Holliday steps outside, a blast of frigid air nearly knocking off her hat. She pulls her coat closer, shivering down into it. The world is off kilter. She shouldn't have let it get this far. She can usually hold her liquor better than this. And certainly has better luck at cards.

It's not like she's not used to the cold, though why she never did buy herself something to wear with more fur than she'll ever have in her lifetime, she's not really sure. The leather only insulates so much. She holds the wall as she walks to the privy. Good thing too, because not 3 steps out, she snags her boot, tripping over something getting buried by the storm.

She shakes her head, which only makes the dizziness worse. Did she pick up a bug somewhere? Is that why she's out of it? Certainly couldn't be the drink. Could it?

A startling revelation hits her. She's been poisoned! It's the only explanation. Her mark knew she was here - she'd obviously missed him somehow - and he slipped something into her drink. How could she have not seen him!? He must be using a disguise. Or a proxy. Yeah, that's it. He's paying someone to kill her like someone is paying her to kill him. That's the only way she could feel this bad ... she's now the bounty, not the hunter.

Her head is now reeling and swimming. As a result, she bumps into another patron of the tavern who has similarly come outside to avail himself of the ally. The man turns, trying to discover who has dared to invade his privacy so egregiously ... and sprays Holliday with more than words.

Knowing she's to blame but not really caring, especially since anyone could be on her tail, she pulls out her pistol and cracks the bloke squarely on ... his shoulder. She missed. She watches as his indignation increased to thoroughly vexed. Deciding that those who fight and run away ... blah blah blah, she beats a hasty retreat towards the nearest door.

And enters a brothel. Freezing cold, covered in snow, and smelling of yesterday's ... and today's ... and that guy's ... brew du jour, she barrels into not one, not two, but no more than five very soft objects before sprawling onto what she believes is some sort of settee.

"Sorry about that," comes the muffled apology. "Death doesn't shake it off before he shoots at you." She looks up to find herself surrounded by more colors than any respectable rainbow ought to have. And it's giggling at her.

She rolls over and takes her hat off. Holding it in her hands, she inquires, "Might I have a cup of water, please?" They laugh again as the lady abbess of the establishment comes forward to lend a hand.

"Lila, run off and get the lady a glass of something," she calls. A young, nubile form scampers off into the recesses of the house. Turning back to Holliday, she says, "You look like you could use a bath. Come with me and we'll see to you."

"No, really. I'm fine," she replies.

"No, really. You're not. You smell like the bad end of whatever Kaelen killed not too long ago. You need a bath and a change of clothes and right now."

"But I like my clothes!", she protests. "Besides, anything you may have around here will take away my gunslinger mystique."

"Honey," she quips as she starts hustling her girls to strip Holliday of her accoutrements, "You've already lost it. Let us at least give you your dignity."

Resigned to whatever comes next, she slumps. Her wrists are grabbed by two people - one male, one female - and she's lead to hot water - *oooh! scented!* - and left to her own devices ... without her devices, she realizes after a moment.

*They've got me!*, she thinks as she scrambles to get out of the tub. Soaking wet, covered in oils, and smelling of roses and jasmine, she heads out to the hallway to a chorus of catcalls - some of them from actual cats - and whistles. She tries desperately to cover up, paws moving at the speed of light which not only doesn't cover anything, they act more like feather fans in some sort of furry burlesque show. Thoroughly mortified by the whole day, she stops, drops her shoulders, and allows herself to be lead, yet again, by the Lady of the house to one of the unoccupied rooms.

"There, there, dearie," she coos at Holliday. "It's not anything they haven't seen before. Now, let's get you dried off and into something seemly, hmmm?"

Resigned that anything is better than running around with naught but her velvet markings, she allows this angel of mercy to dress her ... dress being the operative word. By the time Holliday comes to her senses about the whole affair, she's in something that makes her vaguely resemble a several tiered, frosted pastry. What's worse, she needs to go out in this until they have finished cleaning her leathers. "Can I at least have my gun back?", she whines.

"It will ruin your lines. Here," she says, "take mine." The next thing she knows, the crinolines are around her face and the woman's strong hands are around her thigh. The holster feels odd against her leg, and she's not quite sure how she's going to get to it when she needs it. But it's better than nothing.

The next thing she knows, she's being hauled to her feet and a heavy fur shawl is being wrapped around her shoulders. "Can't do anything with your hair, seeing as you don't have much. But that hardly matters. You go along now and come back later for your clothes. Here," the lady shoves Holliday's pouch, considerably lighter of coin, but containing most of her other personal belongings, into her hands.

"You take care now, dearie. We'll see you soon."

"I ... um ... thank you," she says finally. "Uh, I never did catch your name."

"It's Jennyanydots, dearie, and you always have a room here when you need it. I'll be sure that the girls know to admit you without too much hassle. Just beware of the patrons." She leans in conspiratorially and whispers, "They can bite sometimes."

Pampered, primped, and smelling of far away flowers, Holliday is herded out the front door. She hears it slammed behind her. She's alone now ... except for all the people staring at her. "Wonderful," she mutters, as she heads back to the tavern just across the way. "I'm never going to live this down."

Jaeson was walking along... minding his own business of course and that should have been, once more, a sign that trouble was brewing for him. He was mulling over the game of cards, when his thoughts were interrupted by a couple of cat calls from the street.

He looked up and groaned inwardly. There was no mistaking Holliday, but he had to double take as to the outfit she was wearing. Far from the gunslinger exterior that he was used to, now was the prettified version of Holliday. His mind racing, he settles on that should be the best course of action - dignity for Holliday. He walks over to her and moves alongside as if it's the most natural thing in the world to escort her.

"Afternoon Holliday... taking time off from the bounty hunting gig?" His tone is calm, relaxed and very diplomatic.

*Ugh,* she groan inward. *Why did it have to be him? Better him than Skulky, I guess*

"Skinny!" she says with a smile. "This? No, not time off so much as," she leans in to whisper, "going incognito." She straightens back up. "After all, never can be too careful in my line of work. Folx see you coming and they skritter away like little bugs back into the holes they crawled out of."

She tries, and fails, to hook her thumbs into where her ammo belt usually rides. Looking flustered, she places her paws down by her side, trying for all the world to match his causal attitude. "I reckon that this ought to help me blend in with the locals. Though, I've got to admit, it's a tad on the chilly side. Why in the world would women go around in something like this?"

the clop of hooves foreshadowed Lars' arrival, riding Jumper down the road, lit smoke hanging from his lip, a few extra pouches hanging from his belt after he made a market trip for alchemical reagents needed for gunsmithing. He tips his hat as he comes level with the two

"Howdy. Lookin' a lot rosier than you were the other night, Ms Holliday. Mr Silvereye. Any'o' this rabble bothering you?"

He gave a level gunslinger glance to the cat callers.

Jaeson nods respectfully to Lars.

"Afternoon Lars," he says pleasantly, then regards Holliday for a few moments.

"Some women like to look more pretty than practical. I will give you this, if you are looking for a distraction and a way to make sure that you are underestimated, you've found it..." He smiles gently as he speaks.

Callista stomped through the snow-laden streets, her boots sinking slightly with every irritated step. Aether trailed dutifully behind her, tiny mechanical legs leaving perfectly precise tracks in the frost. The evening air was crisp, biting at her exposed nose and ears, but she barely noticed—her mind was consumed with thoughts of gears, circuits, and, most importantly, revenge.

She had lost a bet. A bet. And now, thanks to her landlord's infernal scheming, she had to go to the Hollow Market’s more... "fashionable" stalls for a grooming. The injustice of it all! Her workbench wept for her absence, her blueprints mourned the loss of her guidance. And yet, here she was, condemned to wade through a sea of sheers, ribbon, and whatever chatty stylist who considered themselves “charming” to people who didn’t think in schematics.

Callista muttered darkly under her breath as she adjusted her goggles. "Next time, I bet her to build something with actual structural integrity. See how she likes it."

Aether clicked beside her, ever helpful. "Recommendation: Modify wager parameters to favor probable success."

Callista huffed. "Not helping, Aether."

But her grumbling ceased the moment she turned a corner and promptly spotted Jaeson Silvereye walking beside what could only be described as a very disgruntled, very overdressed Holliday.

Callista blinked. Then blinked again. Was that lace was that!?! She squinted, a fur shawl? Aether beeped softly as it, too, processed the unlikely sight. There was an eternity of silence. Then, Callista did the only logical thing.

She pointed and laughed. Hysterically...

Holliday reaches up instinctively to tip her own hat at Lars, only to discover that Jennyanydots put a flower behind her ear while she wasn't looking. She covers the gaff by smoothing down her, er, scalp and returning her arm to her side.

"I thank you for the compliment, but I feel like a some bride's bouquet that's been hung upside down to dry. I can only hope that you're not wrong about not being seen as a threat."

Her eyes turn toward each of them in kind. Which of them was in the bar with her. They widen as she remembers, through the smoke, haze, and memory of losing her money that they both were! Either of these could be the one responsible for her being poisoned.

The gunslinger - did she even know his name? - came later. Skinny had been there both days, however. She even drank the Dwarven spirits he preferred. Could he have switched glasses?

*Keep your friends close ... blah blah blah,* she thinks to herself.

"So, what does a girl have to do to get in out of the cold around here?" she says winsomely to them, batting her eyelashes and playing coily with her ruffles

Holliday hears the laughter. Her eyes dart sharply around the square. There, rolling around like a deranged hyena, was The Gnome::tm::

That fuzzle-brained inventor who almost blew up the place with her husbprojectile was laughing at her. Holliday would show her who's got the last laugh.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me," she says as she picks up her skirts and heads over to where the diminutive, shrieking, snowperson lay having her fit. She swiped out with a foot to trip the little noise maker ... and promptly landed on her butt, taking Callista down with her. The slippers that Jennyanydots had put on her were made for entertaining, not butt-kicking, and certainly not for long-term wear in the snow.

Both of them in a crumpled heap, Holliday remembers that Callista was also in the tavern. Could *she* be the one? Holliday shakes off the foolish notion and tries to rise from the street.

She's still cold and now she's wet and disheveled again. "Jennyanydots is going to kill me," she says. Her eyes widen at the thought. Maybe that was the plan all along!

Callista, still breathless from her cackling fit, barely had time to register the vengeful blur of ruffles and righteous indignation before she found herself toppling backward into the snow. One moment she was pointing, the next—WHUMP.

Aether beeped in distress as both gnome and gunslinger lay sprawled in an undignified tangle of skirts, scarves, and mechanical limbs. Callista groaned, half-buried, shaking snow from her goggles as Holliday, equally disgruntled, struggled to untangle herself from an unruly amount of fabric. “Gears and gremlins, you’re wearing more layers than my insulation experiments,” Callista grunted, flailing to right herself, only managing to dislodge more snow onto herself. “Are you sure you’re not smuggling half the inn’s bedding under there?”

Aether, ever the faithful companion, extended a small mechanical arm to help Callista up. “Well, if she doesn’t, the cold probably will. Or the sheer embarrassment of this moment. You know, whichever comes first, then again you might be hiding a smoke stick under there somewhere... I've been planning to carry more for just such an occasion."

Jaeson shakes his head with a quiet sign and walks over to the crumpled form of Holliday and helps her up... then weaves a simply cantrip to dry both her AND Callista off.

"A drink and something hot sounds like an excellent idea." he says. "Perhaps the tavern? or would you prefer something less formal?"

Callista, still grinning like an over addled teen with an umbrella in a tornado, blinked up at Jaeson as he casually banished the frigid misery from her clothes with a simple flick of his wrist. It was, in her estimation, deeply unfair how effortlessly cool he was.

"A drink! Yes! Absolutely! Drinking! I—uh—we—should definitely do that. Because drinking is—" Her brain short-circuited mid-sentence, panic overriding common sense.

Aether beeped once.

Callista, still grappling with the sudden realization that she was speaking to Jaeson and had, in fact, been speaking for an extended period of time without actually forming a coherent sentence, froze, visibly buffering... A beat of silence. “…DID I SAY DRINK? BECAUSE I MEANT, UH—FLAMING WATER? WAIT, NO, REGULAR WATER, BUT, UH, NOT TOO REGULAR, BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, THAT’S BORING, AND—"

Aether beeped again, this time in a tone so judgmental that even Holliday, despite her own dignity-related crisis, could give Callista a look that clearly translated to "Sweetheart, you’re dying out loud."

Callista slapped her own face. " A typical BTU ratio to steam is around 1,194 BTUs per pound of steam; meaning for every pound of steam produced, it carries approximately 1,194 British Thermal Units of heat energy... So… that’s a yes, then?”

Callista, still recovering from the catastrophic failure of her verbal processor, pointed wildly toward the tavern and made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a tactical retreat. "Oh my gears! Look! It's a convenient distraction!" Callista shot off in the opposite direction the moment she thought everyone was looking away.

Lars trotted up to the pile as they extricate. As the Gnome flees, Lars hops off his horse

"Well I was going to give her a what-for for laughing, but I see you are a woman of action. Unfortunately you are not dressed for a woman of action. I can offer you a ride on Jumper until we get to the Inn, probably safer than walking in those shoes."

Holliday blinks at them like she's never seen the sun and it's more beautiful than she imagined. The "Two such fine offers. What can a little thing like me do but accept both?"

She stares up at Lars, who's astride Jumper. A baffled look crosses her features as she realizes she's never ridden in a dress before. Something tells her going astride is not the best option. "Er," she says, hoping she doesn't sound as stupid as she feels, "maybe I better walk. I'm not sure that Jumper will appreciate the frills across his rump. But I do thank you. Will you join us at the tavern?"

She shoots a casual glance at Jaeson, trying desperately to regain her composure and some modicum of control over the situation. "After all, who wouldn't think highly of either of you with such an elegant and charming creature on your arm? Isn't it a good thing I have two?"

She holds out both hands, palms up, one to each, as both an acceptance of their offers and an invitation to join her. Friends close, and all that.

Jaeson smiles and his fine boned hand accepts her hand offer lightly - though she can feel there is strength there hidden within the delicate bones.

"It would be a pleasure and an honour to escort you to the inn," he says with a smile. There is no guile in his tone, just simple respect.

He looks to Lars awaiting the reply of the gunslinger.

he accepts rural gentleman like "Happy to accept, let us go to the land of wine and honey, and stronger things."

She is surprised by the strength is Jaeson's hand. She had expected something so delicate to be less ... powerful. But it feels lovely in her own. She blushes slightly. It has been so long since anyone has ...

WHAT WAS SHE THINKING?!?! This handsome devil could be the one who was sent to kill her? *Girl,* she thinks to herself, *get your head back in the game.*

"Then let's away ... to the land of all the things," she says with a smile that would melt the snows around them.

</end?>