with a jab, a second jab, and a roundhouse combination that sent Templeton staggering back, towards Ginny.&nbsp; Nathan advanced fearlessly, and Templeton slipped the blade from behind him out, catching the lawyer by surprise as he slammed the butt end of the knife up and into his gut, doubling the lawyer over.<br><br>He caught Nathan by the collar, then slammed the fist which held the knife into Nathan’s crotch – the blade was still turned away, but the extra weight and the pommel added force to the punch, and Nathan doubled, his eyes widening, and he gave a gasp of pain.&nbsp; Templeton growled.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>“Yer fast,”</strong> he acknowledged. <strong> “And tougher’n you look.&nbsp; You still ain’t no Law Dog.” </strong> He grabbed Nathn by the hair, reversing his grip on the blade with a flick of his wrist.&nbsp; Nathan grit his teeth, eyeing the blade, then hurled his weight into his shoulder, slamming into Templeton’s belly and back against one of the taller crates.&nbsp; He caught the hand which held the blade, and pinned it back to the crate with one hand, then slammed his fist down atop Templeton’s wrist.&nbsp; There was a crack of breaking bone, and Templeton’s fingers loosed, the blade clattering to the dirt.&nbsp; Templeton threw an elbow, crossing Nathan’s jaw, and then threw his weight back against the lawyer, sending both men rolling to the ground at Ginny’s feet.&nbsp; A well timed kick managed to box one of Templeton’s ears, and Nathan seized the moment, rolling over atop Templeton and delivering another punch to the Law Dog’s face.<br><br>Then Nathan made a mistake – not his first, in the fight, but certainly costly – and he looked up.&nbsp; Before, he’d had a view of the Whateley from around Templeton, a hint of her nudity.&nbsp; Lying on the ground, atop John Templeton, he had a rather brazen view of her most delicate parts, her heaving bosom, and his eyes went wide.&nbsp; A blush suffused cheeks already reddened by exertion.<br><br><strong>”Ma’am,”</strong> he apologized, right before catching a cross hook across his cheek from Templeton, and the Law Dog rolling atop the distracted lawyer.&nbsp; The two men continued to roll, punch, elbow, roll, punch, kicking up dirt and sending a spritz of blood, spittle, and sweat with every blow.&nbsp; It was minutes – minutes of heavy punches, of flesh and bone protesting, and cracked and bloodied knuckles as the men beat the living hell out of one another, over and again, the contest of strength and testosterone fueled stubbornness stretching for taut minutes.&nbsp; It was a final roll and punch from Nathan, managing to get atop Templeton, his fist coming down once, and then again, and again, and Templeton was still.&nbsp; For a moment, Nathan seemed lost in the berserk fury of the moment, primal and masculine like a triumphant barbarian upon a bloodsoaked battlefield, ready to claim virgin prize as his rightful spoils of war.<br><br>He took one long, deep breath, keeping a careful eye upon Templeton, and rose up and off of him.&nbsp; His hands searched down his duster, until he found a key, and the knife.&nbsp; He was still catching his breath, his face mottled with blood and sweat and yet-forming bruises.&nbsp; He reached and stripped Templeton of the pistol, as well, awkwardly taking it, looking down at his own, and then simply stripping the bullets from it and tossing it across the room.&nbsp; He came to Viriginia, then, the knife slicing through the leather of the belt, and pulling the panties from her mouth.<br><br><strong>“Are you alright, ma’am?”</strong>&nbsp; He worked the keys, quickly unlocking her, already shrugging out of his own coat to wrap around her shoulders.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kokaine</strong> on <strong>05-06-2013, 22:34:38</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://i167.photobucket.com/albums/u133/kokotigress/Elliquiy/Doom%20Town/ead50d92-e6d4-4afe-9e1d-01d97ff4c453_zps41859843.jpg)</div><hr><strong>Name:</strong> Isobel Harley Montoya-Marquez<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown to the public<br><strong>Date:</strong> April 27th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Agatha Dunwich's back porch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha<hr>Harley was almost relieved when her stakeout proved to be fruitful. She wasn't sure how long she had crouched there in the shadows, watching the house before her for signs of movement after the last light had gone out but if the slight stiffness in her limbs was anything to go by it had been a while indeed. For a change it seemed as if all was right on the mesa. It was nothing but an illusion of course; one had but to poke their head into any place back in town to know that the potential for trouble was but a spark away with so much alcohol doused kindling about, but the illusion was one Harley was willing to embrace for time being as she finally rose from her crouch to creep forward across the yard. <br><br>Sneaky was not really a word one would ever use to describe the tall brunette. She could be quiet and sort of blend in when the need arose but a master thief she was not. One glance her way would show plainly that she didn't exactly fit into this part of Gomorra, what with her men's attire and the dust that clung thick enough to her that she supposed she might have been invisible had she decided to take a nap on the ground. Had she been spotted she'd have certainly had questions to answer, however, that was a chance she was willing to take right about now. <br><br>The day had been long and relatively uneventful for the long legged outlaw as she'd spent most of her time lazing about and wrasslin' with Jasper. He was supposed to have been teaching her to brawl but as with most of their attempts it had ended up with them both dirty as all get out and laughing. Jasper was big as an ox so even with her height she was forced to cheat more often than not, which of course urged him to respond in kind. The result was both of them tired and slightly sore with dirt in more places than she cared to name. It was this fact that was responsible for her current whereabouts. Rather than find a place to scrounge up pennies for the evening the tall brunette had excused herself from those in her company and gone off in search of a place to clean up and when her memory had sparked, leading her to a place she had passed before in her wanderings, well it just too good to pass up. <br><br>She had grown accustomed to the life of a transient outlaw for the most part but the one thing she still seemed to have trouble with was the general lack of proper baths. Growing up in a rather successful brothel under the watchful eye of a stern Madam, Harley had been made to bathe regularly and keep up her appearance as Madam Rose refused to have any ragamuffins associated with her place. The sudden shift from such luxury to nothing had been a jarring one and even now Harley would spend her last coins on a bath if she felt she needed one. Something for which she was teased quite often but oh well. <br><br>She was quiet now as she moved forward onto the back porch. She hadn't any idea who lived here but she didn't much care. Her thoughts were already centered on the shower contraption she had spotted a time or two before and the anticipation of at least relatively clean water sliding over her skin. It wasn't in her plans to disturb anyone; she would be in and out quickly--or that was the plan anyhow. She just needed to rid herself of all the dust and dirt before it rubbed her raw.<br><br>Standing just outside the shower, Harley shed her clothing as fast as she dared, even her undergarments. If she felt anything about being bare out in the open like this it didn't show. Her need was purely practical in her mind and as such her motions were focused on the execution of her task rather than the what ifs associated with her modesty. A quick study was made of the shower and in a short few moments she had the thing running, only a brief pause and glance about given at the sudden sound of running water. Not sensing an immediate movement, she turned for a moment and made sure her clothing was within reach, as well as her gun in case should trouble arise, then turned back and prepared to quickly douse herself. <br><br>Stepping in under the beckoning fall, she nearly cried as she realized the water was heated as well. She'd been expecting a chilly dowsing, which would have made her move jut that much quicker, but as warm water washed over her she couldn't hold back the moan of pure pleasure. Unfortunately, these sorts of things were all Harley had left to find pleasure in and despite the good sense that had been instilled in her, she could not force herself to rush as she had originally planned. Seeking to take full advantage of an opportunity she wasn't sure she'd have again, her slim fingers found the end of her long braid and began to unravel it. She did her best to make sure she was still alert to the sounds of anyone's approach but despite how cautious she typically was it was clear Harley had a weakness for simple comfort.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>08-06-2013, 10:37:00</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/b/b8/Aggy-Closeup.jpg) </div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Agatha Dunwich<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; April, 27 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Agatha’s Back Porch<br><br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha Dunwich was up late.&nbsp; Agatha was always up late, she kept crazy hours which was fitting because most people thought was completely crackers anyway.&nbsp; But this was perhaps too late.&nbsp; She had already gathered and lost a second wind and she needed to get to bed before a third one started and she was up all night. From room to room she wandered, her mind wandered with her.&nbsp; She had been avoiding this, she knew.&nbsp; She didn’t like it.&nbsp; It reminded Agatha of how alone she was.&nbsp; Going from room to room, putting out the lights reminded her that this house was too big for just one person.&nbsp; The little house in Deer Creek hadn’t been half the size of this one and yet seemed so full when Eliza had been there.&nbsp; It had been almost two years and the thoughts of Eliza hadn’t faded, not completely.&nbsp; They hadn’t known each other long, a few months of time, but those months had been some of the happiest of Agatha’s young life.&nbsp; She still thought of Eliza often.&nbsp; Hoping she made it safely to Pennsylvania, hoping she was happy, and sadly hoping she had forgotten the red haired scientist she had made so very happy those years ago.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;After arriving in Gomorra Agatha had kept herself busy setting up her home and her business. She worked until all hours of the night on her inventions so she would not waste away the day crying.&nbsp; She was alone or so she had thought until she had been reunited with her childhood friend.&nbsp; Their friendship had grown over the last year, gently nudging Eliza out of her every moment thoughts and into the quiet times when she was alone, which was sadly often for Agatha had made a vow.&nbsp; She would forego sex. She would not fall in love.&nbsp; She would live her life on the edge of town so that she would not be tempted again, not lead another astray from the eyes of God and be forced to watch them leave her again. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It was hard.&nbsp; Her work, her specialty work, was sought after by the brothels.&nbsp; She often visited the local madam’s and owners to sell her wares.&nbsp; Many were dives and the girls sick with disease and despair, but some of the best establishments were filled with girls of exquisite and exotic beauty, some perhaps willing to take Agatha to their beds, some making those intentions quite clear after Agatha had been in Gomorra for a few months with no sign of a suitor at her door.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;But Agatha stayed true to her vow even as she longed to spend a night in their nests of silk and satin, blood red lips soiling her porcelain skin and bringing her to ecstasy.&nbsp; She wondered if any of them would enjoy it as much as she would.&nbsp; It was two nights ago she had almost given in to her desires, broken her vow.&nbsp; A beautiful drifter, no dove, no resident, dusty with Mesa dirt and dressed not unlike a ranchero or maybe a hand.&nbsp; She was tall and lean to the point of lanky, with beautifully dark eyes and strong rough hands.&nbsp; Thankfully business had stepped between Agatha and her temptation that night.&nbsp; She could not afford to slip, for her customers to know that she preferred the company of women to men. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; From room to room she moved until the lone light of her bedroom glimmered like a secret beacon in the dark.&nbsp; I am here.&nbsp; I am alone.&nbsp; Undressing took time, time to roam through old memories and new feelings all confusing for a woman more comfortable with the hard facts of science.&nbsp; It was solid and knowable, not ephemeral and mysterious.&nbsp; Her skirts slipped to the floor as did her bloomers when they were untied.&nbsp; Silk stockings buttoned to garters snugly stung against her thighs adorned her legs, the straps pressed into her soft flesh as she sat on a wooden chair in front of the full length mirror in the corner of her room. Agatha watched herself undress as if she was someone else, slowly unlacing her corset, her well-endowed breasts pressing against the fabric aching for release.&nbsp; She closed her eyes and imagined delicate fingers teasing the laces loose one at a time until she could slip from its embrace.&nbsp; Her hands free of releasing herself from the corset’s lovely bondage she lifted the long hem of her chemise to reveal thighs smooth and supple.&nbsp; Olive skin and a radiant smile teased her mind’s eye, but she forced them away.&nbsp; To acknowledge those feeling and those desires was to make them real and to make them real would change things.&nbsp; The tingle she felt in her stomach should have told her they already had.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;With a practiced and deliberate hand she popped the garters loose from her stockings and rolled them carefully down her legs, letting them fall to the floor. She would pick them up and put them away tomorrow.&nbsp; Her chemise joined the stockings and her green eyes wandered over the revealed form in the mirror as long arms and dexterous fingers pulled pins from her hair letting it cascade over shoulders lightly dusted with freckles. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha could almost feel hands caressing her, wishing desperately for some ghostly vision to appear in the mirror behind her, enfolding her in her arms, explore her now aroused flesh by the light of a single lamp that cast lonely shadows into the forgotten corners of her bedroom where forbidden desires lurked with lustful intent.&nbsp; No specter of flesh, pale or olive, lanky or waif-like appeared.&nbsp; No fingers soft or rough ran over her body, only her own, touching herself in ways she wished someone else would.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The lamp extinguished letting hunger shadows consume the room and Agatha’s thoughts.&nbsp; She thought about the chest at the end of her bed, what lay within, the release it would surely bring her, but she denied herself and slipped into bed hoping sleep would come quickly.&nbsp; It did not.&nbsp; Her bed was large like the house, again too big for only one person, but perfect for two, with posts of study wood for silk to bind too and curtains of heavy cloth to hide the delicate bodies within and muffle the cries of ecstasy to those without.&nbsp; Lustful thoughts intruded on her weary mind as moments turned into minutes.&nbsp; She coiled in her bed, knees bent and pressed together tightly entrapping the fingers that gently massaged her aroused sex.&nbsp; She simply craved a release, something to free her mind from her thoughts and let her body sleep, but that too was to be denied her when the sound of rushing water reverberated in the piles outside her bedroom wall.&nbsp; She sat upright in bed hand still trapped between her thighs.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” She said in exasperation and a little sliver of fear until she recognized the sound for what it was.&nbsp; “That had better not be a broken pipe.” She muttered her body shivering from adrenaline and excitement.&nbsp; Agatha quickly made her way down the stairs pulling on a light robe as she went before heading towards the back door that lead to the porch.&nbsp; She didn’t even bother to tie the robe only holding it closed with her hand.&nbsp; She could hear the sound of splashing water before she reached the door. It was only just before she opened it that she caught movement outside its window.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; No sound other than the splashing of water could be heard.&nbsp; The door handle did not turn or even jiggle and with a deep breath Agatha braved a look.&nbsp; Her eyes widened and she ducked back down immediately, her hand clapping over her mouth to stifle any sound she might have made.&nbsp; There was someone out there… in her shower.&nbsp; Did she dare take another looks? Should she chase them off? Water was a precious resource…she peeked again.&nbsp; The person had their back to her.&nbsp; In the dark it took a moment to make her out…her out.&nbsp; The spray of water droplets glittered off of the slender and strong form.&nbsp; Agatha could see lean muscles in her arms and shoulders move beneath her dusky skin.&nbsp; Black hair fell midway down the woman’s back sending a rivulet of water along her spine drawing Agatha’s eye to the firm and rounded rear of the tall and beautifully formed figure.&nbsp; She felt she should look away, but she couldn’t bring herself too.&nbsp; Not until the strong and athletic form began to turn.&nbsp; Agatha ducked again under the window, her heart pounding in her chest.&nbsp; She should leave. Just go back to bed or make a bunch of noise to scare the woman away, but she didn’t.&nbsp; She closed her eyes and water dancing along strong, supple skin filled her vision.&nbsp; The soft curve of waist meeting hip and the dark crease of forbidden territory called to the fire that had been slowly building inside of Agatha throughout the night…throughout the year.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Her mind was screaming at her to go back upstairs.&nbsp; Ignore the sounds of rushing water, the glistening of wet skin and the pleasing curves of the naked form outside, but she didn’t.&nbsp; Something about the woman was familiar.&nbsp; The tall thin body and dark hair, the long limbs, the hint of her fine boned jaw and high cheeks made her breath quicken and her heart rate increase.&nbsp; The sounds of her body drowned out the screaming in her head.&nbsp; At some point in her mental deliberations she had picked up the bar of soap she kept in the pail next to the door.&nbsp; She used the very same to clear the grime of a hard day off of her body before entering her home.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;What was she doing?&nbsp; It was stupid, it was crazy, but she didn’t care.&nbsp; She was tired of denying herself, tired of living in her self induced vow of chastity.&nbsp; The woman outside was beautiful, a vagabond for sure even if she had mistaken her identity.&nbsp; There was little risk she told herself as she turned the nob on the door gently so not to alert the woman of her presence.&nbsp; Agatha felt the light robe fall from her shoulders as she slipped through the door into the warm Gamorran night.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The shiver that she felt had little to do with the weather and everything to do with tiny sparks of water kissing her own naked body as her eyes took in the surreal image of beauty before her.&nbsp; Her feet padded softly and quietly along the porch until the distraction became too much and her foot pressed upon a loose board who’s squeak was audible above the patter of water.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha froze her eyes widening, her brazen thoughts draining from her like sand from a broken hourglass.&nbsp; Agatha’s body went ridged.&nbsp; The pale moonlight gave her milky skin a luminescent quality and licked at her coppery tresses like cold fire.&nbsp; Breasts firm and round gave form to her otherwise slender frame and their stiffened nubs dark and full gave no illusions as to the state of her arousal. Agatha’s body would be laid bare before Harley if she were to turn towards her, her only adornment a small thatch of curly red hair crowning her sex.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>22-06-2013, 21:57:35</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://www.radioanywhere.co.uk/upload/95/1488.cover.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett<br><strong>Date:</strong> 1840's<br><strong>Location:</strong> London<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed<br><br><em>My name's Walter Sinnet and I don't know when I was born.<br><br>That's not really a strange thing to be honest. They may be pretty bloody good at timekeeping in a whorehouse... 10 minutes, 15 minutes, 30 minutes... but they weren't no good at dates. Who bloody needed them at the end of the day? They think I was born sometime in the mid 1840's and they think it was in the summer but really, no-one cared or gave a damn.<br><br>What I do know is that I was lucky to be born at all. You ever want to know about birth control you go talk to some whores. If you're getting pounded by a dozen or more cocks a day you end up pretty good at making sure you don't get knocked up. And even if you do then there's always moon tea or a long, sharp, thin wire to make sure that little accident ends ups tossed out the window with the rest of the filth that ends up a stain on the streets of London. Whores don't like getting pregnant. Even if a few freaks get their rocks off by pumping a whore while her belly's bursting with someone else's child most people don't want a pregnant whore and if a whore ain't earnin' then she's not doing too well. But somehow me mum managed to get me stuck in her belly and keep me there for nine months.<br><br>For obvious reasons I don't know who my dad is. No-one's exactly going to walk into a knocking shop and proudly claim a bastard as his own. Could have been one of a dozen... maybe a couple of dozen. When I was young I sometimes wondered who he was. Was he a seaman on leave? A ruffian? A docker? Just another loser? Or maybe some respectable just sneaking away from his wife for a night of forbidden passion? For a while I thought about it, eyeing every bugger as he walked into the bar, wonderin' if he had my nose or I had his eyes or any of that bollocks. But that was when I was a child and when I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. It didn't matter who my dad was. He'd never wanted me, I'd never really wanted him and what bloody difference did it make. If I ever do manage to leave this blasted country and get back to sweet feckin' Britannia and some poor bastard was able to point across a smoky bar and say&nbsp; “Hey, Walt, that fella over there, he's your dad he is” I'm not even sure I'd look at the bastard.<br><br>Or maybe I would<br><br>But anyway, there I was, the lucky union of one of dad's sperm and one of mum's eggs with a big sign saying “Impregnate me, I'm half of one of the nastiest buggers who'll ever be” on it and nine months later I popped out of her, a cryin', whinin', screamin', pissin' little bloody baby.<br><br>Now I don't really remember those first few years. I don't think anyone does. What's there to remember anyway? I cried when I was hungry, shat when I was full and kept pissin' myself. That's what bloody babys do. Oh, and every so often do something “cute” or whatever the feck it is that makes women go all weak at the knees, slap their hands on their heart and say how “adorable” the baby is. Although on account of the fact my face kinda looks like a cart ran over it I doubt there was&nbsp; too much cooin' bein' done over me. My guess is I just pissed, shat and cried a lot. Not too different to today really, minus the cryin'.<br><br>People sometimes suggest that I must have had a crap childhood what with bein' the son of a whore and all but frankly, they can go sod off. I had a damn good childhood... hell of a lot better than some people I know... even if it weren't exactly usual. And compared to bein' carted off to the bloody orphanage the back-room of the whorehouse I lived in wasn't a bad place at all. I got more love than pretty much anyone else I knew. I lived with a bunch of whores who knew they were unlikely to have children and knew more than that it was goin' to be damn near impossible for them to ever be a “family”. So they poured all their motherly instincts and love into me. Half the fellows I know, even those who knew their mam and their pa, are lucky to have a single parent who can stand the sight of them. I had a dozen who loved me.<br><br>So I may not remember much, not even when I became a toddler, but I do remember a general sense of love and happiness. On a side note; toddler? Sure, I get it, when you're that age you toddle around so you're a toddler... but that bein' the feckin' case why are you called a baby and not a shitter when all you can do is lie on your back and shit yourself? And why aren't you called a crawler when you can finally move but don't have the balance to stand up without falling on your arse? And when you do manage to walk about why are you called a child, not a whiner ('cos that's all you bloody do as a child, whine). But feck it, I'm not a scholar... didn't even go to bloody school... so I'm sure there's a smarter bugger than me out there who knows.<br><br>What I can remember of being a toddler is that my entire life was basically that warm backroom in the whorehouse. Punters didn't want a toddler wandering around the main bar to remind them of the wives and children they'd left in their cold, wet dump of a house while they got their end away annd God forbid I'd pull open a curtain and see some fat labourer's hairy arse crack bobbing up and down on one of the women I thought of as my mother. Few times they happened I got a whipping like you wouldn't believe. I didn't go to school neither. Only school around these parts was one run by the Church of England and no-one liked the cold-eyed rector when he came round looking for children to recruit. And after one of his chaplains got em... 'distracted' when he came to visit the whores he didn't send many people round. I learnt what I know from that warm backroom and the streets of London.<br><br>It's about this time my mum died.<br><br>I don't really recall it in any detail. I was still a young bugger and everything's gone a bit hazy. I remember cryin' and some of the other ladies wiping my eyes and I remember a thin woman who I think was my mum lying on a bed, struggling to turn her head but smiling weakly. You live in the slums of London like I do and you get used to disease and death but this was the first time I experienced it. Can't say I'm upset that I can't remember it. I'd probably like to remember a bit more of my mum but feck it, all that would do would mean it would hurt more to know she died. Life's shit and then you die. Ain't that the feckin' truth.<br><br>You may think livin' in a whorehouse was a pretty dangerous place to be but in all honesty it weren't that bad. Listen, I ain't gonna sugar coat it... it was a feckin' whorehouse after all and that meant it had pimps, ruffians, villains and thugs. But the lady who ran the place ran a tight ship. The fact is you could walk out onto a street corner and get your dick sucked for a copper or two. If a whore wanted to charge more... and a whore charging more meant the pimp and abbess could get a bigger cut... then they had to offer more than a crooked smile and a wet mouth. The whores had to be prettier, the rooms had to be nicer and the johns had to feel like they weren't goin' to get knifed in the back. The real money came when once of those fancy da lording's wanted to get his wick wet on the down low... and no lording was going to wander into a place where there was a brawl goin' on. Was too much for their refined, high-feckin'-strung noble disposition. So the abbess kept a couple of thugs on the payroll to stand there and look menacing with big truncheons (and that ain't a euphemism), ready to wade in and crack a few heads at the first sign of trouble. The sort of men who thought nothin' of smashing some bastard's skull and dumpin' his body in the Thames or feedin' it to the pigs. They kept the place quiet and formal like... people came to the whorehouse, in-out, in-out, shake it all about, do the hokey cokey and they turn around and feck off again. No trouble, no violence and no spankings (unless you paid the goin' rate).<br><br>The main part of the whorehouse was the tap room which in all honesty resembled any other tap room in any other sort of low-class but not quite a dive pub in London. It weren't nothin' too special but then it weren't meant to be. It was just a place for a punter to buy and overpriced, watered down beer while waiting for a whore to finish with her current date and invite him in. That said, there were some people who didn't go there to shag and did go there for a drink and some of the sausages.&nbsp; I never had the sausages; I saw them being made. But anyway, on account of the hairy bouncers keepin' everyone in line, some people did just come down for a drink. Even saw a few couples although god knows how you broke the news to your missus that the location of your romantic date was going to be somewhere you could get your knob polished for sixpence. Guess if the date went badly you could still get a happy ending at least.<br><br>Now, my life wasn't entirely spent in that backroom and muckin'g around in the yards of London. Eventually I got a little bit bigger, a little bit more stable on my feet and I had to start to earn my keep. Not in that sort of way... it wasn't that sort of brothel. But I had to make some money somehow or no amount of love from my many whore mothers would have prevented me from bein' booted out into the streets on my arse. And while the whorehouse may have been a mostly respectable place... for a whorehouse at least... it was still a whorehouse and a punter couldn't exactly be too upset if he found his purse a few coppers lighter than it should have been or a ring missing. And so that's what I did. I dipped my little hand into a man's purse as he romped with a whore and I relieved him of enough coin to make it worth my time but not so much that he'd bloody&nbsp; make an issue out of it.<br><br>And that was how I spent my early childhood.</em>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kokaine</strong> on <strong>26-06-2013, 07:42:54</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<div class="floatleft">(http://i167.photobucket.com/albums/u133/kokotigress/Elliquiy/Doom%20Town/ead50d92-e6d4-4afe-9e1d-01d97ff4c453_zps41859843.jpg)</div><hr><strong>Name:</strong> Isobel Harley Montoya-Marquez<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown to the public<br><strong>Date:</strong> April 27th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Agatha Dunwich's back porch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha<hr>What had begun as a risk borne simply of what she viewed as a practical need had quickly morphed into something bordering on selfish indulgence. Something in the back of her mind was urging her to be quick about her task so she could move on but for the life of her Harley could not seem to to call to mind the common sense she so often wielded. Not while warm water cascaded over smooth and supple curves almost like the touch of a lover, taunting her with the lightest of caresses that seemed to only flirt with her building need without doing a single thing to ease it. It was the sort of attention Harley had not received in quite a long time. Out in the Maze one could forget such pleasures if they wished, but here, under night sky with only the stars and the moon to witness, it was an easy thing to simply close ones eyes and let the yearning overtake you. <br><br>She should have been listening, should have been alert to weight of the unfamiliar presence at her back, but before she knew what she was doing her hands were moving. Hands that were finely sculpted with long, lean and dexterous fingers, almost like those of an artist or musician, yet instead of being soft and delicate they had gone rough with a life of rugged living and possessed an almost deceptive strength. Those hands played over her body, stripping away any illusions and leaving not a single doubt as to her femininity as her sex pulsed, demanding attention. <br><br>Her hands had just slipped over the lush mounds of her breasts, the brush across her budded nipples sending a shiver down her spine, and were sliding down the flat plane of her torso when she heard it. The creak of the board at that moment was as loud as any gunshot and there was a brief moment of pause. Others might have wasted time cursing themselves or panicking but Harley was instantly past all that and on to considering and subsequently discarding her options. She had no idea who's place this was and therefore no real idea of how to even begin with such an encounter so all within the space of moment Harley made the decision to simply turn around and face whatever fate had chosen to throw at her.<br><br>Slowly the long limbed woman turned, leaving her body silhouetted there under the warm spray as she looked upon her audience from beneath lids gone heavy with lust and something sparked in her gaze. Her nipples tightened until they nearly ached and her lips parted as her breath eased out, the rise and fall of her chest growing deeper as the seconds ticked by. There was no shyness in her or attempt at modesty on her part and if she didn't know any better she'd have thought the redhead a gift meant just for her with the way she looked standing there like something out of one of them fancy European paintings. <br><br>One might have thought that the appearance of a pale, ginger-haired goddess who seemed to have been birthed from the very night itself might have brought with it a sense of relief but if anything, Harley only felt her body wind tighter. Tension sang through her, mounting slowly as her dark eyes took in every bared inch she could drink in from those gorgeous breasts to the coppery thatch at the apex of her smooth thighs and the lanky gunner's fingertips all but itched to reach out and trace those lovely curves if only just to be sure that what she was seeing was real. <br><br>She could could have spoken, asked any number of questions of her unwitting hostess or attempted to talk her way out of what should have been an awkward situation, but she did not. Instead, as Harley had already process the fact that the woman before her was just as nude as she was and clutching a bar of soap to boot, not to mention the visible evidence of her arousal, she simply allowed a trace of a smile to curve her lips before her hands began to move again, sliding across her dusky skin with deliberate movements. With devious intent she turned back around seemingly to continue bathing while her hands moved steadily lower and a look of clear and wholly unmistakable invitation was issued over her shoulder. She understood that she was inviting the woman to her own shower but rationality--and possibly sanity considering she had just deliberately given a stranger her back--had receded under the growing desire filling her. If the woman did come closer, Harley had no doubt her shower would move beyond simple decadence to full out indecency.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>30-06-2013, 07:55:50</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/b/b8/Aggy-Closeup.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Agatha Dunwich<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; April, 27 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late night<br><strong>Location:</strong> Agatha’s Back Porch<br><br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;She was sure the thumping of her heart was loud enough to wake the neighbors as she watched the lanky cowgirl turn at the sound, glowing motes of water crashed into her dusky skin spilling out like sparks of moonlight against the night.&nbsp; Harley’s sleek form rounded so amazingly like a predatory feline, graceful and dangerous.&nbsp; She made no attempt to hide her beautiful form and in her heightened state Agatha saw every curve and slope, every ripple of movement beneath her skin.&nbsp; The scientist in her recognized all of the signs of arousal.&nbsp; The engorgement of Haley’s sensitive buds, the posturing of her body indicating interest and even challenge, but it was the woman in Agatha that reacted.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;It had been a long while since she had known the pleasure of another woman.&nbsp; She had satisfied herself with her inventions, toys meant to tease, tantalize and delight, but for all of the joys they could supply they did not compare to the feminine beauty before her that she hungered to touch and oh God be touched by.&nbsp; Agatha’s lips parted slightly, not to speak, but to take the breath she had forgotten. Harley turned away, the curtain of liquid onyx spilled down her back to the firm mounds of her rear and Agatha’s eyes gathered the vision, her fingers twitching along the bar of soap becoming slick with its delicate oils.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;The woman simply turned away allowing the water to embrace her body completely, but with a simple glance, her angelic features framed by the dark curtain of her hair and dusky shoulder dared Agatha to join her, to share the comforts of her shower and her body.&nbsp; Soft feet padded closer and droplets of warmth flecked her skin sending a shiver along her glowing form.&nbsp; Agatha’s eyes took in everything about the woman before her.&nbsp; She remembered the loose clothing and easy manner from days before.&nbsp; She had known Harley was a beautiful woman, but what had only been hinted at during their exchange at the Casino was nothing compared to the Peruvian beauty before her.&nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha took another step, water pattered off of both of their bodies now bounding from one to the other like electrons shared between the mutual attraction of atoms, bonding them if for only a time.&nbsp; Water flowed across Agatha’s body, forming rivulets around and over her breasts and flowing over the hands held tightly against her chest.&nbsp; A soapy lather began to form against her body and filled her hands.&nbsp; Soft foam oozing along her forearms.&nbsp; Agatha set the bar on a shelf built into the back of her house to free her hands to begin their gentle caress of road weary skin.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;For a scientist, Agatha’s hands were delicate and dexterous, like that of a watchmaker or a jeweler. Shaking with anticipation and longing they pressed gently against Harley’s side, slippery with lather.&nbsp; Her fingers gently kneaded and caressed the play of strong muscles she found just under Harley’s glorious skin.&nbsp; There was no hurry, no urgency in her touch.&nbsp; She could feel the knotted tissue under her fingers and gently coaxed the tension from them.&nbsp; Her fingers worked from the small of her back upwards along her spin.&nbsp; Harley was strong, she could feel it in the firmness of her form and her body ached to feel that strength used against her.&nbsp; Every gentle touch meant to stimulate Harley’s skin was in turn stoking the desire that had inspired her boldness.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Soap slick hands slipped along the slender waist before her to press against the taut fat stomach where Harley’s long fingers teased at desires Agatha desperately wished to fulfill.&nbsp; Agatha’s lathered breasts pressed against Harley’s firm back flattening against it, her hardened nipples clearly revealed against dusky skin, Agatha's body molding against Harley. She was shorter than Harley by far and the fevered lips that brushed against sun-kissed skin reached only the back of a shower drenched shoulder.&nbsp; Words weren’t needed to express the ache of her desire or the need in her eyes, her body screamed to be used, to be pleased.&nbsp; It had been so long and she had tried so hard to push it away and deny it, but she couldn’t.&nbsp; Oh god she couldn’t…<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-04-2014, 03:20:45</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<div align="center">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e6/Reloadedbanner.png)</div><br>All posts after this juncture are part of Doomtown Reloaded.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>The Dark Raven</strong> on <strong>09-04-2014, 20:25:53</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; There was nothing left of home that she could hold.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; Any more than a little and she’d regret it, she was sure.&nbsp; Maybe none at all, and an early retirement or some piano.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; No Christmas crackers or paper crowns, no puddings.&nbsp; She wasn’t even sure the good citizens of Gomorra knew what a pudding was.&nbsp; One never knew what traditions were important until one left them behind...how strange.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>09-04-2014, 22:41:16</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br><strong>Faction:</strong> ()<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 6th 7th &amp; 8th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> (avoid precise timing)<br><strong>Location:</strong> stagecoach drop, St Martin's Chapel, Jones' Mercantile &amp; Trading, etc<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> closed - information only<br><hr> <br><br><br>She stood in the back, exhausted and filthy with dust, a satchel resting on the toes of boots peeking from under the ratty hem of a dress that had seen better days.&nbsp; Still there was curiosity in her slowly wandering gaze.&nbsp; Her arm hung numbly at her side while the fingers flexed, working out the curved grip formation they had taken over the past several days.&nbsp; The endless miles of walking, the coach ride that tossed her from stem to stern, the aching in every inch of&nbsp; her body; Jaelyn Scot-Jones had never looked so wretched in all her life.<br><br><br>Even so, she didn’t feel half as bad as all that, hadn’t since she’d taken communion in the desert Maze under the watchful gaze of John Malta.&nbsp; It was an experience she wasn't likely to forget.&nbsp; The sickness it brought on wracking her body for hours until there was nothing left to expel.&nbsp; He insisted she eat after that, the simple meal was delicious and she ate far more than was lady like.&nbsp; Abashed, she apologized and laughed at her uncommon behavior and then slept deep and dreamless through the night until the sun's rays lit upon her cheek.&nbsp; <br><br>Jaelyn drew in a long, sweet breath, knowing the journey was near a blessed end.&nbsp; There was a strange sense sneaking up inside her, unnamable just yet.&nbsp; She was less unsure of the future now that the recent trip through The Maze, what with it’s terrifying memories to haunt her sleeps, was at an end.&nbsp; After the waking nightmare with the Guardian Angle and the cleansing communion that followed, the preacher had traveled with her for a time and while they put one foot in front of the other for hours on end, his conversation was both soothing and sane.&nbsp; He told her of many things, horrors that she was glad to escape from and truths her mind found difficult to accept.&nbsp; And then one morning when she woke, blowing sand dust from her lips, he was gone.&nbsp; It was later that same morning that the stagecoach happened upon her.&nbsp; By then her destination had changed.&nbsp; <br><br><br>Upon arrival in Gomorra, the stagecoach driver, who had claimed nearly all the precious coin she had, pointed her in the direction of St Martin’s.&nbsp; The arduous journey wasn’t quite finished yet, so she dragged the dreaded bag - her poorly housed, blistered feet crying for relief - to the chapel.&nbsp; When Father Esteban Ortega came to greet her, she recognized him - sort of.&nbsp; Not his kindly face or the soft spoken Spanish lilt, but the essence of him.&nbsp; &nbsp;It was with tremendous relief that Jaelyn found this gentle man to be less like the Reverend Grimme back in Lost Angles and more like John Malta, the preacher who’d found her in the maze.&nbsp; It was evident in her small, tired smile when she handed over the sealed letter.&nbsp; “I believe this is for you, Father.”<br><br><br><hr><br>The aches and pains of her body were all but forgotten.&nbsp; It was her heart now that was broken and aching.&nbsp; Father Ortega had himself walked with the newly orphaned arrival, a consoling arm around the trembling shoulders as he introduced her to her new home.&nbsp; He had wisely asked for assistance from a lady parishioner, who helped the still stunned Jaelyn settle in to the rooms above the store.&nbsp; Her store.&nbsp; <br><br>The news of her father’s death was too fresh for total comprehension of her new status.&nbsp; Even after a night of fitful sleep and racking sobs, Jaelyn was not ready to reconcile the sudden change in her circumstances.&nbsp; The next day, was more terrible still as Deputy Charlie Flatbush escorted her to the body for identification.&nbsp; The sight would haunt her dreams, as would the smell of days old death.&nbsp; It filled her nose until she had to rush for the door to puke empty-belly bile onto the street.&nbsp; After that she was able to return on shaky legs to the body, wincing at the mauling injuries.&nbsp; It had been years since she saw her father, but she knew the ring on his pinky for certain.&nbsp; Trembling fingers tore it from his cold, dead one to read the still familiar etching on the inside.&nbsp; <br><br>Love...&nbsp; everlasting?&nbsp; Anger began stirring somewhere under all the sorrow.&nbsp; “It’s him,” was all she could manage, overcome with layers of sadness that some how never found her in Lost Angels.&nbsp; <br><br>“I know this is hard, Miss Scot-Jones, but perhaps you should see the banker while you’re in town.”&nbsp; The good deputy waxing efficient.&nbsp; She shook her head, fingers wrapped hard around the cheap wedding band.&nbsp; <br><br>“Not today, not… just yet.”&nbsp; The pain was too great to care about that.&nbsp; Her father, her hero, the one sure love of her life, had abandoned her to the hell of Lost Angels.&nbsp; It was near enough to soul crushing&nbsp; that she considered carrying out the mission just to be done with it all.&nbsp; How could he have done this?&nbsp; Love everlasting be damned!&nbsp; And with that thought, she ran, tears streaming, back to the rooms above the dead man’s store.&nbsp; <br><br>The woman from St Martin’s soon returned with food, few words and a helping hand.&nbsp; The two of them found a clean suit of clothes to bury the body in, taking time to pack the rest for charity.&nbsp; A stewing anger made this job an easy one for Jaelyn, her fingers caressing the small piles of folded cloth.&nbsp; Her father was rich.&nbsp; Okay, not rich, but money enough to eat well and dress well.&nbsp; When did he stop loving them, she and her mother?&nbsp; When did he stop with the everlasting love for his wife and daughter who were near to starving and wearing rags just a few days ride away?&nbsp; <br><br>The burial service was short and sweet.&nbsp; Even her anger at the unfairness of it all wasn’t enough to stem silent tears.&nbsp; Here she stood in a borrowed dress crying for the father she knew and loved, nearly blind and deaf to the consolations of strangers - her father’s friends - in attendance.&nbsp; Father Ortega held her icy hands in his warm ones for some time at the graveside, speaking of “mysterious ways” and “paths”.&nbsp; She nodded numbly, knowing full well that she didn’t care a hoot about a God whose plans would be so cruel.<br><br><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote"><strong>Thommy Jones' service was packed.&nbsp; Evidence that he owned the fairest general store in Gomorra, took requests, was personable and relatively generous.&nbsp; Besides his friend, Deputy Charlie Flatbush, and a few members of the Collegium, the bulk of the shop owners in Gomorra attended, as well as a half dozen working girls from his favored pleasure places.&nbsp; On top of that, there were more miners than could actually see the service and not a few Whippersnappers looking quite forlorn.</strong><br></blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ebb</strong> on <strong>09-04-2014, 23:19:53</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ac/600full-kenneth-branagh.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Tommy Flanagan (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9819558#msg9819558)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> 25 December, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> On the streets of Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Nell Robinson, closed<br><hr> <br><br>Growing up, Christmas had always been a special day for Tommy. Christmas was the day that men stayed home with their wives and children, them that had 'em, enjoying grand Christmas dinners and then heading out to church to show off what god-fearing men they were to all the other upstanding citizens. On Christmas there were brightly-wrapped presents and carols bumped off-key by cups of Christmas cheer. There were extra logs on the fire and no one complaining about the cold, brand new shoes and jackets, and plenty of pudding to go around.<br><br>At least, that's what Tommy imagined. In his personal experience the only benefit was that it was the one day of the year that those same god-fearing men felt too ashamed to seek their pleasure with a rented woman. And so the whorehouse got only half its usual customers. But those that came were lonely, desperate and mean. Christmas had been a special day growing up. But not a happy one.<br><br>Such maudlin thoughts pulled the corners of the normally cheerful man's mouth groundward as he trudged through the snow. There were none around to see. Though Gomorra wasn't exactly a family sort of town it seemed most of its citizens had managed to find some sort of company tonight, judging from the laughter and lights spilling out onto the snow-covered back street. Tommy paused under a slight overhang and began to roll another cigarette. <br><br>He'd been in town scarcely a month, living on savings and getting the lay of the land. Other than a few fellows he'd met across the card table he knew almost no one in town, certainly no one well enough to impose himself into their holidays. It would be difficult even to scrounge up a full table for poker, he knew, and his heart wasn't in it anyway. Under his coat he carried a bottle of whiskey, for which he'd paid a premium. It was very likely to be his only companion for the night, he thought, with a distinct lack of prophetic insight.<br><br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>The Dark Raven</strong> on <strong>20-04-2014, 00:24:05</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<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> Streets of Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Tommy Flanagan, closed<br><hr><br>She lingered near the doorway of one of the saloons, soaking up the lively music of a piano, tinny and cheerful, not so much what she was used to hearing and playing back home, though this one seemed to touch a chord in her and she hummed along as she moved on, nothing but the swirling of snow to accompany her.&nbsp; It was nice, and it was lonely too, but at least there was nothing to worry on here, like the expectations of her parents back in England.&nbsp; She refused to be tied down to someone who never cared to know anything about her but the sizeable dowry...<br><br>Suddenly, the arm of a strong man snaked out from between two buildings, caught her about the waist and pulled her into the dark with him,&nbsp; "Purty girl like you with a purty voice like that shouldn't spend her time alone, don'tcha think, little lady?"<br><br>With whiskey on his breath and a rock-hard bulge pressed against her belly, there was no question what he wanted.&nbsp; She shoved hard against his chest, fire in her eyes.&nbsp; "Not with the likes of you.&nbsp; I can do with my time to myself what I like, and you can't pay me enough..."<br><br>The man, he looked to be one of the filthy, dirt-poor miners new to town, sneered down at her as he grabbed her hands and slammed her up against the clapboard wall, heedless of the attention it might bring, his lips brought close (and with it the stench of his breath), as if to kiss her.&nbsp; "The likes of me?&nbsp; Purty talk, too.&nbsp; Yer just a whore like the rest of 'em.&nbsp; 'Cept you're purtier than the ones down the way.&nbsp; I like 'em purty, with allern teeth."&nbsp; He grinned lecherously at her before one hand reached down to flip up her skirt, groping between her legs.<br><br>"Yeah, just like 'em..." he muttered hotly, as he pushed a finger into her roughly, and she screamed.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ebb</strong> on <strong>21-04-2014, 07:20:31</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ac/600full-kenneth-branagh.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Tommy Flanagan (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9819558#msg9819558)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> 25 December, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Babel's Tower, Backstage<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Nell Robinson, Closed<br><hr> <br><br>The cigarette had burned down to a nub that was becoming painful to hold. Tommy considered lighting another off of the ember he still held, realizing that he was only delaying the return to a cold, empty boarding house room. The bottle beneath his coat was a temptation as well as a solace, and the demons he wrestled with weren't always placated by a strong hand of cards. He was still trying to make up his mind, waiting until the last second when the pain in his fingertips would make the decision for him, when he heard the scream.<br><br>It was short and sharp, cut off by something, and definitely a woman's voice. With the wind carrying sounds through the maze of clapboard streets he couldn't be sure that any ears other than his own had heard the cry. He only hesitated a moment. Likely it was none of his business, but on Christmas Day with no one in this godforsaken town to care about he could make an exception. The sound had come from down the street, away from the main thoroughfare, heading toward the edge of the mesa. He jogged, his boots making prints in the thin snow, until he saw motion from a dark alcove to his right.<br><br>A man and a woman, as common a sight in Gomorra as a spittoon in need of emptying. He'd seen enough such pairs, though, to know this one had not been a mutual decision. The woman's pale face was obscured by the man's meaty hand pressed over her mouth, nearly engulfing the lower half of her face but leaving her wide, frightened eyes clearly visible. The man was at least a foot taller than Tommy, dressed like a miner, his feet wrapped in rags rather than proper boots. The hand that didn't have the lady's head pinned to the wall was actively engaged in removing the obstacles that lay between him and his prize.<br><br>Laying a violent hand on a woman in Tommy's presence was not a wise idea. Not that Tommy always ended up on the winning side, but at least it sure wasn't going to pass without notice.<br><br>"You're gonna want to step back and unhand that lady, or things are gonna get real unpleasant real quick."<br><br>The big man turned in irritation at the interruption and sized up Tommy with one glance. The gambler could almost hear him figuring his odds. "Fuck off, runt. Getcher own whore." As the man turned toward him Tommy immediately noticed two things, his sharp eye having a knack for picking up details honed by years at the poker table. First, the man's cock was out, erect, and ready for business. Second, the man had somehow produced a pistol that looked banged up but serviceable, and equally poised to go off. Both offending instruments were pointed in Tommy's direction. He was rather more concerned about the latter one, and a tiny bit disturbed that he'd noticed the former one first.<br><br>It was just the way things happened in the serials. With the grin of a professional cardshark Tommy quickly drew his own gun and fired. At least that was what would have happened, if he hadn't been wearing his gunbelt under a long coat buttoned up against the cold. With impressive speed he filled his gun hand with a whole lot of nothing.<br><br>"Well shit," Tommy remarked.<br><br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>23-04-2014, 21:58:20</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><br><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div><br><strong>Name:</strong> Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br><br><strong>Faction:</strong> ()<br><br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 9th, 1876 (the day after Thommy Jones' funeral)<br><br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> early morning<br><br><strong>Location:</strong> in her home (w/in the Mercantile &amp; Trade)<br><br><strong>Tagged:</strong> open for observation only, NPC's - Whippersnappers / Albert<br><br><hr><br>Jaelyn lay in a bed, more soft and&nbsp; billowy than any she’d ever known - her dead father’s bed&nbsp; - and stared blindly up toward the ceiling.&nbsp; There were no more tears in her.&nbsp; At least not for the moment.&nbsp; &nbsp;All there was was the weight of the past days, pressing in and pushing down.&nbsp; And for one so thin limbed she felt heavy, heavy enough to sink into cotton and feathers deep enough to disappear.&nbsp; It just refused to happen for her.&nbsp; <br><br>A heavy sigh would have to suffice for the time being, as she moved to sit up on the edge of the bed.&nbsp; She felt cold, though it wasn’t so chilly as all that on this particular mesa morning.&nbsp; Still, the heart of her was cold and lonely.&nbsp; Lonely for the father she knew many years before.&nbsp; Why?&nbsp; It was all she wondered over the past three days, why had God brought her to this place.&nbsp; Not just the physical place of Gomorra, but the metaphorical place of a heartache more bitter than sweet, a whole new hell.&nbsp; <br><br>John Malta, the Maze preacher, had somehow convinced her that coming to Gomorra was the right thing to do.&nbsp; Not in so many words exactly, but he’d made her see it for herself until she believed it in her belly, just as she’d begun believing in his merciful God once again.&nbsp; <br><br>“Why?”&nbsp; Eyes closed, fingers gripping the bedclothes, she implored the emptiness with a whisper.&nbsp; It was the shortest prayer, a single word full of a multitude of questions.&nbsp; Moments later, Jae found herself feeding life to the cook stove in the kitchen below.&nbsp; She’d padded down in barefeet and a thin night dress, her state of undress nearly the farthest thing from her mind, a loose, thick braid down her back, hair still tousled from sleep.&nbsp; Water for strong, hot tea was her goal, craving something to chase away the frost on her tender soul. <br><br>On the evening of her arrival at St Martin’s, she’d been given the nightdress along with drawers and stockings.&nbsp; She was used to charity and accepted the used pieces gracefully.&nbsp; Borrowing was a different matter, and though the good Mrs Smith put no timestamp on the mourning dress and slippers, Jaelyn had wondered off and on how to deal with the issue of clothing.&nbsp; There were a few premade things in the store, basic and of coarse material but serviceable.&nbsp; The problem was, she had no money to reimburse the register for them.&nbsp; The fact that the store’s contents belonged entirely to her upon her father’s death somehow escaped the stunned orphan, so the dilemma would continue for a bit of time yet.<br><br>At the small dining table she settled with her cup, grateful for the bit of warmth it offered the icy fingers wrapped around it.&nbsp; There was a vague notion of life outside the windows, namely the chatter and ruckus of children, their youthful tinny voices carrying lightly on the desert air.&nbsp; They tended to congregate in a bunch on the raised porch at the front of the store, she noticed in her recent coming and goings, their short legs dangling when they took a break from running the streets or roughhousing and mostly keeping clear of the men who gathered on the longer side of the building.&nbsp; <br><br>Of a sudden, she smacked her chest as if to catch a breath there, or restart her heart.&nbsp; A face pressed close to the window was shrouded in shadow, but the height of its startled wide eyes quickly told half its tale.&nbsp; “You there!”&nbsp; Residual fright made her voice crack like a thin whip.&nbsp; She moved in a rush to catch the mini-interloper who was spurred on by his own fright.&nbsp; Throwing open the door, she called after what was clearly a mop headed boy still young enough for short pants skedaddling down the street.&nbsp; “You, boy!&nbsp; Come back here.”&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br><br>Several small faces leaned to peer at her from their front porch perches.&nbsp; “He’ll be back, Missus.”&nbsp; One of them chimed.&nbsp; Then another voice added, “Yeah, that just Albert.&nbsp; We tol’ im curiosity kills the cats.&nbsp; And kitties, too.”&nbsp; The head nodded sagely.&nbsp; Then another piped in, decidedly female, though there was no telling by her clothes, and gently defensive on behalf of the recent escapee.&nbsp; “He’s been missin’ Mr Thommy - yer daddy - sumthin fierce.&nbsp; So i guess the curious got the better of ‘im.&nbsp; Din’t mean no harm, Miss Jones.”&nbsp; <br><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>29-04-2014, 03:56:15</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div><br><strong>Name:</strong> Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br><br><strong>Faction:</strong> ()<br><br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 9th, 1876<br><br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> early morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> inside her home (attached to Jones' Mercantile &amp; Trade)<br><br><strong>Tagged:</strong> NPC Albert, closed<br><br><hr>Her daddy?&nbsp; Well, yes, he would have known these children.&nbsp; Was he drawn to them?&nbsp; Did they stand in for the daughter he left behind?&nbsp; Her nose crinkled with a wave of petty thoughts.&nbsp; A flash really; it wasn’t their fault, this ragged bunch of children.&nbsp; Hadn’t she had her own bunch of waywards in Lost Angels?&nbsp; <br><br>She stood observing them for a moment, a hand resting on the door frame as several new children joined the group only to have several others take off at a trot.&nbsp; What was this bit of strange behavior?&nbsp; There was a jogged memory of recent conversation…&nbsp; yes, there was the answer.&nbsp; Gomorra’s own local little post n’ parcel.&nbsp; “hmmmm…” she mused.&nbsp; <br><br>“Please, tell your friend, when he returns, I want to speak with him.”<br><br>“Shore, iffin the werewolfs don’t get ‘im first.”&nbsp; This followed by chuckles of bravado from the elders of the tribe and wide eyed concern from the youngest.&nbsp; <br><br>“The wah…. ?“&nbsp; Incredulity shifted to her right as a voice piped in, its owner’s face framed between the top of two battered pickets.&nbsp; The peeping tom had returned.<br><br>“Yooz can tell me yerself, Missus Jones.”&nbsp; He offered, adding bravely, “Aint no mangy wolf gonna get a drop on me, not even on m’ werst day.”&nbsp; Jaelyn could say nothing, just stood blinking, mouth agape.&nbsp; An expression only exaggerated further by the following, “Ya awl ways wear yer sleepin drawers fer public?”<br><br>She gasped, the moment akin to getting hit with a bucket of cold water.&nbsp; Taking a quick look down at her current attire, she duly noted the high hem, the skin showing from toes curled in a sudden seizure of shock to above the daintily made ankles.&nbsp; So speechless, all that escaped her lips was a strange, tiny squeak.&nbsp; Then thick door was slammed shut, leaving her to fall back against it, completely mortified.&nbsp; <br><br>Jae’s mind scrambled in a stunned slowness.&nbsp; It was early morning, true, but the world came alive before the sun ever rose in towns like Gomorra.&nbsp; Her attention had been on the children, and not those moving in the street.&nbsp; <em> Good Lord!</em>&nbsp; Such flagrant indiscretion was not like her; maybe when she was yet a child herself, but not in many years, not since time spent at The Cathedral.&nbsp; The shame of it slapped patches of red color high on her otherwise pale cheeks. <em>Dear Lord, what a way to start the day.</em>&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>A noise brought her attention back to the side window and the small face returned there.&nbsp; “You!”&nbsp; This time when she moved, the boy didn’t scare off, so when she managed to lift the window, he was there still.&nbsp; And not exactly alone, she could see now.&nbsp; His partner in crime, if not older, was at least bigger.&nbsp; The raised bottom floor of the building, allowing for a basement half sunk in the ground, required the assistant - on whose shoulders the young miscreant kneeled - in order to be tall enough for peeping.&nbsp; Before clear thought and sanity returned, Jae grabbed two fists full of imp shirt and hauled him in through the window.&nbsp; It was clear when his fellow turned tail, as the boy yelled and kicked his feet in delayed protest.&nbsp; After scrambling to find his feet on this side of the glass, she pointed to a chair tucked under the dining table.&nbsp; “SIT!”<br><br>She waited, arms akimbo, while from under a mess of filthy, matted curls he gave her a measuring look.&nbsp; Finally coming to some decision, he pulled out the offered chair, but before his bottom was settled on the smooth wood, he started.&nbsp; “Like m’fellers said, Missus Jones, din’t mean no harm.”<br><br>Her blue eyes narrowed at him.&nbsp; “It’s Miss.&nbsp; Miss Scot-Jones.&nbsp; And peeking in windows is a crime.”&nbsp; <br><br>He laughed, shaking his head, “There be werse things than bein’ nosey, Missus.&nbsp; eerr Miss.”&nbsp; Turning serious again, his eyes took in her current attire.&nbsp; “We all jus’ wanted to know if’in you was crazy like that Whateley woman.”&nbsp; <br><br>“Who?”&nbsp; Whateley was not a name she easily recognized, though with limited local knowledge that wasn’t a surprise.&nbsp; So she was left vaguely confused.&nbsp; “No!&nbsp; What…&nbsp; ?”&nbsp; This child was pushing buttons she didn’t know existed.&nbsp; “You just stay there.”&nbsp; She said in a huff before going to the kitchen to retrieve the chemise that was hand washed the night before and hung near the stove to dry.&nbsp; She’d also spent a good part of the previous evening mending the old, tattered dress, which she would have to wear today, saving the borrowed black for the next day’s trial by fire.&nbsp; “Try not to steal anything.”&nbsp; She tossed harshly on her way up the stairs.<br><br>Albert had never been so insulted.&nbsp; Well maybe he had, but he wasn’t aware of it at the time, so it didn't count.&nbsp; Now though, his pride was pricked, spurring a bit of self defense.&nbsp; “No ‘Snapper werth their salt theeves!”&nbsp; He shouted after her.&nbsp; Did she think he had a death wish?&nbsp; Realizing the double edge to the insult he added petulantly, “‘Sides, i’s don’t steal from frenz, and Mr Thommy was a goodun!”&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br><br><hr><br>Jae dressed quickly, with no corset - or need of one - it was easy enough.&nbsp; She was sure it wasn’t wise to leave the boy alone to wander, even after hearing his defensive retort.&nbsp; His continued grumbling, the childish voice full of outrage told her he hadn’t moved from the dining room.&nbsp; <em>What in the world have i done coming here?</em>&nbsp; Emotionally exhausted and suddenly feeling lonely she sat on the edge of the just made bed.&nbsp; Cleanliness, neatness, these were virtues easily understood, besides the action delayed her having to face the boy who had been such an obvious part of the last years of her father’s life.<br><br>If she thought there were no more tears, she was wrong.&nbsp; They were silent at first, though eventually the soft sobs drew her company up the stairs, his outrage forgotten in the face of her sadness.&nbsp; “Sorry, Miss.&nbsp; Din’t mean to make ya cry like that.”<br><br>Drawing the back of her hand across her sniffle wet nose, Jaelyn couldn’t stir up much of her previous indignation.&nbsp; “It’s not your fault…&nbsp; Albert, is it?”&nbsp; She looked at him then down to the ring helf in her fingers; she didn’t remember picking it up from top of the small chest of drawers.<br><br>“Yeah, Albert.”&nbsp; He blinked and swallowed before stepping closer.&nbsp; “Wish i could make ya feel better.”&nbsp; She nodded in agreement, a tight smile valiantly fighting another rush of tears.&nbsp; “Mr Thommy told us how you awl ways made him feel better.&nbsp; When you was liddle like me, i mean.”<br><br>Head tipped, she was just a little curious now.&nbsp; “Really?”&nbsp; He nodded.<br><br>“Uh huh.&nbsp; Said yood crawl up on his lap n’ pet his face n’ he’d feel better.”&nbsp; <br><br>“Huh.&nbsp; Imagine that.”&nbsp; Jae’s eyes lit warmly with the memory.&nbsp; When he came home weary from a hard day’s labor or bruised and battered from some gambling debt beat down, she would climb onto his lap, her little hands drawing his face down to hers until they were nose to nose, forehead to forehead, and wish him all better.&nbsp; After some seconds pause, Thommy would laugh heartily as he sprang up with Jae in hand to claim a full recovery.&nbsp; His strong, safe arms would lift her high over head while praising his little angel's healing powers.&nbsp; The miniature Jaelyn would squeal and giggle in delight as Renae looked on, shaking her head, a tender smile curving her mouth.&nbsp; So long ago...&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>Her reverie drew to a close as the boy came closer yet, lifting his grubby little hands to her face.&nbsp; Jae hadn’t the heart to stop him with an expression so earnest, so ignored the mix of grit and sticky sweat on his palms as well as the odor of his unwashed clothes and body.&nbsp; Instead she leaned forward until their foreheads met and waited as heart beats passed.<br><br>“Ya feelin better now, Miss?&nbsp; I be hopin’ real hard.”&nbsp; <br><br>She smiled then, nodding as the taste of her tears turned from bitter to sweet, and fell - just a little bit - in love.&nbsp; 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>The Dark Raven</strong> on <strong>07-05-2014, 03:35:41</strong>
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				<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> Streets of Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Tommy Flanagan, Closed<br><hr><br>Wild eyes pleaded with the red headed young man for his help, hopeful at his approach, but not so much when his draw was much less productive than her attacker.&nbsp; Her own wits were quick though, and she opened her mouth under the meaty palm cutting off most of her air and licked him.<br><br>The miner's attention shifted from the red-headed man to her, his hand drawing away and backhanding her roughly.&nbsp; "You mind yourself, little lady.&nbsp; I'll deal with you..."<br><br>For all the bravado of the young man, Nell wasn't exactly sure if he could lure the miner away and if the outcome would not be the same with a fool of a hero with his head bashed in somewhere in the back streets of the town.&nbsp; Perhaps here was another way to buy him time...<br><br>"Oh, I'm sure you would <em>deal</em> with me, but you haven't the money to <em>pay</em> for me.&nbsp; And I'm sure your boss might think about it, but then <em>he'd</em> have the privilege and not you..."
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ebb</strong> on <strong>07-05-2014, 20:31:08</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ac/600full-kenneth-branagh.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Tommy Flanagan (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9819558#msg9819558)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> 25 December, 1875<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Streets of Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Nell Robinson, Closed<br><hr> <br><br>As a dime novel protagonist Tommy left something to be desired. Few successful rags featured the hero getting shot to death on page three after fumbling the drawing of his own gun. Almost none, in fact. "Thrilling Tales of Watching Women Getting Raped In Front Of You While You're Helpless to Prevent It" might have survived as a niche publication, but certainly behind the counter and not in front of it at the general store. Tommy tended to be a more "in front of the counter" sort of gentleman.<br><br>It was clear that the brute had a mind that was at best single-track and at worst more like plans for a railway line to eventually come through sometime in the next few years. The gorgeous redhead's gambit -- and wouldn't that be a good name for a serial novel, Tommy though. The Gorgeous Redhead's Gambit. Maybe not alliterative enough. And... he realized his thoughts were rambling again. Side effect of the adrenaline, perhaps -- had bought him a few moments, but the thug's gun was still in his hand, while Tommy's was securely bound beneath several layers of heavy cloth, thus insuring it would not get cold, which was clearly the worst possible thing that could happen on a back street of Gomorra.<br><br>Her distraction had given him time enough to escape, probably. And then how would he look this woman in the eye ever again? Or any woman at all? Or the mirror?<br><br>Gomorra was a town constantly balanced between rampant construction and utter devastation. Aside from the larger metaphorical lessons that could be drawn from such a condition, it also meant that a good solid piece of leftover lumber was usually within arm's reach. Tommy took up a plank that was leaning against the wall of a nearby building, perhaps destined for the work on a second-story extension taking place above their heads. He raised it above his head with both hands and moved toward the man. Sure, he was a big guy, but a solid shot on the head from a good piece of oak should still ---<br><br>Click. The hammer pulled back as the shadow of Tommy's approach drew the man's attention again. "You've done wasted your last chance there, rat. Time to die."<br><br>Tommy dropped the inadequate weapon, giving it enough of a toss that it wouldn't hit him on the way down. Without lowering his hands from their position above his head he drew a hand of playing cards. Not natural, these cards, and not pulled from any hidden compartment up his sleeve. If one were to look closely one could see the design of the card backs was disturbing in the extreme, a tightly woven knot of serpents and more fell creatures writhing around, quite literally, the spectral ink in motion forming a hypnotizing pattern. Tommy tried to never look at the card backs, as a matter of principle and sanity. He'd seen the land that the cards were drawn from. He'd visited it, just now, in the time that it took the board to fall to the height of his shoulders.<br><br>And he hadn't come back alone.<br><br>Knowing what was going to happen and dreading the feeling all the same, Tommy looked up at the cards in his hand. Four Queens, and a seven. The plank had reached his waist, and the man's finger was squeezing the trigger. At this range a miss would be pretty unlikely, even given the distraction of a voluptuous woman pinned to the wall in front of you. Then again, four of a kind was pretty unlikely too. Merry Christmas.<br><br>The soul fire exploded from Tommy's hand, engulfing the cards and turning them to spectral ash that joined the lance of blue flame stabbing toward the thug. It struck him in the back with almost physical force but did not penetrate; nothing touched the woman behind him. As time sped up again the board hit the ground, followed almost immediately by the man's gun, followed by the much larger thump of the lifeless body.<br><br>Then there was silence save for the dully filtered Christmas music coming from unaware celebrants in the nearby houses.<br><br>"It...it wasn't supposed to do that," Tommy offered, for the rictus on the man's face clearly showed he was not just enjoying an unscheduled slumber, which more or less had been Tommy's plan. Not the joker's plan, though, and on occasions such as this the temporary supernatural resident of his body tended to cast the tiebreaker vote. Now Tommy was alone again, save for the woman standing before him, and alone was how he was going to have to face the consequences. Jokers weren't really charmed with the idea of sticking around for the consequences.<br><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Wulfspire</strong> on <strong>07-05-2014, 21:29:22</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/7/7a/Josh_Brolin_True_Grit.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Christian “Spooky” Spectre, Sasha Berrings <br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong> Summer 1869<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Evening to Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Dodge, Kansas<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Closed<br><hr><br><br><div align="center"><strong>The Song of Scars<br>Act One</strong></div> <br><br>There is really only one thing that anyone ever knew about Christian Spectre, and that was he was a cold-hearted, murdering son of a bitch. He walked into town, hunting The Man in Black, and nine times out of ten, left a body or two behind him. If there were two things that anyone ever knew about Christian Spectre it would be that he was a stupidly brave or lacked the ability to fear altogether. He never walked away from a fight, never backed down, and so far, he had never lost.<br><br>There was, however, a third thing that only a select few knew, and that was that Christian Spectre was capable of so much more than killing. He could love, he could be gentle, he could be sensual even, but getting past the barriers, the walls, and the bad attitude was a challenge few women ever could ever shoulder. Sasha Berrings, however, was one of those women.<br><br>She was an “Entertainer” at the Backroom Saloon, a seedy place in Dodge, Kansas. Lots of violence happened in Dodge, and very few were spared from it. Sasha was no exception. She had caught a stray bullet on the cheek. It had never penetrated her skull, never put her in a danger, but it had ruined what had otherwise been as perfect a visage as any ever seen in Bloody Kansas. Christian would have, and eventually did, describe her as a tall drink of water. Legs that looked like they went on forever, curves that could make a priest’s head spin, and her face…oh her face was divine. Oval shaped, with porcelain smooth structure, and hair the color of maple syrup. Sasha Berrings was an angel. Or, at least she had been.<br><br>That stray bullet that grazed her cheek had scarred the left side of face. She was a singer at the largest, most upstanding theater in Dodge, though that of course was not saying much. The point was she could have entertained at any opera or theater on the East Coast, but then she took that bullet. The owner of the theater, some failed businessman from Charlotte, fired her the day after, just when the Doc told her she was going to live. Living, unfortunately, wasn’t cheap.<br><br>Soon, she was working at the Backroom, doing what she had to do to survive. Sucking cock, giving a cowboy or a soldier a quick poke, and a variety of other activities that she would have rather forgotten. She did this for just over a year, before her story really began; when Christian rode into town. The year was 1869, and it was summer time, and it was hot. Hot and dry, and miserable as could be. It had been more than two months since rain had graced anywhere near Dodge, and it was bone parched.<br><br>Christian was passing through town, though he was always passing through town. The hunt for The Man in Black did not allow such luxuries as putting down roots, settling a home, and especially not making friends. Enemies, however, were another story. Christian had made plenty of enemies in his short time roaming the West; bandits, outlaws, and even a lawman or two. Dodge was a new town on his circuit, however, and the local sheriff and marshal knew him by reputation only. That was soon to change.<br><br>Sauntering into the Backroom, Christian glared around the room. The last four years had been hard on Christian, the death of Wallace Carmichael weighed on his mind every day. That weight had turned into an anchor on his spirits and that caused his mood to always be foul. So, a glare was about the best possible expression he could have given. The room was sparse, given it was the afternoon, yet still a few drunks and lechers were in attendance for Ms. Berrings’ performance. Christian walked in during the middle of one of her songs. It was an upbeat song about finding love and it lasting forever. Despite her majestic voice, to Christian the song sounded empty, or maybe sad. The words held no meaning for her it seemed, or perhaps the song was an irony or a painful remainder.<br><br>Sasha mesmerized him all the same. The way her lips formed the words, her teeth glittering in the soft sunlight from the contrasting dark, dirty windows. Her make-up was tasteful, natural colors complimenting her features. She wore only her nightie, the shoulder straps around her elbows, breasts poking out the top. Her arms made motions to cover her nipples to give her some sort of modesty, but that only earned her jeers and heckling from the crowd. She paid them no mind, but a scowl from the owner, a fat man with a disgusting leer, sent her arms back to waving in time to her music. Her long legs swayed with the music played by a piano man, his eyes averted from her exposure and when he looked to her he gave a reassuring smile, right to her eyes.<br><br>Sasha’s frown, or melancholy, or apathy (it was impossible for Christian to make heads or tails of which it was) never changed, her song of love and happiness intoned with sadness. That sadness spoke to Christian. The loss of Wallace, his homesickness, the failure to find The Man in Black had boiled up inside him, but her words, her inflections of the words, released those feelings within him, gave him some relief from the pressure. She, in the span of moments, provided him some safe harbor from the insane swirl of death and chaos that had become Christian’s life.<br><br>When her song ended, and Sasha left the stage in a swirl of flesh and fabric. The patrons called out their displeasure, but it was soon quieted by the arrival of another performer. Christian ignored the girl, a blonde, and moved to join Sasha at the bar as quickly as he could. A couple of rough and tumble brigands were accosting the woman, grabbing and fondling, groping her, though she made no attempt to stop them. Christian grabbed the first one by his collar and threw him to the ground, the second spun to meet Christian head-on. A fist from the brute collided with Christian’s nose, knocking him back a step, but before the man could follow through, he found a gun barrel stuck up his nose.<br><br>“Just cleaned her yesterday, I bet she smells purty,” Christian growled to the man, “You ever smelt just fired gunpowder?” Christian cocked the hammer back on Reaper, the distinct click echoing in the suddenly silent room.<br><br>The man could only snarl, but he didn’t dare move. He was a large man, brutish even. Teeth uneven, face unshaven, and ugly to boot. There was a certain malice in the man’s eyes, a defiance despite his close brush with death.<br><br>“What’s your name?” Christian asked, voice filled with a righteous fury.<br><br>The man, however, remained silent, sidestepping slowly to have his back to the door. Christian’s gun remained firmly implanted an inch into the man’s nostril.<br><br>“I said, what is your name, boy?”&nbsp; Christian snarled.<br><br>“Wilcox. Buck Wilcox,” the brute finally spoke. His voice was husky and deep. To the rest of the patrons, the mention of the name Wilcox should have been the end of the argument. The Wilcox Boys were a local terror, scaring up townsfolk and roughing them up. Stealing cattle and horses, robbing banks, and enjoying the simple pleasures of inflicting pain, suffering, and undue punishment on the masses.<br><br>“Well, Fuck Littlecox,” Christian spit the mockery of the man’s name at him, “you leave this saloon, and you start running. My name is Christian. Christian Spectre.”<br><br>That name well and truly put an end to the argument. Christian had built his reputation enough that hearing you were face-to-face with Spooky meant death wasn’t far behind. Buck’s eyes grew wide as his brain registered the memory of the man said to have faced down some of the fastest draws west of the Mississippi and was the last one standing.<br><br>Buck put both of his hands above his head and started a slow backwards walk towards the door. Christian never turned his stare from him, and Buck never looked away either. The Wilcox boy swallowed hard though when Christian’s eyes flashed, the infamous glare coming across his face. When Buck reached the door he turned his backwards march into a forwards run towards the edge of town. He was followed by the sounds of laughter from the remaining patrons at the Backroom.<br><br>Christian put the drunken applause to his chivalrous protection of the young woman aside, and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, “You alright, ma’am?”<br><br>Sasha began to speak her thanks, when she was cut off by the fat owner of the Backroom, “You there! Unacceptable! That man was a paying customer! You have cost me my due!”<br><br>Christian had the strong urge to turn his pistol and let some air out of the fat man with a couple of well-placed bullet holes, but the man did not even have a weapon. He could never justify the killing, to the law or to himself. Instead, he holstered the pistol and drew out a couple of golden eagles. “This cover enough for a few hours?” he said, gesturing to Sasha.<br><br>“One hour,” the greedy little bastard insisted.<br><br>Christian pulled out two more eagles, “The night. Take it or leave it.”<br><br>The fat man pondered the deal for a bit. One Golden Eagle was more than he usually earned from Sasha. Her injury had kept her from becoming a better earner within the Backroom, but her figure still brought in enough to keep her around. The greedy bastard was astute, and could see something about the woman attracted Christian, so he knew he could get more. A continued haggle with a famous killer was more risky than profitable, however, so the man eventually agreed.<br><br>Sasha timidly led Christian to the small bedroom she now called a home, and an office. The room they found themselves in was little better than a shanty. The walls were empty, the wood unadorned with art or keepsakes that Sasha might have gathered during her short life. The bed was little more than a flat piece of wood with a blanket on top, and as far as comfort level went a coffin would’ve felt better on the back.<br><br>As soon as the door was shut she obediently got onto the bed and took off her clothes, exposing herself to Christian. Her breasts were perky, still full of youth, but bruised from misuse from previous customers. She was almost unhealthily skinny, her ribs apparent. Her long legs held little meat to them as well, her backside holding an equal amount of bruises as compared to her bosom. Her eyes were cast downward, not looking at him or anything in particular. Her bright blue eyes simply staring into the void of her own soul.<br><br>She said not a word, and the dead look on her face spoke to the misery she found herself in. Christian frowned. He had never been above taking to whores, the soiled doves usually provided him some small relief in his never-ending pursuit of The Man in Black. Sasha was different. She lacked any passion for the job. Her complete lack of expression touched a part of Christian that he had forgotten about. He felt a connection to the woman, laid bare before him, a kinship in the loss they both felt.<br><br>“Put yer damn clothes back on,” Christian drawled out, a touch of regret in his gravel-filled tone.<br><br>She flinched when he talked, and that sparked another pang of sadness within the gunslinger. As she had walked in, she donned her clothing back and spoke softly, “I’m sorry...I’ll tell Mr. Thompson I wasn’t what you expected.” At that, she began making her way towards the door to the room.<br><br>Christian, however, grabbed her arm. It was not as gently as he had intended, but much better than what she had expected. “You’re….well, uh...you’re fine. Its just I aint out fer what you think I’m out fer. I just want a peace-able night.”<br><br>That was not unusual for Christian Spectre. Being a legendary gunslinger came with a very steep price. He was expected to own up to that reputation nearly daily, and some men thought they could make their fame by murdering him in his bed. A night with a whore usually meant he was safe, as he had someone to watch his back. Most soiled doves wanted violence in their place as little as Christian did, so they usually gave him a bit of an early warning. <br><br>“You…” Sasha ran her hand clumsily, hesitantly from her crotch to between her breasts, “Don’t want me?” It was not that she wanted Christian, but it was her job to please her customers, or Thommy, the fat owner of the Backroom Saloon, would see she pay for it. With a beating, among more less pleasant things.<br><br>“Darlin’, that aint it at all,” Christian said, taking a deep breath, his broad shoulders finally relaxing and sagging down, “I need a decent night’s rest, you needed someone to keep that damn Lil’Cox off of ya. A poke don’t give me that decent rest, and you’ll just be tradin’ one set of rough hands for another.”<br><br>Sasha’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “You just want to sleep? That, and come to my rescue?” The timid little woman was starting to grow a backbone. While her current profession was one she was ashamed of, what she hated more than anything was a liar.<br><br>“Comin’ to yer rescue I thought might’ve earned me that sleep. Do ya disagree?” Christian’s raised eyebrows spoke to the impatience with which he felt for her doubt. He had just kept her out of the hands of a man that would have added to those bruises across her thighs and tits.<br><br>The whore chose not to say anything then. Christian, she decided, was correct. He was not there to hurt her, and his voice was genuine, if gruff. While he may have played her knight in shining armor, he was honest about why. The gunslinger was not out for her to show her gratitude with her mouth, or her cunt, or in any other way. He told her exactly what he wanted. A good night’s sleep. She knew who he was, working in a bottom-rung saloon in Dodge, Kansas gave her her fair share of rumors. He was a killer, a murderous, cold-hearted celebrity and yet he just wanted to sleep. <br><br>“I’ll keep you safe,” Sasha spoke finally, her back a little straighter, her eyes looking into Christian’s own. <br><br>He laughed at that. A true, hearty laugh. The notion he needed protection from the waif of a girl was ridiculous, but it was true. He was the fastest draw in the West, at least as far as he knew, but in his sleep he was as vulnerable as any man he had faced down. The young woman, the whore, would watch over him as he slept, keeping him safe from those things that might wish him harm in the dead of the night.<br><br>“Sounds like a deal,” Christian said, his rough voice graced with warm amusement for the first time in years. The first time since Wallace died a few years ago. <br><br>The next hour passed without much talking. Christian removed his pack, then his shirt, and Sasha saw someone who was more disfigured than she. Christian had more than a couple holes in his body. Scars of bullets and stabbings from men that did not take kindly to being gunned down in the street, or their fathers, brothers, or sons getting the same. He had survived it all, however, the scars wrote a song on his body that made it clear to Sasha why he had asked her to watch over him. Sleeping could not come easily to a man who had been through so much.<br><br>Her hands moved to those scars, examining their feel, the rough crater of a long healed wound that should have killed him; the ridgeline of a knife slash trying to take his innards; the not quite healed line of a broken collar bone from a shotgun slug. He had taken more punishment in the last few years than most men had in a lifetime. <br><br>Each time her small, delicate hands moved across him, Christian had flinched. Most women he had been with found them repulsive, evidence he was a violent man and someone that did not want sharing their bed. Sasha, however, found them comforting. her own scar had taken her livelihood, her talent, and made her the object of the roughest men’s cruel desires. This gunslinger was a kindred spirit, a wound still unhealed, and it called to her.<br><br>Before Christian could think, which is saying something rather incredible considering Christian’s reflexes, she wrapped him up in a hug. Her thin frame pressed against him, she buried her face in his chest, tears pouring from her eyes as she softly sobbed. The gunslinger was flabbergasted, it had been almost ten years since he had seen a gal cry like this, and it had been his sister when his father had been gunned down. It had been when Christian said he was going to go after The Man in Black.<br><br>His stunned arms slowly wrapped around her in a hug, as they stood there in the middle of her dark, dreary bedroom. She cried, and cried for what seemed an hour. Everyone now and again she would wipe her eyes, apologize for her foolishness and try to pull away from Christian. His heart told him, however, that she did not want to be let go, and he would pull her in tighter, and the tears would start again.<br><br>Finally, those tears dried up, the sobs turned into soft snores because she had put herself to sleep. She had stopped supporting her own weight fifteen minutes ago, Christian had picked her up to hold her, knowing sleep would be the only cure to his sadness. He ungracefully carried her to the bed, or blanketed plank of wood depending on the perspective, and she did not awaken. Once on the absent mattress, Sasha curled into a ball, and Christian was able to cover her with a quilt. It was a fine quilt, something Sasha had from her time before the scar. Her mother had made it for her after her first performance at a theater in St. Louis. Despite all that had happened since, the scar, the prostitution, the vile pit she now found herself, she had held on to that quilt. Christian crawled into the bed beside her, a smirk on his face as he thought about the lack of sleep he was now about to get. This was perhaps the most costly night of paranoid insomnia the gunslinger had ever had. Yet, he did not mind. If someone had asked him about it the next day, he would have told them, in a truly grumpy, mean-spirited way, that they should mind their own damn business and quit prying into what he and a whore might be doing all night. The loss of sleep was insignificant to the feeling that Sasha had provided him with. <br><br>He had lived the past several years, more than half a decade now, with a singular, vengeful purpose in mind: kill The Man in Black. Sasha, even if for only tonight, provided him with a purpose far more meaningful, giving her something he would likely never find, and that was peace. he sat with his back against the wall, as the bed lacked any sort of finery, including a headboard. His stetson hung on the wall atop his duster. He groaned a little as he removed his boots,&nbsp; they had become attached to his feet from the walking he had done. His pants stayed on, he wanted to remove the temptation he felt for the beautiful woman beside him. The gunslinger was meant to protect her, not fuck her. Before long, however, this feeling of peace, of purpose, took down his guard, along with his eyelids. Christian drifted to sleep, to a land of dreams, but tonight, it was a land of nightmares.<br><br>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br><br>Thunder rolled across the empty desert Christian found himself in. The sands were tinted a sickly green, the horizon twisted and rolled as if a mirage. A gripping fear tore at his heart, though its source was not apparent. Reaper hung at Christian’s side, as it always did, and he found some small comfort in the weapon’s presence. <br><br>The clothes Christian wore, however, took him a moment recognize. They were his father’s clothes. They were the shirt and trousers he was wearing the day The Man in Black gunned him down, right in front of Christian and the rest of his family. It was a rough, well-worn flannel shirt, and dirty denim pants.&nbsp; The reds and browns drowned out in the emerald tint from the dying star above. Several stars twinkled around the sun, as even though the sun was out, it still looked as though it were twilight. <br><br>Christian then saw his mother, and his sister standing a few yards away. They looked at him with disgust, or disappointment. No, it was neither of those things. It was worse than that. They both looked terrified from being near him. Christian reached out, tried to tell them it was ok, he was coming home, but a gust of wind picked up. The wind blown sand tore the skin from their bones, and soon only their skeletons were left standing, which crumpled into the dust. Christian tried to scream, but found he had no voice.<br><br>Then the whistling started. <div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">The Song</div><div class="spoiler_body">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1rl8hPyKh4</div></div><br>It was the tune of an old hymn, A Closer Walk with Thee was what Christian thought it was, he had heard it a few times since, usually in the services with Wallace. The reason he knew the song, however, was much more sinister than some hymn whistled. The Man in Black had whistled it the entire time he had drawn on his father, shot him, and as he walked away.<br><br>Christian slowly spun on his heel, and there lay the reason his entire life had turned into a long, bloody tale of woe. The Man in Black. His head was down, his lips the only thing that Christian could see, they were puckered together, whistling that damnable tune, mocking him with its uptempo. The Man’s hat, a black leather bowler obscured his features but Christian knew the man was watching him. A long-barreled pistol hung from The Man’s hip, his left hand dancing just above it.<br><br>This was it, this was the moment that Christian had been waiting for, pushing for for almost a decade. He was about to draw down on The Man in Black. While the tune continued, Christian squared off against the man, his stare matching the absent whistling of The Man. This showdown lasted several minutes before Christian’s nerves finally got to him and he went for Reaper. The Man in Black was faster, though, and Christian flew backward from a shot to the sternum. Bleeding and broken, Christian hit the ground. The Man in Black, still whistling, sauntered over to stand above Christian. Finally, the gunslinger could see the villains face, could put a visage to the hatred. But, the eyes Christian stared into, as he coughed blood, were his own. <br><br>The face of The Man in Black was his own, Christian dying and defeated, watched himself walk away from his own murder. What happened next was perhaps even more surreal. The ghostly hands of everyone Christian had put down erupted from the sands below him and began dragging him down. Christian knew he was being pulled down to Hell, and the murderous bastard of The Man in Black was walking away. Despite being taken under ground, air deprived from his lungs, Christian gave one final roar of fury, one final scream for vengeance.<br><br>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br><br>“Mr. Spectre, wake up!” Sasha was shaking him, her pleas and his own shouting dragging him from the nightmare and back to reality.<br><br>He was covered in sweat, his hair a mess from the tossing and turning of the restless sleep.&nbsp; She had donned a tattered robe, and the look of concern in her eyes tore Christian from the brink of insanity, the realm of not knowing when a dream ends and the real world begins. He blinked a few times, and took an offered glass of water from Sasha. The glass was dirty, the water had more brown in it than he would have preferred, but his throat was parched, raw from his screams.<br><br>“I...I’m sorry you had to see that, darlin’” Christian said after a few gulps of water, his heart finally returning to a normal pace.<br><br>“Do all of your dreams fill you with such terror?” Sasha asked, her worry over him apparent. She rested a hand on his, squeezing gently. Her skin melted the ice of fear in his soul. It provided him some relief.<br><br>“More often’n I’d like,” Christian said, his honesty and openness a surprise even to him.<br><br>“Mr. Thompson will be wanting you out, you created quite,” she paused while a flash of lightning, followed by distant thunder rattled the room, “a disturbance this morning. Woke up many other customers.”<br><br>Christian stood and and began dressing again and noticed something odd. There was a small bag of luggage next to his pack. It was adorned in golden flowers, made of a thick fabric. Then he noticed that Sasha was dressed, cleaned up a bit even. Her form was even more beautiful underneath the green dress she wore, her feminine curves complemented by the cut of the dress,&nbsp; and the quilt he’d covered her with was folded neatly beneath the luggage.<br><br>“Mr. Spectre, I never told you my name. I am Sasha Berrings,” she extended her hand, and Christian confusedly took her fingers into his hand and brought her knuckles to his lips to kiss. His mother had taught him at least a few manners before he left. “I would like to join you on your travels, if you’ll have me.”<br><br>The poor gunslinger was dumbfounded. Few people could do that to Christian Spectre. It was not that he was more intelligent, or wittier, the reason few could render the gunslinger speechless was because if he didn’t understand or was confused by what someone said, he just growled and walked away, or shot them. <br><br>“Darlin’...err...Sasha, the road I walk, the path I take, it aint no place for a lady,” Christian said as he released her hand. After his nightmare, it was time he refocused his efforts on The Man in Black. He had to put an end to this torment.<br><br>“I, as you have seen, am no lady. Or, at the very least, not anymore. Please, Mr. Spectre, I need to leave this place, you travel, and you seem to put my mind at ease. Your presence, it is comforting. Please, let me accompany you,” her voice started off defiant, strong, and ended in a plea. Christian thought she may be begging for her life.<br><br>“N...well...Ok. Where I’m goin’ though, aint havin’ too many comforts. The dirt’ll be yer bed, the stars yer ceilin’. My path tends to grow wet with blood, but I s’pose you can travel with me s’long as you can stand it,” which Christian guessed would last until the next town outside of Dodge.<br><br>Sasha’s eyes brightened, and an even brighter smile tore across her face. The scar on her cheek seemed to disappear when she smiled.&nbsp; “Oh thank you, Mr. Spectre!” she jumped to hug him.<br><br>Christian took a backstep under the surprise embrace, “Weh...well, first, call me Christian. Or, Chris,” he said as he slowly repaid the hug in kind. Her body felt good against his own. A comforting, intimate gesture that he had not had in some time. Her affection was quickly growing on the gunslinger.<br><br>“Not Spooky?” Sasha said, pulling back from the hug to look into the grizzled gunslinger’s eyes. At the mention of the name, she saw only pain, perhaps a bit of anger, and she lowered her eyes.<br><br>“I’d prefer not. Never cared for that nickname,” he said softly, the gravel in his voice giving a hint of melancholy. The nickname only ever reminded him of Wallace, and that reminder only ever re-opened old wounds.<br><br>Sasha brushed the outside of her fingers along his cheek, which drew his eyes to hers, “Happily, Chris. Thank you...thank you so very much.”<br><br>Christian just nodded in reply, packing the rest of his stuff up as the thunderstorm outside grew nearer and nearer. As they left Sasha’s room for the last time, Christian gathered her luggage in his hand, and they walked out of the Backroom Saloon. The fat, slob of an owner yelled something in protest of Christian taking away one of his girls, but he quickly scurried away when Christian shot him one of his famous glares. <br><br>The streets were starting to crowd as people were going about their business. The early morning was cooler than the rest of the day, and with the storm moving in, people wanted to be done. Christian walked, slower than normal, as Sasha hung on his arm, the unspoken attraction between the two manifesting in small, simple ways. They were on the last street before exiting the west of town when the shout rang out.<br><br>“SPECTRE!”<br><br>Christian stopped in the middle of the street, which was quickly emptying of people. This situation was all too familiar to the gunslinger. He was about to have to kill someone. He and Sasha were just beginning, and now someone was going to force Christian to show her his dark side. He gestured for her to run to the side of the street, and the slowly turned his head. There stood Buck WIlcox. His brutish form in the middle of the street, a Colt Navy Pistol on his hip. <br><br>“Well...if it aint Lil’Cock,” Christian grumbled, a smirk on his face. On his right heel, he slowly turned to face down the ugly bastard that had laid hands on Sasha just the day before.<br><br>“You shut yer damn mouth, ya Spooky bastard,” Buck snarled, “Its time fer me ta teach ya some manners.”<br><br>“Christian!” Sasha called, fear deep in her voice from the porch of a nearby general store. <br><br>The gunslinger slowly held a hand up to Sasha and gave her a quick nod, reassuring her that all was well. It still did not sit well with her, but she knew, just by Christian’s reputation alone, that he was not backing down. Buck had called him out, and Christian never walking away from that.<br><br>“Well,” Christian growled to his opponent, “draw, big feller.”<br><br>The thunder rolled across the empty streets of Dodge, KS. The dirt and dust beneath Christian’s feet kicking up. The rain began to fall as the two squared off, water splashing across the dirty face of Buck and off the felt of Christian’s stetson. The two men stared at each other, and Buck began to realize exactly what he’d gotten himself into; facing the deadliest draw in the west. Fear gripped the man, and the flash of lightning made him go for his gun. Christian was fast, unbelievably fast. Buck’s hand touched his hilt just after the lightning crawled across the sky, and before it had dimmed, Christian’s Peacemaker was out, the trigger was squeezed, and the gunslinger was slapping the hammer back.<br><br>The fourty-five caliber bullets that are loaded into a Colt Peacemaker are weapons of sickening firepower. In the span of two seconds, Christian had unloaded his entire weapon into the man across from him. Buck had six holes in him, climbing from navel to forehead. His weapon had not even cleared his holster. Six distinct roars from the barrel of Christian’s gun, followed by a seventh from the sky, the thunder speaking its approval. Gaping wounds were all that could truthfully be made out of the once visage of Buck Wilcox.<br><br>Christian walked up to the body of Buck Wilcox, dead before he’d hit the ground, and he spit to the side. Christian knew the law would arrive any moment, they had made it a point to check in with Christian when he had come into town. It was a clean kill, and from the dozens of people peeking out from their homes and shops, he had plenty of witnesses. <br><br><em>Witnesses...dear god, Sasha! </em>Christian just remembered she had been there, his fury and wrath overtaking him.<br><br>She had not ran, no, indeed she stood on the porch still, her face filled with grim approval, perhaps a bit of pride. Her arms were folded in front of her, and her head nodded back and forth slowly. She understood the fury within him, she understood why he did what he did, even though they had never talked so much as a word about it.<br>Moments later the local sheriff arrived, a fair man by the name of Emmett Walker, a shotgun slung in his arms. He was not a tall man, nor a loud man, but he was a man who commanded respect by the way he carried himself. <br><br>“Well, Mr. Spectre...seems you couldn’t visit our fine town without adding to the body count,” Sheriff Walker said dryly, a frown embedded on his soft features. “You have any idea who this man is?”<br><br>Christian spat again, this time on the body, “The sonofabitch called ‘imself a Lil’Cox.”<br><br>The gathering crowd went in a small hush at his joke, which was a surprise to Christian. He was used to nervous chuckles, people going along with his humor out of fear, if not for him being genuinely funny. This time, however, no one said a word.<br><br>“Buck Wilcox, of the Wilcox Brothers. Them are mighty bad boys to have huntin’ you, Mr. Spectre,” the Sheriff spoke slowly. “But, I suppose it aint my concern now, considerin’ you’re leavin’ town.”<br><br>The Sheriff had apparently been keeping tabs on Christian, knew he was headed out of town when all this happened. That meant the Sheriff let him duel this Wilcox Brother, meaning he had purposefully let Christian put himself in a bind, and now he was kicking him out of town regardless.<br><br>“I can take care of myself, Sheriff,” Christian growled, most of the time lawmen ended up being just as bad as the crooks they hunted, only they had a badge.<br><br>“What about that pretty thing you’re now travelin’ with, Can you protect her too?”<br><br>Sasha glared at the Sheriff at that, his words a mockery, a dagger meant to stab at Christian, her protector. She said nothing, however, letting Christian fight his own battles.<br><br>“I do believe I can, Sheriff. I do believe I can. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we best be off,” Christian turned his back on the Sheriff and moved to take Sasha’s arm in his own, which she did with a smile. They then exited town and started headed west.<br><br>Fifteen minutes later, Sheriff Walker caught up to them on horse, and pulled to a slow trot as they walked, “My apologies for my attitude earlier, Mr. Spectre. I just have enough violence in Dodge, that I don’t need you adding more of it.”<br><br>Christian and Sasha never stopped walking, “I didn’t add nothin’, Sheriff. That Wilcox boy called me out, he went fer his gun, I drew him down.”<br><br>Sasha grabbed Christian’s hand and squeezed, using her presence to calm him. She did not want to see any violence erupt between her savior from the Backroom and a lawman. <br><br>“No, no, I understand. That’s why I’m here. I just wanted to escort you to the edge of my jurisdiction, and make sure you get on your way safely,” admitted the Sheriff. The Sheriff knew what had happened was a legal duel, and Christian was being kind just by leaving town instead of sticking around to deal with the Wilcox brothers when they found out. “Where ya headed, anyway?”<br><br>“Arizona, a town called Tombstone,” Christian said absently.<br><br>“Well, I wish you the best, Mr. Spectre. Here is where I turn back.”<br><br>Christian and Sasha spent the next few days walking and slogging through the prairie of Kansas. The ground was wet for the first time in months, which was good for the farmers, but terrible for travelling. They got rides on stage coaches, trains, took horses off of fools that tried to take them down and rob them. They believe the storm of Dodge was behind them, and they were right. What they did not know was that storm was gaining on them, and what a furious storm it was going to be.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>20-05-2014, 23:16:41</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/21/JacksonJackson.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jackson P. Jackson<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Soddom<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lilah, Closed<br><hr> <br>“I got a <em>special</em> package for you&nbsp; right here in my tent,” the miner had said, and the flash of a five dollar coin had been enough to lure Li-Li inside the dirty canvas tent.&nbsp; <br><br>Jackson watched it, his eyes narrowing.&nbsp; She was young, but Samson had been laughing now an hour before about how she was starting to look ‘old enough,’ and how there was nothing like a girl’s first time ‘riding a stick o’ dynamite.’&nbsp; He wasn’t the only man who’d looked digusted as Samson crowed about what he intended to do to her, but there was a law in Soddom.&nbsp; You minded your own damn business.&nbsp; Even the Sheriff had given a tacit sort of acceptance, well aware he didn’t have the force of numbers to keep anything civil and orderly in the ramshackle mining town that had sprung up on the edge of the nascent boomtown.&nbsp; <br><br>Still, it didn’t sit right with him.&nbsp; He heard a muffled squeal, coming from the inside of the tent, and there was a growl in the back of his throat.<br><br>“Don’t do it, Jackson.”&nbsp; One of the other miners shook his head.&nbsp; “Samson’s a nasty bugger.&nbsp; He’ll cut your throat when you sleep.”&nbsp; <br><br>“So I heard.&nbsp; Heard that was what happened to all his old partners out at the Devil’s Crevasse.”&nbsp; <br><br>“Nah, I heard it was them Sweetrock boys,” muttered another miner.&nbsp; “Gone and slit them all open, gonna buy the mine from Samson.”<br><br>There was another muffled squeak, and then the sound of a punch, and Samson’s wicked, nigh toothless laugh.&nbsp; <br><br>“G’wan, girl!&nbsp; More you struggle th’more I’m gonna like it!”&nbsp; <br><br>Jackson rose, his eyes narrowing.&nbsp; <br><br>“Jackson - <em>Jackson</em>,” warned two of the miners, rising and grabbing his arms.&nbsp; But Jackson was no pushover - he’d won seven fights in a row at the Bloodsport Arena, he’d funded his last prospect into the Maze with nothing more than his fists - and Wiley and Jackrabbit were beanpoles of men.&nbsp; He shrugged them off and away, scattering them to the ground, and grabbed the top of the tent, ripping it up and out of the ground and tossing it away.&nbsp; There was a clatter of tent stakes and tent poles, as the canvas was tossed away.&nbsp; Samson hadn’t even gotten his britches off, and his eyes went wide as hands grabbed him by the neck, and the back of his britches, and hauled him up into the air.&nbsp; <br><br>He hurled Samson back down on his belly in a little clearing of tents two steps away, then smashed a savage kick into his ribs that sent him rolling over a campfire and turning over a plate of cooking beans.&nbsp; Samson scrambled to his feet, yanking a pistol from his belt.<br><br>“Yer a dead man,” he growled.&nbsp; “Yew are too if ye move, ye little slant-eyed whore.”<br><br><em>Guns.&nbsp; I hate guns.</em>&nbsp; Jackson’s eyes narrowed.&nbsp; He didn’t carry them - or at least, he hadn’t in a long time.&nbsp; <br><br>“Think you can cock that hammer back before I snap your neck, Samson?”&nbsp; His arms flexed, veins standing out on his bare arms.&nbsp; “You put down that gun and I’ll just beat you like your momma oughta.&nbsp; You cock that hammer and I’ll snap your neck and toss you off the side o’ this mesa.”&nbsp; His voice was a husky growl, righteous anger burning in his eyes.&nbsp; <br><br>Samson’s lip curled.&nbsp; “Ain’t in the Arena, boy.&nbsp; And you ain’t faster’n no bullet.”&nbsp; <br><br>Which was true.&nbsp; But Jackson was faster than the grizzled old miner’s thumb, and as Samson reached for the hammer, Jackson leapt and crashed down upon him.&nbsp; His teeth set on edge, his eyes saw red, and Jackson pinned one wrist down while his full weight crashed down on the miner.&nbsp; A shot fired through a tent, and whizzed out the other side, putting a hole through a tin coffee cup, and then Jackson slammed Samson’s wrist down, snapping the wrist.&nbsp; His other fist slammed down, costing Samson half his remaining teeth in a punch.&nbsp; He heard the leather on metal slip of a knife sliding free, and his free hand snapped and caught Samson’s as he tried to put a knife in side.&nbsp; Miners were crowding around, watching the fight, as Jackson slammed his forehead down into Samson’s face, cracking nose and jaw.&nbsp; His head went back and then slammed down again, accompanied by the deep crack of a jawbone.<br><br><div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/2a/JP.png)</div>The boom of a shotgun went over the mining camp, and Jackson paused.&nbsp; He looked up to see two old greybeards - one wearing the tin star of a sheriff, and the other a more familiar face - Whiskey Nick, one of the oldest miners in Gomorra, both with a shotgun levelled at him.&nbsp; <br><br>J.P. Coleman’s voice a whiskey smooth baritone.&nbsp; “Now, I ain’t a man to interrupt a well-deserved whuppin’.&nbsp; But I ain’t of a mind to let you murder a man, either.&nbsp; Let him up, son.”<br><br>Jackson rose, blood on his forehead and nose and chin.&nbsp; The grey-haired sheriff looked down to the man on the ground, and frowned.&nbsp; “Nick, get that fella there to the doctor.”<br><br>“He was trying to rape a girl,” growled Jackson, and J.P. Coleman gave a tiny tilt of his head.&nbsp; <br><br>“Weren’ no girl,” spat Samson, words barely intelligible around a mouthful of blood.&nbsp; “She a yellow whore.”<br><br>Jackson ignored the shotgun aimed at him to deliver a kick that cracked rib into Samson’s side.&nbsp; <br><br>J.P. Coleman cleared his throat.&nbsp; “You Jon Samson?”<br><br>Samson winced, and gave a little nod.<br><br>“Jon Samson, you are under arrest for the murder of Miles ‘Slowpoke’ Higgins, and Bradford ‘Tilt’ Higgins.”&nbsp; His jaw set, and he looked through the crowd of miners, finding the little girl who’d been at the epicenter of the commotion.&nbsp; She was just getting too old to be a whippersnapper any longer - another year or two and Mr. Lee would probably having her inside that… den of sin he’d set up near Soddom.&nbsp; <br><br>“This man force himself upon you?&nbsp; Or make such an attempt?”<br><br>Jackson stepped closer, protectively.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>25-05-2014, 01:34:28</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9813377#msg9813377)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whippersnappers<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Soddom<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Samson, Jack, Coleman <br><hr>It wasn't the first time a low life got after Lilah but it was the first time the realization she was in some trouble came partially from her own doing. She'd learned to be wily on the streets -- she knew how not to be seen when she didn't want to be, who was just full of bluster and who would do her harm, where to go to dig something up when she was looking for it -- but she was getting on in age now, twelve or thirteen, she didn't know, and the knowledge that she was bordering on too old to run with the whippersnappers for much longer weighed on her heavily. The looming problem of what comes next, how she was going to keep food in her belly made her foolish and the promise of five dollars for a simple package was too much to say no to, no matter how bad a feeling she got about the grimy coot. As soon as she stepped inside to see there was no package to be found then turned to see the expression on his face and knew she was in a world of hurt.<br><br>There was a moment of silence, the only sound her heart pounding in her ears, as the realization of what was about to happen settled over her then she exploded into motion. She'd had hopes of darting past him, she could be tricky to get ahold of when she put her mind to it, but there wasn't near enough room and he simply reached out with gnarled hand and pushed her back hard to the ground. The sound she made as she hit the dirt wasn't quite the roar of rage she'd been going for but rather a pathetic kind of whimper, just louder than you might expect, as the air rushed out of her lungs. Samson grabbed a handful of her shirt and tossed her over on the bedroom like she was nothing before standing over her and slipping his arms out of his suspenders all the while leering down at her like a slavering dog. There was no fight a knobby-kneed, skinny little thing like her could give a grown man but that didn't mean she was going to lay down easy. She wasn't a whore yet.<br><br>She yelped again, too scared and determined to scream, and started kicking with her feet as hard as she could, all the while pushing herself back and hoping to find a space under the wall of the ten to slip through. It gave him pause for a minute, having to turn this and that to guard his privates, but in the end all it took was brute force again and he once again grabbed a handful of her shirt, this time clobbering her but good. She knew now what it meant when folks said they saw stars because her head was swimming with them now and she was only vaguely aware of the sound of terrible laughter pelting her like hail and the feel of rough hands reaching down to flip her over on her belly. She tried to get up, tried to turn herself over but he planted on a foot on her back to pin her down as he started to unfasten his trousers. He sneered down at her.<br><br>"G’wan, girl! More you struggle th’more I’m gonna like it!” She didn't need him to tell her that. That was the way of the world. His voice sounded to her like they were underwater and in a way, she supposed she was but this time she wasn't sure she was going to break the surface. What was gonna happen next, she didn't think there was any coming back from it this time. No, better he just rip her heart out of her chest along with everything else he intended to do but it was the tent that was torn away instead. One second it was there, one second it wasn't. One second she couldn't breathe from the weight of Samson's foot in her chest and the next she was sucking in cool air. She wasn't even sure what was happening at first, just that she could move, and she scrambled to her feet and whirled around to see what was happening, wary as any feral thing.<br><br>She recognized Jackson. He was one of the good ones -- never did raise a hand or voice to a whippersnapper and if he saw you staring through the store window while he was in there, he just might throw you a piece of candy on the way out. Sometimes she even followed him around when he was in town, not for anything in particular, but just because he always seemed like he was more alive than everybody else, like life hadn't wrung all the feeling out of him yet. But she'd never seen him like this. Once the gun came out, she was sure that was it and she gathered herself to run like her life depended on and might have if old Samson hadn't called her slant-eyed whore and ordered her to stay. She reached down and grabbed a chunk of dirt, the only thing close she could see, and chucked it at him with all her righteous might but the effect of it was lost under Jack's assault.<br><br>He was like a raging angel sent from heaven to avenge her and the sight of him tearing into Samson stunned her almost as much as the punch had earlier. Lilah wasn't a girl who liked violence. She didn't wish it anybody or gather round to egg it on when she saw it like some, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from this. It was enough to make her jump out of her skin when she heard the shotgun and she would have scattered as soon as she saw the law dog if she weren't so worried he was going to drag Jack to jail. She scowled at Samson when he called her whore again but she was back to looking like a scared little fawn when Colman addressed her. Suddenly all eyes were upon her and she could practically hear them wondering what all the fuss was for when all they could see was a skinny, no account Chinese girl with no family and no future. Jackson didn't though. He took a couple steps closer and she drew herself up, aware now that her shirt had been torn and buttons popped off so she pulled it around herself to get a little dignity back and turned to face the sheriff. The whole left side of her face would be bruised in the morning and her nose was still leaking blood but her eyes were clear and somber. <br><br>"That's right, sheriff, he did. He said he had a package for me but that ain't what he tried to gimme," she said, just glad her voice worked though she did manage another serviceable glare for Samson. "And I ain't no whore!"<br><br>With that she inched a little closer to Jackson, resolved that if the sheriff tried to take him in Coleman would have to go through her.&nbsp; <br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>26-05-2014, 01:05:26</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/2a/JP.png)</div><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/21/JacksonJackson.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jackson P. Jackson, J.P. Coleman<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None, Sheriff (5)<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Soddom<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lilah, Closed<br><hr> <br>Samson bristled at the accusation.&nbsp; “She’s a slant-eyed yella whore, and yer gonna take her word?&nbsp; I was gonna give her the five dollars, so I <em>ain’t</em> forcin’ myself on no one.”&nbsp; He spat, his nose still dirty from the clod she’d hurled at its mark.&nbsp; <br><br>J.P. Coleman simply took her words with a nod.&nbsp; “Two charges of murder, and attempted rape of a minor.”<br><br>Samson growled.&nbsp; “She’s a goddam chink.&nbsp; They ain’t even people.&nbsp; You can’t tell me - “ <br><br>He staggered as another punch caught him across the jaw, hard enough to draw the words out of his mouth, and Coleman’s shotgun followed the movement but didn’t fire.&nbsp; <br><br>“That’ll be enough of that.&nbsp; Samson, you best close your flapper while it’s still on your head.&nbsp; Nick, get him outta here.”<br><br>Whiskey Nick stepped forward, and caught Samson by the scruff of his neck in an iron grip.&nbsp; Samson’s fists balled.&nbsp; <br><br>“Jon, you strike one of my deputies and I’ll execute you here and now.”&nbsp; Coleman’s voice was cold.&nbsp; “You cool your heels and you’ll stand trial.”<br><br>“Trial for crimes I ain’t done,” he growled.&nbsp; “Tilt and Slowpoke was gonna kill me for my share o’ the mine, and I was gonna <em>pay</em> that little whore.”&nbsp; His eyes stared hatred at Lilah, and Jackson put a hand at her side, drawing her close and keeping his bulk between her and the angry miner.&nbsp; He’d seen the way she stepped in front of him, admired the pluck of it, and didn’t relax until Nick had begun to be dragged away.<br><br>Coleman looked over Jackson and Lilah, lips pursing into a frown under his large moustache.&nbsp; “Be a ten dollar fine for assault.&nbsp; You stop by the Sheriff’s Office to see it paid.”<br><br>Jackson’s jaw clenched, and Coleman paid it no mind.&nbsp; “Do appreciate your detaining a wanted man until the law could arrive.&nbsp; Bounty on the man was set for fifty dollars.&nbsp; Seein’ how you were just detainin’ him for us, means half that bounty rightfully belongs to you.&nbsp; Come by and pay your fine, I’ll see you get that money, too.”&nbsp; He tipped his hat, and turned his attention to Lilah.&nbsp; “And you, young lady.&nbsp; You want to see him charged for what he done, you’re gonna need to come by and give a statement when I got a pen and paper handy.”<br><br>He looked between them.&nbsp; “Y’all got names?”<br><br>Jackson straightened.&nbsp; “Jackson.&nbsp; Jackson P. Jackson.”&nbsp; <br><br>Coleman’s bushy eyebrows lifted.&nbsp; “Father had a sense of humor.”&nbsp; <br><br>Jackson bared his teeth in something like a smile.&nbsp; “Somethin’ like that.”&nbsp; Coleman nodded, gave Lilah a small smile, and made his way back through the tent city with his shotgun cocked on his shoulder.&nbsp; <br><br>Jackson looked down to her and blew out a breath.&nbsp; “You got some spine, little one.”&nbsp; His large hand ruffled her hair, and he gave a genuine smile.&nbsp; “My tent’s right over there.&nbsp; You can borrow a shirt while I stitch that one up for you.”&nbsp; He gestured to his tent.&nbsp; “Then what say you and I go by the Sheriff’s Office, make sure Samson gets a noose round his neck, and split that reward money and buy ourselves a real dinner?”
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>30-05-2014, 03:26:50</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9813377#msg9813377)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whippersnappers<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Soddom<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jack <br><hr><br><em>She’s a goddam chink. They ain’t even people.</em><br><br>It wasn't like hearing those words shocked Lilah any. She'd heard it, or things like it, so often that she half believed it so she didn't blink until Jack went an punched Samson again, even with the sheriff and a shotgun standing right there. He was spitting mad, and seeing it made her question everything she ever heard. Didn't all white people think that? Even the other whippersnappers treated her different and lots of them said she should only be able to deliver to the Chinese on account of white people not wanting her hands touching their things. And it was true, some folks would pass her right by to find another whippersnapper who was white when they had a job. But here was Jack, all angry, and the sheriff, who was letting him get away with it, and she had to wonder if they were right and everybody else was wrong. Lilah had no call to be afraid of Samson now but with the look he gave her she was glad she had Jackson P. Jackson to stand behind just the same. Her heart sank when the sheriff mentioned the fine at the thought that Jack would be punished for helping her out but just like that fortune turned again when there turned out to be a reward. She didn't want anything to do with the sheriff and the statement, the further she could stay away from the Law Dogs' office the better, but then there was the prospect of dinner and while she'd surely like to fill her belly, the thought of spending more time with Jack and not being shooed away held the greatest sway. She agreed to it all.<br><br>Minutes later she was sitting in his tent all bundled up in one of his big old shirts. It was kind of scratchy but she felt like she was wearing armor, like nothing could touch her while she had it on. A lot of kids had parents who tended them -- kept their clothes mended and food on the table and tucked them in at night with a story or two -- but even when Lilah's mother had been alive, she hadn't been a mother like that. It made as profound an impression on her as the fight had, watching him mending her shirt, working the needle carefully through the faded and thinning fabric with his calloused fingers. She watched every little thing he did, embarrassed that she didn't know how and most girls did, but mostly just in awe of the care he was showing her. Sometimes the world was changed by fantastical acts of courage or great words that moved the heart and stirred the blood but sometimes...sometimes all it took was a simple act of kindness. For the first time in her life, Lilah Oliver felt like she mattered but Jackson P. Jackson thought she did and that was enough for her. In time she would come to believe that for herself and for her own sake but for now it was the first thing that let her hold her head up high.<br><br>"Everybody calls me Li-Li, but that ain't my name," she said, hugging her knees as she watched him work. It didn't matter to her most of the time what people called her but she wanted him to get it right. "It's really Lilah. Lilah Oliver. It confounds most folks 'cause it's a white name but my mother was white and I guess my pa didn't want nothin' to do with me so a'course it is."<br><br>She was silent a few moments longer, still watchful as she continued to process all that happened that evening. "Why'd you do it? Why'd you punch ol' Samson again when he said what he said about chinks not bein' people? I never saw a white man get mad over somethin' like that afore. If I punched ever'body I ever heard talk that way I'd do nothin' but punch people the livelong day."<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>31-05-2014, 07:59:19</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/21/JacksonJackson.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jackson P. Jackson<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Soddom<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lilah, Closed<br><hr> <br>He looked up from the work of darning her shirt with a smile, pausing when she offered him her real name.&nbsp; “Lilah,” he repeated.&nbsp; “It’s from the Bible,” he nodded.&nbsp; “Delilah.”&nbsp; He gave a small smile, and then a thought crossed his mind, and he burst out laughing.&nbsp; “And there’s a - Coleman just took a Samson off to jail.&nbsp; If that ain’t the Lord working in mysterious ways, I don’t know what is.”&nbsp; He grew a little more sober when she said her pa didn’t want nothing to do with her.&nbsp; “Probably cause he woulda been stoned or lynched by some fool mob if they found out he was carrying on with a white woman.”&nbsp; He sighed heavily.&nbsp; “They still do that, from time to time, on both sides of the Mason-Dixie.&nbsp; String a fellow up for loving a woman with pale skin.”&nbsp; He frowned and shook his head, then chuckled at the sight of her in his shirt, swimming inside the loose fabric.&nbsp; He moved on his knees over towards her, and pulled one arm towards him, pulling back the sleeves and rolling it up where it kept swallowing up her hand.&nbsp; He rolled it back once, then a second time, then a third and fourth before her hand emerged, before moving over to the other side.<br><br>“My daddy and momma had their own troubles.&nbsp; Daddy cared to drink too much, and didn’t care much to have momma tell him to stop.&nbsp; He used to slap her around some, and when I stood up to him, he slapped me around some, too.&nbsp; I used to have to head down to the docks and work all evenin’ to make money so we could buy dinner.&nbsp; Had to sneak it to momma, or else he’d take it and spend it on drink.&nbsp; One day he found all that money she’d saved, and… when I got home he’d shot her dead.&nbsp; So I shot him dead, and joined the Army.&nbsp; Got out after a few years, and came out west to start over.”&nbsp; He smiled wryly.&nbsp; “My momma was a smart woman.&nbsp; Smart about everythin’, except what her heart told her.&nbsp; Taught me to read, and write.&nbsp; We were from Pennsylvania.&nbsp; First state that outlawed slavery - but she was still always writing letters to Senators and making a bother of herself.”&nbsp; He smiled fondly.&nbsp; “We were poor as dirt and she still worried for them folks as had it worse than us.”&nbsp; He began to work on the other sleeve, wrapping it up til her hand emerged, and then sinking back on his heels, and picking up the shirt again.<br><br>“Well, he deserves a lot more’n a punch to the face.&nbsp; People are damn fools sometimes.&nbsp; Some people are born lucky - big homes and more money than they’d ever need, while some people got to work night and day just to have enough to eat.&nbsp; I think most times when people go spouting off about how a Negro’s just a beast that walks on two legs, or a Chinaman’s some kind of savage, they doing it just to justify something they know ain’t right.&nbsp; They say a Chinaman ain’t like a real person so they can work ‘em to death building a railroad, and they say an Indian ain’t no kind of person so they can kick ‘em out of where they been living for centuries, and they say a Negro just like a donkey on two legs so they can work him day and night in a field.&nbsp; They say those things so then they can feel alright about making their fortunes by tyrannizing other men, or raping their women, or whatever savagery they got in them that people’d be horrified of if it was done to a white man.”&nbsp; He stroked his hand over his beard.&nbsp; “So I punched him cause he deserved it, and cause I got sick of hearin’ him spew his mouth, and I punched him cause he thought he could make you into a whore cause he stole coin from a dead man’s pocket and wanted to feel big.”&nbsp; He frowned and touched her hair, stroking it back behind her ear.<br><br>Then he chuckled, and looked around the darkening tent.&nbsp; “Look at me, yammerin’ on like I got all the daylight in the world.”&nbsp; He sighed, and shook his head.&nbsp; “I’m gonna have to finish fixing that shirt in the morning.&nbsp; How about you borrow a belt so you don’t get turned into a kite if the wind blows, and we go get ourselves a reward and have some real vittles?&nbsp; I gotta eat one more bowl of pork and beans I think I might lose my mind.”&nbsp; He offered her a belt from a small pile of clothes, letting her loop it around her waist.<br><br>“Oughta get some new buttons for that shirt while we’re out,” he added with a smile.&nbsp; “Didn’t rightly find all of ‘em,” he admitted, a little sheepishly.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>03-06-2014, 05:05:43</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9813377#msg9813377)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whippersnappers<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Soddom<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jack <br><hr>She smiled as he fussed with the sleeve of the shirt, further charmed by his efforts, then listened intently to every word as he began to talk about his folks. It was a terrible story but she couldn't help but notice his smile when he spoke of his mother and even though he lost her, it must be nice to have good memories like that. The only thing Lilah felt when she thought of her mother was mad. She didn't blink twice when he admitted to shooting his own daddy. It sounded like he was asking for it, killing a defenseless woman like that, just like Samson deserved the beating he got and the hanging he would get if he indeed killed those men. No, Lilah would shed no tears for brutes. <br><br>She wanted to tell him she was real sorry about his mama but he was already moving on and she didn't want to interrupt him, she was finding she dearly loved to hear him talk. He had words that made everything make more sense. She never thought about before, why white folks said the things they did and how she wasn't the only one who had hurtful things said about her. For the first time she thought about the negroes and the injuns too, about things even she might have said or done and it made her feel ashamed. They were just like her and the other Chinese, being looked down just because they were a little different and didn't have the numbers to fight back. Right then she decided that she wanted to be different. She wasn't going to look down on anybody anymore and when she saw harm being done to others, she wasn't just going to feel lucky that it wasn't her. <br><br>It was amazing to her that a man who could punch hard enough to put out teeth would have such a light touch when he reached out to stroke her hair.&nbsp; "I like listenin' to ya jaw," she protested but brightened up again at the thought of a good dinner. She didn't care if she looked silly as goose going out about town in that oversized shirt, she'd be proud to wear it. She nodded to his proposition and wasted no time fetching one of the belts though she had to wrap it around her twice and even then it hung kind of low. She gave him a beaming smile though he didn't know her well enough to understand what a rare sight that was. "New buttons? Damnation, the other whippersnappers'll think I'm puttin' on airs! You don't have to do that though. I been enough trouble as it is, I reckon...but I'd surely be obliged for that dinner."<br><br>She frowned suddenly, thinking about something the sheriff had said. "The sheriff is just gonna write down what I say, right? He ain't gonna expect me to do the writin' I hope. Never had much use for it."<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>06-06-2014, 08:03:40</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/21/JacksonJackson.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jackson P. Jackson<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Soddom<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lilah, Closed<br><hr> <br>He gave a little laugh when she said she liked listening to him jaw.&nbsp; “Well that’s good.&nbsp; Cause I like to jaw.&nbsp; Or at least, so all the other miners complain,” he chuckled.&nbsp; He watched her wrap the belt up and then come back to him, like she needed an inspection, and he smiled back at that big, beaming grin.&nbsp; He didn’t know how rare it was - but it was the kind of adorable that made him think that his father, wherever he was, had missed out on a sweet little daughter.&nbsp; “Well, a few buttons ain’t gonna put me out,” he promised.&nbsp; “And if they give you any trouble you just send ‘em my way.”&nbsp; He tousled her hair a little, then rose and stepped out of the tent, and shook his head.&nbsp; “Ye ain’t no trouble.&nbsp; If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be enjoying this dinner I plan on.”&nbsp; <br><br>He paused at her admittance, and then tilted his head.&nbsp; “Probably him or one of his deputies.&nbsp; I’m fair sure half the folks in Soddom don’t know their letters.&nbsp; C’mon, we’ll go get our work done and then enjoy ourselves a meal.”<br><br>He began to lead the way off towards the town itself.&nbsp; He normally didn’t have much cause to go deeper into the city than Miner’s Peril, but the sheriff’s office was at the far end of the Peril.&nbsp; Miners anywhere else in the city tended to get looked askance at - until they showed gold or ghostrock in their pockets, when they were welcomed as customers.&nbsp; Jackson didn’t pay any mind to the looks he got - a large white man running alongside a slip of an adolescent Chinese girl - though he slowed his stride so she wasn’t scrambling to keep up.&nbsp; <br><br>“So where you stay when you’re not off deliverin’ post?”&nbsp; That wasn’t the real worry that lingered in his mind, though.&nbsp; She was getting old enough that Samson wasn’t going to be the first man who looked on her like she was an untapped mine.&nbsp; “If ye want - I’m planning on striking out towards a new claim tomorrow.&nbsp; Wouldn’t protest some company.&nbsp; Might end up we get eaten by Maze Dragons or starve out on a mesa or somesuch, but… “&nbsp; He shrugged.&nbsp; “Yer welcome to come along.&nbsp; Ain’t big enough to work a mine, but I reckon you could catch a fish or two or fry up some bacon.”&nbsp; He spread his hands.&nbsp; “I can’t promise no wage, but - I promise.&nbsp; If I eat, you’ll eat.&nbsp; If I strike it rich - ” he grinned, “ - then I promise neither of us’ll ever have to worry about how we’ll find our next meal.”
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>08-06-2014, 22:16:10</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9813377#msg9813377)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whippersnappers<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1870<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Soddom<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jack <br><hr>She felt like she was going to burst as they stepped out onto the street and there was a strange little hop to her step that belied her excitement, as if she couldn't be contained just walking. Gomorra felt like a whole new place walking with Jack, everything looked and felt a little different even though the streets had been her home most of her life and there wasn't an inch of them she wasn't familiar with. She hadn't liked admitting she couldn't write even though lots of people couldn't but he even made that ok and didn't laugh at her or look down on her because of it. An image of what would be happening to her right now if Jack hadn't stepped in flashed through her head and she resolved that other than the food and a few buttons, she wouldn't take any of the reward money even if he offered -- she was in his debt already. She frowned slightly at his question.<br><br>"I stay lotsa places. Depends on if it's hot or cold or dry or wet.&nbsp; I got lotsa places 'round town to hole up," she assured him. She didn't have anything of her own to brag on so she felt like she needed to talk up the one thing she had, she her cleverness. "In fact the other whippersnappers are always stealin' my spots 'cause they're the best."<br><br>What he said next stopped her in her tracks. Sometimes you could want something so bad that it breaks your heart when you don't get it and just the wanting it felt like it was going make you fall to pieces. That's what this was like -- offered so casually, she recognized his offer for the lifeline it was and maybe the only way out of the future everybody in town was so sure was in store for her. She'd hadn't cried in a very long time and suddenly she knew she just might bust out bawling right now if she tried to speak so she stayed silent not to risk the embarrassment until she realized he might take her silence for disinterest. That had her scurrying for words.<br><br>"I'd be right pleased to get outta town and I ain't afraid of no maze dragon! Plenty of scary things right here in Gomorra I say," she said. It was dangling out there now and could easily be snatched back so she kept talking. "I admit, I'm pretty nigh useless right now but I learn fast. I can learn me to cook and even do the sewin' and anythin' else that needs doin'. I ain't afraid to work and I don't eat much. Just think, you'd have somebody lookin' after camp for ya and you can just keep on the minin' and how can you not strike it big?"<br><br>It didn't matter to her if she never got a coin. Food in her belly, someone to talk to, a place away from men who had too many looks for her...what he was describing sounded like heaven despite the maze dragons and lean times and all the work hard that would be necessary, and her dark eyes silently pleaded with him not to take it away.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>09-06-2014, 03:42:18</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/21/JacksonJackson.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jackson P. Jackson<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1870, 5 June, 1871<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon, Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> Soddom, The Great MAze<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lilah, Closed<br><hr> <br>He was grinning at her animated walk - it looked like she was just about to start skipping to keep up with him, or about to dance circles around him as he walked.&nbsp; He listened as she explained where she stayed, and it was as he suspected - though the way she described it, without a single attempt to gain his pity, but rather the little boast at the end - it made him want to ruffle her hair and then spin her around.&nbsp; <br><br>He gave a smile when she promised she wasn’t afraid of anything - not Maze dragons or - <br><br><em>Oh, damn.</em>&nbsp; The silent plea in her eyes, the begging, just about tore his heart out, and he was pretty sure if his mind hadn’t already been made up - it would have been then.&nbsp; He stutter-stopped his walk, pausing as he realized that this more monumental to her than he could ever have guessed.&nbsp; He smiled, and spat in his hand, and stuck out his calloused paw.<br><br>“Well then, put her there, pardner.”<br><br>He eyed her for a moment.&nbsp; “We’re gonna need to find you a hat, though.&nbsp; You must be real brave,” he added with a little grin.&nbsp; "I seen a Maze Dragon once, and I damn near pissed my breeches."<br><hr><em>One year later…</em><br><br><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote">"Oh, ma'am! Heaven bless you and Lord Glenarvan," said the young girl, fervently, overcome with grateful emotion.<br>"My dear girl, we deserve no thanks; anyone in our place would have done the same. I only trust the hopes we are leading you to entertain may be realized, but till my husband returns, you will remain at the Castle."<br>"Oh, no, ma'am. I could not abuse the sympathy you show to strangers."<br>"Strangers, dear child!" interrupted Lady Helena; "you and your brother are not strangers in this house, and I should like Lord Glenarvan to be able on his arrival to tell the children of Captain Grant himself, what is going to be done to rescue their father."<br>It was impossible to refuse an invitation given with such heart, and Miss Grant and her brother consented to stay till Lord Glenarvan returned.</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div>&nbsp; <br><br>Jackson closed the book with a smile, and looked to Lilah, curled beside him as he read to her by the firelight.&nbsp; <em>In Search of the Castaways</em> was the latest novel he’d been able to get his hands on, and he decided he was growing fond of this ‘Jules Verne’ fellow.&nbsp; He knew how to spin a yarn - but there light was growing dim, and there wasn’t enough moonlight to keep reading.&nbsp; He liked reading to her - giving all the characters their own voices, falsetto ladies and brave sea captains.<br><br>Which was normally the time she seemed to wake up and want just one chapter.&nbsp; He adjusted the too-big hat on her head, and gave a little chuckle.&nbsp; Cute as a button, even if life atop the mesas had her looking leaner.<br><br>It was going to be another long day tomorrow.&nbsp; But somehow - somehow it never seemed as gruelling as it once was.&nbsp; He tugged the blanket up and over them both, and stayed quiet, not certain if she’d drifted off or if she was still lingering near wakefulness.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>12-06-2014, 01:15:43</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9813377#msg9813377)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> <br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1871<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> late evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Great Maze<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jack <br><hr>Lilah was dozing and picturing herself in a fancy dress, talking even fancier with a beautiful lady in a grand house, who didn't look at Lilah askance for being Chinese but was inviting her to stay. It was nothing she would ever see in her lifetime but that was the beauty of reading she was finding out. There was nothing about life she wasn't liking in this past year, even the lean times (which was most of the time) because she was with Jack. The nights when he wasn't too tired to read were the best and she had never given much thought to what she was missing before but it was like a kind of magic when he brought those words to life. She looked at a page and saw nothing but a whole lot of funny looking marks but Jack looked at them and could pull out the world. She was suspicious at first that he was just making up yarns as he went along but any time she asked him to read a part over, it was always the same every time so she had to acknowledge that words were actually coming from the page. It was until there was silence that she came back around. She remained still, smiling as he pulled the blanket up around them, listening to him breathe a time or two before she spoke.<br><br>"Jack? I might need you to read that last page or so again next time we're readin'," she said softly and gave a little yawn. She was exhausted but as usual her mind wasn't quite so ready to settle down once the reading stopped. Enough time passed that it seemed like she might be asleep before she spoke again. "Old Gerhardt...that fella that's workin down by Lame Horse Creek though ever'body knows it's played out...he came by yesterday begging. I gave 'im the biscuit I was savin' fer lunch but I couldn't give him nothin' else...we barely got what we need. He looked bad though. Somebody oughta check in on him I think."<br><br>Again a long silence but again she spoke just as it seemed she might be done. "Know what? I been tryin' to keep track, and I think it was an exact year ago we made our deal. Sure worked out good fer me...I hope you think it worked out good fer you too."<br><br>This time the quiet lasted and she was soon drifting off to sleep to dream of places she would never see and grand adventures she would never have but it was a contented sleep none-the-less.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>23-06-2014, 21:02:32</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/21/JacksonJackson.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jackson P. Jackson<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1871<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Great MAze<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lilah, Closed<br><hr> <br>“Awright,” he said agreeably, as she asked to have the page read over next time.&nbsp; He stroked her back lightly.&nbsp; “Wouldn’t mind readin’ that whole chapter again,” he promised.&nbsp; “Them kids was pretty cute.”&nbsp; He was quiet, his fingers stroking through her hair while she leaned against him, and he gave a tiny start and a rueful smile when she spoke again after he was sure she’d nodded back off.&nbsp; “Hmmm?&nbsp; Aww, that poor old bastard,” sighed Jack.&nbsp; “That fella can find one tiny nugget of silver after two weeks prospecting, and still drop it in the Maze water on his way back to town.”&nbsp; He rubbed his hand.&nbsp; “Ought to try his hand at something … anything… else.”<br><br>He gave a little smile when she said she had been keeping track of time.&nbsp; “Worked out good for me, too.&nbsp; Man’s fit to lose his mind, being out here all alone for a year.”&nbsp; He gave her a little squeeze as she leaned against him.&nbsp; “Worked out real good for me, too.&nbsp; Real good.”&nbsp; His hand stroked up and down her back again.&nbsp; “Think this claim… think we might just be digging deeper and deeper into solid rock,” he admitted.&nbsp; “Might be time to head back to town.&nbsp; Get a fight or two… make some money on the bets… get ourselves some more food an dynamite and try our luck elsewhere.”&nbsp; It had made him more and more nervous to go into town with her - Samson might have swung from the end of a rope, but he had a few friends that still felt they owed some kind of retribution.&nbsp; There’d been scuffles, and a few more eyes on Lilah as she matured more and more into womanhood.&nbsp; <br><br>He realized that she’d nodded off, and he gave a small smile as he heard her dozing.&nbsp; He curled her a little tighter and tugged the sleeping roll around them both, and then settled his hat over his eyes and drifted off himself.&nbsp; <br><br>In the morning it was no small amount of work to break camp.&nbsp; The mine shaft they’d been digging he left open - Harlot’s Haven, is seemed, was never going to amount to anything more than rock and sweat.&nbsp; But the deed might be worth something in town, a few dollars, and after folding it into his vest, he set about lowering their rowboat over the side of the mesa.&nbsp; It wasn’t easy work - The thing weighed near two hundred pounds with most of their gear in it, and the rope was rough twine that cut at his hands.&nbsp; He trusted Lilah to climb down the side, a rope tethered to her waist in case she fell, and after a half hour of lowering and descending, the rowboat finally settled into the water with a splash, where she could hop within and keep it steady while Jackson began his own descent. <br><br>The ropes were a cost of business - Jackson left them tethered at the top and hanging down the side, as he leaned back and descended carefully.&nbsp; His powerful arms had weakened from lowering the rowboat over the side, but there was still plenty of strength left in them to keep his grip as he worked his way down.&nbsp; He finally loosed them and dropped into the waters with a splash, grunting and pulling himself over the side while Lilah leaned to keep the whole thing from flipping over.&nbsp; <br><br>He grinned and settled into the boat, clothes and hair still dripping wet, but after days on the parched mesa top a little water wasn’t the worst thing to deal with.&nbsp; “Captain Lilah on the rudder,” he grinned.&nbsp; “First Mate Jackson on the oar.&nbsp; Permission to set sail, Captain?”
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>25-06-2014, 03:34:47</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9813377#msg9813377)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whippersnappers<br><strong>Date:</strong> 6 June, 1871<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Great Maze<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jack <br><hr>It wasn't good news for Lilah that they were heading back to town but as much as she would have liked to talk him out of it, the reasons for doing so were too sound even for her to argue. Despite the hard times and the hunger sometimes, the world made so much more sense when it was just her and Jack on their own and town just muddled all that up. People being people, everybody probably thought the worse with their filthy little minds whenever they heard about Jack and his Chinese girl and she felt dirty just knowing they were thinking it though more and more she was learning not to give a fig for what other people thought. <br><br>They didn't have much so it didn't take much to strike the camp. She always felt bad watching Jack work himself ragged but he never complained and there were just certain things she lacked the strength to do. She always handled what she could, nothing too small or inconsequential if it would help him, and kept a mental list of things she wanted to learn how to do so she would be more useful. When it was time she clambered down the rope without so much as a squeak. Some girls might be afraid of the height or the rough rope or the possibility of falling, but not Lilah, her boldness seemed to grow everyday with her confidence. She steadied the boat best she could and worried for Jack as he descended and once he was aboard she sprang into action. <br><br>"Lookie here," she murmured and took a damp rag first to one raw palm then the other, soothing the skin as best she could. The rag was the remnant of the shirt she'd been wearing a year when she came out with him but she'd worn it to nothing and it got too small so she'd cut off the new buttons he'd bought her to save them and had been using it for cleaning ever since. Once his hands were cleaned she wrapped the rag around his hand and tucked in the ends, then did the same to other with another rang, and at last took her place at the rudder. She hoped it would help him a little because she sure couldn't row the boat into town without him. She didn't fuss, however. "Permission granted!"<br><br>Lilah gave him smart salute, heedless of the convention of the lesser officer saluting first, and they were on their way. There were certain songs they'd found were good for rowing and they soon launched into a couple, Jack keeping the rhythm despite the fact their singing was nothing to boast about. It went on for awhile until their voices needed a rest and Lilah posed him a question.<br><br>"Do you ever think about just pickin' up and goin' elsewhere, Jack? Like...I dunno...maybe down to Shan Fan or Lost Angels, some place like that? I mean, if the minin' don't pan out."<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>02-07-2014, 23:54:33</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/21/JacksonJackson.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jackson P. Jackson<br><strong>Faction:</strong> None<br><strong>Date:</strong> 5 June, 1871<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Evening<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Great MAze<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Lilah, Closed<br><hr> <br>He smiled when she moved to turn the old shirt into a bandage rag.&nbsp; There were always cuts and scrapes and bruises and knocks - and the brief splash in the salt water of the maze made the abrasions on his hands sting like the devil’s pitchfork besides.&nbsp; He let her fix it up, and then wrapped his hands around the oars, grinning at her salute and returning it.&nbsp; Truth be told, working a boat was really a two man job - it took a good head and good memory to remember the ever-changing currents and channels through the maze, and even a day long row like the one they had ahead of them was a potentially catastrophic undertaking if they hit the wrong channel, and ran into a whirlpool, a maze dragon, a pack of hungry sharks or worse.&nbsp; <br><br>“I don’t think I could ever be a boat rat,” chuckled Jack with a little shake of his head.&nbsp; While the miners did a good enough job convincing the rest of Gomorra they were an occasionally united front, the truth was there wasn’t a more contentious lot in all of the city.&nbsp; Boat Rats hated Cavers, and Cavers hated Townies, and Townies hated Boat Rats.&nbsp; White hated yellow and black, but yellow and black weren’t too fond of one another either, and the occasional redskin who got it in his mind to try his hand at mining was unanimously loathed by all three.&nbsp; It hadn’t been until she’d lived among the mining camps for a time that it had been appreciable just how monumental a task it was that J.P. more or less kept a kind of peace.<br><br>Which made Jackson’s strange tolerance a particular rarity.&nbsp; <br><br>“Sure,” he said, after their singing had died down a little.&nbsp; “I mean, Lost Angels - I been there once.&nbsp; Grimey - he was around ‘fore you and I met - he convinced me once to sail on down to Lost Angels to sell his ghostrock without giving Sweetrock a cut.&nbsp; That place gave me the willies, and I don’t spook easy.&nbsp; Plus, you wouldn’t like it down there.&nbsp; There’s a fellow - Chang, or Chan, or somesuch - built himself a little Chinese kingdom not so far away, and they’re ready to wage war on the ‘heathen’ at the drop of a hat.&nbsp; Liable to charge you with espionage just for setting foot in there,” he said with a frown.&nbsp; “And Shan Fan… I heard they treat them half-white women worse than they do white women.”&nbsp; He frowned softly.&nbsp; “Sides, the whole place is run by crooks everyone pretends are respectable.&nbsp; Gomorra… we got businessmen who occasionally act like crooks, but Shan Fan got crooks that occasionally act like businessmen.”<br><br>He shook his head.&nbsp; “I heard there’s a place between Gomorra and Shan Fan - some kinda monastery.&nbsp; Practice that secret fighting thing some of those Chinese folk do.&nbsp; You remember that little fella in my last fight?&nbsp; One that kept jumping up and trying to kick me in the head?&nbsp; That kinda stuff.”&nbsp; He gave a little chuckle.&nbsp; “But supposedly they’re better at it than he was.&nbsp; Little guy still hit like a mule, though.”
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Gomorran History (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>15-07-2014, 03:50:58</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9813377#msg9813377)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Whippersnappers<br><strong>Date:</strong> 6 June, 1871<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Great Maze<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jack <br><hr>Jack might have been doing all the work but Lilah being at the till was more than just busywork. She was hardly an expert at it but she knew she had to do more than just pretend to keep them near the middle of the water, in her own she was contributing to their journey too. It wasn't long before her arms were aching -- she could only imagine how Jack was feeling -- and she knew by the time they got to town all the play would have gone out of them and she'd feel considerably worse. These little trips made her stronger though she told herself and in her usual fashion, remained stoic and didn't whine about her aches and pains. You couldn't ever do less than the very most you could do around Jack, he just had a way of bringing that out of you because he never put in a poor effort in his life. <br><br>"Well hell," she muttered after his little geography lesson, her eyes watchful as they scanned first one side of the river than the other. The last time they'd gone to town they'd seen some mighty big tracks in the bank in this section that might have been one of those dragon things and she sure didn't want to be taken surprise by one of those. She felt a sense of dismay as he described the other cities -- could Gomorra really be the best thing out there? That was a thought to drown your spirit right there. "Ain't there no place that ain't terrible? In the whole world, ain't there a place where you can make a fair wage for hard and folks treat you decent, not go after each other all the time like a pack of crazed coyotes?"<br><br>It was a rare outburst of exasperation for her, one who knew from a young age there was no use in wishing things were different, all you could do was wrestle with the way things are. Maybe it was all that reading Jack was doing, filling her head with magical places and people who were kind, where the good ones usually vanquished the bad in the end and being honest and brave like Jack counted for something. She sighed and relaxed a bit as they got around the bend.<br><br>"Or maybe them kinds of places are only for white people and folks what already got money. I guess all we can do is stick together wherever we land."<br>
			</dd>
		</dl>
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