The Inaugural Log

[wishiwasatree]

At dusk Deadwood comes alive.  The torches are lit, the horses are stabled, the muddy thoroughfare clears of the stagecoaches and various little pop-up shops that crowd outside the wooden business close down for the night.  The residents, colloquially-known as 'hoopleheads', begin their trudge back to the camp to spend what little gold they've dug up from their long day in the hills.

It's mostly poker, pussy and whisky that gets the prospectors through their days, but as Deadwood builds itself up there's certainly more on offer for those who might not want to spend their days panhandling in the creeks. A hotel, for instance. A very fine hardware business. A few saloons with craps and more high-class ladies in bustles and lace, a freight company and a telegraph business setting up shop in the lobby of the Deadwood Pioneer.

But the heart and soul of the camp is the Gem. The doors open midday for the slow meander of the regulars, but by nighttime the saloon is hopping with clients and boozehounds and bored cowboys, while the latest music on a piano mail-ordered from Montgomery Ward tries desperately to drown out the laughter and arguments and flirty giggling. It's almost a guarantee that a fight will break out at least once during the night, but the blood stains are scrubbed and the atmosphere quickly restores to its usual bawdy good time. 

Trixie watches the goings-on from her vantage point up on the second floor. She sees her employees in her office with some regularity, intervenes when needed, entertains when the price is right. She'll even schmooze when the occasion calls for it, but she likes her men and women to have the freedom to be able to make their money without her hovering down their necks.  She doesn't want them to do a silly thing like fall in love though. God help them if that becomes the case.

Comments

[fog_wise]

There is another man who comes in with an accent of his own, one who finds a place at the bar and puts his hat down. He's dressed appropriately, neither overly poor nor overtly rich. His collar is high but not high enough to hide all of the strange markings on his skin, markings he hopes the many miners and cowboys here mistake for smudges of dirt or coal, and while he seems content to stay to himself, there's something to watching the others in the bar at saloon that seems to give him satisfaction in and of itself. He'll eat whatever they have, be more than a little disappointed at the lack of wine, and settle for spirits however watered down they might be.

When Godric takes to the piano, he will make sure to move closer so that he can enjoy it. The sound of music is, it seems, a rare and delightful treat to him if his closed eyes and the smile is anything to go by. He'll also thank Godric with a nod for his playing, though he won't bother him further if it seems he'd rather not chat.

[loveisall]

Usually he isn't into chatting. Usually, he plays a bit and walks off, but that's not the case tonight. He passes over some coins to a woman in between songs and she brings over another drink for the stranger. Whatever it was he was drinking before.

Godric doesn't mind spending a little money on someone if they appreciate a little music.

[fog_wise]

He looks surprised at the drink, but once provided it, he lifts it to Godric. Then, after a moment, he'll offer the seat at the bar beside him. If he'd like it.

[loveisall]

A single nod and Godric returns to his song, finishing it up with a bit of a flourish before letting someone else take over. He stands, joining him at the bar with his own drink in hand.

"I do take requests."