Floretta clutched her soaking shawl to her throat as she climbed out of the carriage, grumbling to herself when the hem of her skirt settled into a mud puddle. She took a moment to shake the skirt out, her fiery braid flopping into her face. Blasted morning to ride an open carriage, she thought darkly, fumbling her wet shawl.

A hoarse ahem cut through the morning muffle of light rain. She glanced up from her hunched position, squinting against the heavy drizzle. The driver scrunched his tobacco-chewing face, staring expectantly. She straightened quickly and pulled two tallies from her pocket, dropping it into his gnarled fingers. His hand remained outstretched as he pointedly looked at her quality apparel.

His gravelly voice demanded four tallies....

Her lips pressed together as she frowned. The driver’s wan face remained unchanged. Huffing loudly, she pulled out another tally and held it up. “That’s all I’ve got,” she stated flatly as she pressed it into his hand. She turned away before he could argue more, tromping across the stretch of muddy road just outside The Clockwork Stag. She looked back once, her conscience cramping, but a scan of the weary crowd told her that the emaciated driver had gone. Good lady, she hated to lie about money, but what could be done with a person who thought her better-off than she really was? Vera Augustine had been difficult lately.

Floretta needed to get out of the stifling atmosphere of her shop. Her painters need money—they always needed money. But sack it! She hadn’t even been able to put anything aside for Gale as of late. Is there never a break?

She entered the Stag, draping her shawl over her arm and smelling the odor of damp wood. As her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, she looked toward the bar, searching for Gannon.

Truth be told, Gannon Oranos was still in his bed, in his room, lying on his stomach. Consciousness bothered his mind like a fly worrying his nose. He tried to brush it away by closing his eyelids tighter and growling.

Nothing doing.

The sun wasn't even truly up, it was only the shine off the roofs to plague his eyes. Mos of Vienda wouldn't even be awake on moving (at least none who wanted a drink). Those who would be up and around in the streets would be vendors and night factory workers coming home from their shift—dragging their feet home like empty grain sacks.

A small noise from down stairs made his eyebrows twitch, but it went ignored in his sluggish head. It was probably a cat that had found its way in. Cats managed to get in the Stag as frequently as the dust. Ganonn groaned and rolled over, away from the window and it's already glowing dust moats.

Most mornings he had a few hours to run various errands before the first rush. But the kenser was shod, the bottles were filled, and the Stag was as clean as the musty atmosphere of the Soots would allow.

The kenser....

Gannon moaned again and yanked the thin quilt farther over his head. Coby would just have to go hungry for ten more minutes.

Floretta could see that Gannon was not to be found at the bar; in fact, she realized there was not a soul in the room, besides herself. The damp smell could be attributed to the fact thata fire had not yet been lit. Her shoulders hunched against the chill, making her head resemble that of a turtle receding into its shell. She made her way to the kitchen, conscious of the noisy squeaking and clunking of her boots in the quiet.

"Gannon? Hello?" She hollered. Or thought she hollered. The quiet made every sound seem so amplified. Anyway, he wasn't there.

She searched throughout the place, even into the cellar, in case Gannon had had one of those nights that rendered him unable to safely make his way up the flight of stairs to his bedroom. When she could not find him, she wondered in dismay if he had run some sort of errand. But why then had the door been unlocked? Perhaps he would only be gone for a few more minutes. She shuffled to a table and sat, eyebrows raised in an expression of utter boredom. Her lips smacked together a few times as she picked at her fingernails, waiting. Then a thought occured.

Oh, he better not be still in bed! What a lazy-- she trailed off in righteous disbelief. Of course, her conscience reminded her, Gannon was not lazy. But she had come to visit! And he was sleeping!

She stood abruptly and tromped up the stairs, huffing a little at the top. When she reached Gannon's door, she knocked sharply, lips set in a flat line. She wished ardently for a moment that she had Gannon's affinity for bone-chilling glares.

The sharp rap at the door nearly spooked Gannon straight to his feet. But he held his position, even though his entire body was a steel trap coiled.

Who th' hell?! His mind scrambled for an answer and he was drawn back to the sound he'd previously heard downstairs. That couldn't have been a cat... There was an intruder in his bar.

He grit his teeth and narrowed his eye. Lying not far from him, on a table by his bed, was a long leather scabbard with his short sword—Roxanne—within. Slowly, he inched forth his hand, drew the gleaming blade and unfurled the covers from himself. Even more cautiously, he lifted himself from bed and crept across the floor, avoiding the spots that he knew creaked.

Hilt to his weighty palm, Gannon gripped it firmly before taking hold of the knob and flinging the door open with a vicious bellow, menacing with Roxanne's blade.

Shifting her weight, Floretta wondered why Gannon was taking so long to answer. She had heard a rustle as soon as she knocked, so she could be sure he was awake. Good lady. Gannon could be so peculiar sometimes.
She waited a moment longer, listening.

Oh hosh posh! This is ridiculous, she thought to herself as she reached for the doorknob. Her hand closed around it when she had the peculiar feeling that the door was opening by itself.

Very quickly.

And what's more, it wasn't opening by itself, but by a raving lunatic waving a clocking knife around her head!

Floretta's eyes grew as big as soft balls as her feet danced around the floor (similar to a child with a full bladder), breath inhaling so rapidly that she nearly swallowed her own tongue. She wondered momentarily if her silly paranoia was right and Gannon had been killed by this lunatic and she was too late. She was always worrying that he had gotten himself killed. Then she realized the lunatic was Gannon and he hadn't been killed and she wasn't going to be killed and--nearly worse--he was alive and really hadn't bothered to visit in weeks. And he seemed to have very nearly lost his mind.

"Good lady, Gannon! Good lady! What in the world are you-- Good lady," (it seemed the lady was very good today), "Gannon! What is the--" She coughed a few times before she let the question hang in the air, staring up at Gannon with an expression that could very well convey a sentiment that--expressed in words--translates to "you idiot. what were you thinking?" Her eye was twitching, so she rubbed it to make it stop.

Gannon had pulled up short when he realized that none other than Floretta Hatter was standing in the hall. And if she was here to steal alcohol…then all of Vita was probably collapsing.

That starteled, tongue-in-roof-of-mouth gasp was all too familiar to Gannon, and even though he’d just lunged through the door, teeth and blade bared, he managed to pull back and calm himself, even as Floretta was still spluttering.

“Oh…clocks, Floretta,” he growled wearily. Gannon took a second to sigh with mild relief. He lowered his short-sword against his and leaned heavily against the door frame, rubbing his eye. “Wish I’d known you were comen’… I’da’ cleaned up a little better.” Gannon gestured to his current state: tousled haired, bare-chested, and in nothing but loose pants. Not exactly dressed for pleasant company.

Gannon rubbed the back of his tight neck and groaned, mentally cursing his sunken-in straw mattress. He was about to scratch his shoulder-blades against the door-jam when an observation struck him.

He frowned and looked down at the little potter woman. “How’d you get in here?”

Floretta barked a laugh, slightly embarassed at how loud it sounded after her uncomposed reaction, "Oh hogwash, Gannon. Psh. I've seen worse," though her eyes were a little squinted and her nose a little scrunched as she said it. She sniffed dimmisively before coughing again, staring past Gannon into his room.

Oh. Maybe she hadn't seen worse.

Her eyes shifted to Gannon, who was uncomfortably rubbing the back of his neck.


Floretta glanced up from her perusal of his pigstye, "Oh... uh," she paused, considering the most interesting way to inform Gannon of his negligence. A coy expression washed over her face as she straightened and smiled, nearly batting her eyes.

"Do you always leave the door unlocked when you go to bed?" she quipped.

Tocks. How creative, Floretta.

Gannon frowned. No…. his sleep sluggish mind replied. I always bar the do—And now it was Gannon’s turn to bug his eyes. A strangled growl escaped his throat before he dashed around Floretta and went crashing down the stairs—sword still in hand.

Ohshit, ohshit, ohshit. Were his only thoughts as his bare feet slapped on the steps and ground down upon reaching the bottom. Instantly, he made a beeline for the cabinets, looking through them with fanatic intensity to make sure that nothing had been stolen.