The party was banging, a few dozen people talking, dancing, and drinking, the sound of their voices and the music nearly deafening. Melissa had gathered all of her friends - and her friends' friends - together for one hell of a good time for Christmas. They were all college kids, too busy with their majors to go home or not having any home to speak of to go home to, but with some free time that they needed to burn in a different way than just more studying. A tree was tucked into a back corner of the large gathering hall, a myriad of presents pushed under the branches of green, each addressed to one of the many students who had gathered there that night. Melissa had the fortune of parents with just a tad too much wealth, and the heart of a saint. There was much excited guessing at what the patrons might be receiving, but there was really no telling until it was time to open presents.
But even over all of the commotion, the distinctive clicking of tipped boots was easily recognizable. Regnaut glanced up from his lonely seat at one of the dining tables, where he had been contentedly drinking a bit too much and watching the people interact with each other, at the sound. A woman was approaching him, eyes showing her dead-set decision to greet him, and he took her in. It was hard to deny her beauty, even when struck with the abruptness of her odd apparel - she was dressed from head to toe in the full attire of a saloon girl, and clearly utterly comfortable with it. Not that he should have been one to criticize. Regnaut himself was dressed in the formal dress of a medieval noble, complete with a dress sword slung at his hip - though Melissa had insisted that he tie it with a peace knot at the opening of the sheath, regardless of his lack of intent to wield the blade.
The girl sat down across from him at the table, a mischievous and determined grin plastered across her face. "People watching?" she asked, the tease clear in her voice.
Regnaut looked her up and down, deciding how best to approach her. He wasn't much of one for conversation - not that he didn't enjoy conversing, he just wasn't great at it, and his particular manner of doing so wasn't exactly common by any means. He had lost many a potential acquaintance thanks to his blunt and side-stepping manner of speech. But those who stuck around long enough to get accustomed to it were some of the best friends a man could ask for.
"Gwynneth," he finally stated. "Though I mostly hear people call you by Gwyn. A historian, who prioritizes herself in the Wild West. Open. Fun. Beautiful. Always looking to have a good time, and not having much trouble getting it. The boys always look on you with desire, and some of the girls too. And you are more than willing to flirt back, regardless of whether or not it gets you anything in return."
The grin never left her face, though he could see the surprise briefly flash in her eyes. "And quite the people watcher at that," she stated. "But if I ever hear you call me Gwynneth again, I assure you it will be the last time you get to brag about how good you are at it, since you won't have a tongue anymore." The curve of her lips showed she was only half joking. "And you are?"
Regnaut only smiled and skipped over her question. "I wonder just how the wild west caught your fancy."
An unimpressed look flashed over her eyes. "I hardly think it polite to ask questions without supplying any answers."
"You're asking the wrong questions." Her eyes showed a combination of irritation and curiosity. She might actually stick around. The edge of Regnaut's lips curved up in a grin. This might be an interesting night after all.
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