It all started with a note. A letter. A white piece of fine paper sealed with a red wax stamp over its center, keeping it closed. There was nothing inside of it, but another piece of paper, a message written on it. [color=ed1c24]“.You are of interest to us. If you want to put your skills to the test and make a difference in this world, come to the bar tonight. Alone. Tell anyone about this offer and the deal is forfeit. We are watching.”[/color] Words of simple meaning, yet little context. Little explanation. Abigail could not even remember how it came to be that she was in possession of this letter. She just found it amidst the day, in the pocket of her long black coat amidst a few coins, pieces of cheap tobacco, dirty handkerchief, stained with the remains of someone else’s blood. She thought it was a mistake at first. Envelope was not signed, so there was little option but to open it, and so the letter inside of it addressed her by her name. Name which of course was not very rare or unique and was common among people who surrounded her; but the chance of it to be a coincidence was getting smaller every time she was to browse along the fine print of the letters with her eyes. Questions started to swirl in Abigail's mind, and one thing was clear at this point is that there will be no answers unless she would attempt to meet with the woman described in that letter. She could of course ignore this note. Anonymous invitation via a letter - it is always a sign of either a coward or a person of a selfish motive; someone afraid to show up face to face for a talk was to be claimed either of two on the streets. On the other hand. Standing there, near the docks of the New Haven with the view being opened - of the midday clouds being scorched with the blackness of the smoke rising from the working engines of ships and the cigarettes of the workers; in the dimness of the light covered away by the veil of the industrial mist; in the acoustic chaos of the metropolis cascade of voices to blend together into a single droning voice of no clear indication, direction and purpose; in the massive of the crowd akin to the sea of spasmic motions. In there - was she not to pray indirectly, mutely, subconsciously, in a vague and weak hope - was she not to pray for the sign? Was she not in an attempt to find the path? The path to walk on, the path she was meant to walk on, the path she thought she was walking on before in her life, and of which there were only shards and pieces remaining. Was that really the answer to her prayers? Or yet another mere joke of cruel faith? There was only one way to find out, and it was at this moment that her thinking was disturbed by a nudge into her shoulder. She looked around and met a face - a dirt poor dock worker, she knew him. Face covered in bruises, hands rough and hard like the tools. Even without speaking, just a glance into his deeply set eyes was enough to figure out that there was another accident in the docks. With a sigh and a curse under her breath, Abigail followed the man. People knew she was good and what she was doing, and at the very least this will earn her some sort of dinner, if not the satisfaction of help to which though she failed to see any gain for quite a long time at this point. [b]***[/b] When Abigail finally finished, It started to rain, and the trail of water pouring down onto the metropolis washed some stains of blood off of her hands and clothes. Port workers fed and gave her whiskey to warm herself up, which she did not reject. Very few in the whole America knew of her religious community origin, and the times were that warming oneself up with alcohol in the rainy evening was the only way to keep yourself from succumbing to the sickness of cold. She did not have an umbrella, or a hat, so the only thing she was able to do to protect herself from the train is to raise the collar of her coat up to cover her neck from the humid wind and the raindrops threatening to slip under it and send the chilling trail behind her neck. With the leather suitcase filled with various medical supplies in one hand and holding her coat around her neck with the other she went along the streets of the evening city, drenched and with her red hair dimmed and dangling around her face like the pieces of fur on the stray dog. And she looked like one either way, a uselessly wandering dog, hungry for a bone to bite onto or chase after. Finding the bar in question was not easy, despite some instructions written in the letter - it was no easy task to read them in the darkness of a night under the rain threatening to make the fancy font of the written words to be smudged into wet ink spots. The fact that the bar was hidden under the bridge, looking from the outside perspective like another abandoned warehouse inhabited by squatters. Nevertheless the sight of parked cars around the place gave her some idea of the place being actually the bar in question. Stepping inside brought little attention to her figure, aside from water dripping down her hair and her coat. The place was warm - and this already was enough for Abigail to relax somewhat in a light dizzy of the comfortable temperature - but also luxurious, compared to how it looked from outside that is, but still. The clouds of smoke were floating over under the ceiling of the place, like a sea of dark grey clouds, aimed to cover this place in the mystery, the visitors of the bar hiding the shapes of their faces behind it. Not being the nosy type, Abigail though still wandered looking over the crowd, noticing the types of people who would confuse her with the street dirt, as well as some of the said street dirt type of people as well. A mixed party, of mixed standards - a weird place indeed. She was looking for the woman in question though, and quickly she noticed her - in the company of a young man, chatting over with the bartender. [color=f26522]“Oei”[/color], she said, approaching the woman - just right by the moment the man stopped replying to whatever question he was asked. Abigail’s accent is heavy, quickly to betray her Irish origins, if it was not to be done already with how she looks, [color=f26522]“Ye must be the one?”[/color], she asks placing the rain drenched envelope with a letter on the table, standing in front of the woman still and observing over her and the man sitting beside her.