|Cormano||Stale cigar smoke hangs low in the air of this large old Saloon. Several patrons of the establisment sit at the bar, hurling insults at eachother and the robotic wait-staff, some in good nature, some not. A re-fitted Mr. Handy glides out from behind the bar with a tray loaded with drinks balanced atop one of it's metallic claws. It makes it's rounds neatly, speaking without the typical robotic british accent you might expect, and instead with a charming yet subservient southern drawl.
The atmosphere is lively this time of night. Many working men and women have arrived to have a good time and relax after a long day under the beating sun of the desert. Girls in old-timey call-girl outfits flirt with mustachoed men dressed in a variety of western-themed outfits. The whole thing looks like a bar scene taken from an episode of gunsmoke.
|Chevelle|| She'd drifted in with the caravan from Roswell. Lips dry and cracked from the desert air. She wore a strange assortment of clothing, and jewelry, and she'd turned her weapon in to the leader of the caravan before silently collecting what pay she was due. Chevelle didn't waste any time leaving behind her former traveling companions, her heavy booted feat carrying her road weary body in to the Saloon and panning her gaze across the rows of patrons who understandably took a moment to stare in her direction.
She wasn't beautiful, if anything a solid average of lean young woman, packed under a lifetime's worth of road dust and grime. Around her neck she wore a necklace of bones, a gleaming pendant dangling at the end, the hood ornament of some long forgotten pre-war car. Her outfit was well worn, damn near coming apart by the looks of it. Stitched together animal hide, cloth and metal plates. The tattoo's she wore on her face, arms, and chest surely got some attention, and undeniably her mix mash of raider/tribal garb. But what surely held their attention was the portion of her right leg, most of it in fact, from her mid thigh down, which was composed of lightly rusted, gleaming chrome, Tucked mostly in to a high leather boot.
Pausing to meet each of their gazes slowly and without fear, she finally made her way to the bar and ordered whatever rotgut was available that wouldn't take her sight.
|Cormano||Seated at the bar was a Ghoul, hunched over a glass of lukewarm milk. A large sombrero atop his head, and various pieces of body armor bearing the stamp of the El Dorado Militia strapped to his body. His mexican poncho was thrown over one shoulder, showing off a trio of holsters, each holding a different handgun.
As Chevelle approached the bar the Ghoul took notice of her and shot her a nod. "Ain't seen you 'round these parts miss. Just blow in?" he rasped out, turning his ruined face to her as she waited for her drink. "Well, welcome to El Dorada iff'n that's the case. Best place not to die of exposure in the west." He says with a chuckle.
|Chevelle|| Her gaze dialing back in from a thousand yards as she focuses on the Ghoul at the bar. The sound of his voice sending a frightfully familiar chill through her bones. Quickly shifting her gaze back to the bartender, she takes the delivered glass of cheap Whiskey and knocks it back with practiced abandon. Setting the glass down, wiping her lips with the back of her other hand she orders another. Several moments later she returns her gaze toward the ghoul. Nodding slowly, her gaze avoiding his as she surveys the familiar stamp of the Militia and his trio of holsters.
Clearing her throat, her voice raspy and still quite parched from the trip. It takes her a moment before her voice ceases cracking for it to level out to something understandable. " Are you a soldier, or a priest? " Her eyes, hard and dark find his own. Searching those milky orbs for answers before turning away once again and ordering another drink. She keeps her gaze on the bartenders busy hands as she finds her voice again. " Yah. New, and... Thanks. " Voice a touch flat, respectful but with a queer intonation. Up close as she is now, the scent of sweat, sand and something like sage brush. Strong and prickly to the nose.
|Cormano||"A Soldier or a Priest?" He replies, tilting his head to the side. "Well, can't speak to the latter, possible at one time maybe but I don't figure that's somethin' I'd git up to. Former though, Aye, I figure I'm a Soldier. More'a a scout though." He rasps. After a few moments of silence, during which he found the straw to his milk, and took a refreshing sip from it he continues, "Figured ya were, hope ya have a good time 'round these parts. I'm Cormano by the way."
He reaches into his pack and produces a handrolled cigar, then lights it with a match struck neatly against the heel of his boot. "Can I offer ya a smoke?" He asks, just before taking a drag from the cigar. Smoke billowed from the gaps in teeth and what's left of his nose. The Ghoul doesn't seem to mind though, and his old eyes don't even water at the fragrant cloud of cigar smoke.
|Chevelle|| The second glass of what passes for Whiskey sat in front of her, Chevelle stared at it with an unusually complicated expression. Brow furrowed slightly, lips forming a thin tight line. The tip of her tongue probing along the back of her teeth before she raises the shot to her lips and pours it in to her mouth. Shallow cheeks bulging slightly as she lets the cheap liquor burn in to her tongue. Eyes growing heavy lidded for a spell before she finally swallows it down and orders another.
Glancing back to the Ghoul, one dark, narrow eyebrow rising curiously at his response. Despite the outfit she found it hard to believe, though perhaps not in the way he may expect, that he was in fact a soldier.
At the mention of a 'good time' the road ragged young woman erupted in a fit of laughter so sudden, and sharp it was like listening to someone drop a box of razor blades down some stairs. There was only the facsimile of humor in her laugh, it was far too violent for that. The brief release of whatever it was, tension or madness, was cut short as she cleared her throat and took a long slow breath of that stale cigar smoke laden air.
" Yes. " Reaching out a tattooed hand, she reached for the cigar eagerly as the bitter smoke hit her nose. " Cormano. " Pronouncing the name. Testing it, and hearing a ring of something familiar, but to what she could not recall. " Cor-man-o. Chevelle. " Delivering her name as she pulled a couple of caps from the inside of her boot and purchased the remainder of the bottle she'd slowly be siphoning shots off of.