To those who arrive on Rhy'Din in less than ideal circumstances, the Welcome Center is often the only thing standing between them and instant poverty. Of course, for some, the definition of poverty is very different to the city's definition. It all depends on the year they come from, the class they were born into, the circumstances of their departure from whatever world they have left. Often they arrive alone, and sometimes they go back, but for those who have nothing to their name and nowhere to turn, the Welcome Center is a lifeline they cannot afford to let go of.
This was true of twenty-two year old Bridget Donohoe, pulled out of the harbor waters after she made an almighty splash landing in them from apparently nowhere. Without her antiquated life-jacket, she might have drowned right then and there, but thankfully the pockets of cork were enough to keep her afloat until help came to her. And now here she was, two days after arriving, living off the kindness of the Welcome Center, trying to shake off the trauma of her unfinished voyage from Ireland to America in the early years of the 20th century, unable to read the notices for jobs available through her lack of education. All she had were the clothes she stood up in, and a will to work for her living. Now all she had to do was find a job that would take an Irish immigrant with no qualifications. Even on Rhy'Din, that was a tall order.
Sam McAlister was at the Welcome Center on business. He'd been sent there by his employer to fetch a few newcomers to help out at the ranch. He'd been instructed specifically to hire a few hands, along with a maid. Ranch hands were easy enough to find, but maids were another matter. Women were usually spoken for first, while men were a dime a dozen. He wasn't particularly fond of this task. He'd rather be tending cattle than looking for help, but an order was an order, and he wasn't in a position to argue. Still, it sort of felt a little like the slave trade, and despite his less than sterling reputation, he had his morals.
Amid all the bustle of the Welcome Center, Bridget was a sea of stillness and calm. She'd been drilled in how to make a good impression by her mother from a young age, all of them knowing that the only way to improve your lot in life was to catch the eye of someone who might want to take you a little higher than where you stood. That meant being well turned out, your clothing clean, your hair neat, and knowing when not to make a point of standing out in a crowd. As it was, Bridget was a product of her time, dressed in the rather more modest attire of a woman from the lower classes in the early 20th century, her hands folded on her lap as she sat near the door. She might have seemed to be staring into space, but what she was actually doing was listening to the requests as they were made to the staff in the center. She was certain that she would catch something about a job she might be suited for.
Thankfully, Sam knew better than to inspect people's teeth and check their hair for lice. He had a good eye for cattle, which helped him have a good eye for people. He only chose those who looked hardy and fit, and were neat and clean in appearance. There was no point in hiring someone who appeared lazy or sickly or unkempt, as they'd never work out. His boss was in the business of making money, not doling out charity, and while Sam might not agree, it wasn't his job to argue. He'd already picked a half dozen hands and sent them to the wagon to wait. He was just about to give up on finding a suitable maid when he spied a young redhead sitting demurely on a chair, as if she was patiently waiting for someone or something.
In the course of her eavesdropping, Bridget became aware that someone was staring at her. Her eyes flickered toward the perpetrator, looking him up and down quickly before looking away. He looked like trouble, that one; the kind of man her mother had always told her to stay away from. Admittedly, the kind of man she'd always been a bit fascinated with, but she wasn't stupid enough to give him any indication that she liked the way he looked. After another moment, she glanced back, and he was still looking at her. Her brows knotted in a frown. "Were you going to pay me for all that lookin', or are you just saving up a memory for later?"
To his credit - or not - he hadn't looked away when she'd noticed him staring, sizing her up, just as she was doing the same. A faint smirk appeared on his scruffy face, as if he found her cheeky attitude amusing. "Ain't no reason to pay for something I can get for free," he replied with equal brashness.
Her brow rose at his response. "Get it somewhere else, I'm not here for whorin'," she informed him coolly, the lyrical lilt to her voice betraying her Irish roots. "I'm here for paid work, honest work, and I'm not going to spread my legs for a man who doesn't even know how to shave himself proper."
"Whorin'?" he echoed, laughing. "Darlin', did you miss what I said the first time" I ain't paying for something I can get for free. And I ain't here to hire no whore. I'm looking for someone who's willing to work for an honest wage, but you might be a speck too sassy." To be honest, he liked his women sassy and spunky and she seemed to have that in aces, but she didn't have to know that. Besides, it wasn't so much what he liked in a woman as it was about her ability to do the job.
She stood up, turning to face him. "Nine years in service," she told him sternly. "Four as an upstairs maid. I'm not afraid of hard work for fair wages, and I've no family to support. Tell me the job or leave me alone, I've not the patience to play games. I need a job or I'll starve, and that isn't so different from home as you might think."
At six feet, two inches tall, he towered over her and just about everyone around, save trolls and giants and the like, but her pluckiness gave him pause. Well, it would be better to have a maid who could stand up for herself and wasn't afraid of a little hard work than one who would fall apart at the smallest thing. "How long you been in Rhy'Din?" he asked, pushing his hat back to scrutinize her better.
"Two days," she answered him fearlessly, but her hands clenched as she said it. She might not have much, but she did have her pride. She'd never been in a workhouse or a soup kitchen all her life, and yet here she was, living off the kindness of strangers. "Why, are you lookin' for something in particular?"
"I'm looking for someone who's willing to work hard. My boss ain't an easy man to please, but he pays a fair wage for a hard day's work, and you'd get room and board." He considered her again. If the decision was up to him, he'd have hired her in a minute; but then, he realized the decision was up to him. This was what he'd been sent here for, to make these decisions so that his boss didn't have to. "How old are you?" he asked. He didn't want to hire a child, after all, and she looked pretty young.
She fidgeted, disliking the question, but knowing it would inevitably come up. Back at home, she was virtually an old maid. "Two and twenty," she said awkwardly, rubbing her hands against the skirt of her coat. "What's the work you're offering?"
"Up to the mistress, but a maid, I s'pect. Her decision, not mine," he told her, considering thoughtfully again before waving for her to follow. "Come along, then. Sooner we leave, the sooner we get there and see you settled in. You got any baggage?" he asked, gaze darting to see if she had a trunk or a case or a bag.
She shook her head, a flicker of real pain crossing her face for a brief moment before she pulled herself together. "Just what I'm standin' up in," she informed him. That really was all there was to it; she was hired. A sense of relief passed over her as she moved to follow him. "Where're we going?"
This was true of twenty-two year old Bridget Donohoe, pulled out of the harbor waters after she made an almighty splash landing in them from apparently nowhere. Without her antiquated life-jacket, she might have drowned right then and there, but thankfully the pockets of cork were enough to keep her afloat until help came to her. And now here she was, two days after arriving, living off the kindness of the Welcome Center, trying to shake off the trauma of her unfinished voyage from Ireland to America in the early years of the 20th century, unable to read the notices for jobs available through her lack of education. All she had were the clothes she stood up in, and a will to work for her living. Now all she had to do was find a job that would take an Irish immigrant with no qualifications. Even on Rhy'Din, that was a tall order.
Sam McAlister was at the Welcome Center on business. He'd been sent there by his employer to fetch a few newcomers to help out at the ranch. He'd been instructed specifically to hire a few hands, along with a maid. Ranch hands were easy enough to find, but maids were another matter. Women were usually spoken for first, while men were a dime a dozen. He wasn't particularly fond of this task. He'd rather be tending cattle than looking for help, but an order was an order, and he wasn't in a position to argue. Still, it sort of felt a little like the slave trade, and despite his less than sterling reputation, he had his morals.
Amid all the bustle of the Welcome Center, Bridget was a sea of stillness and calm. She'd been drilled in how to make a good impression by her mother from a young age, all of them knowing that the only way to improve your lot in life was to catch the eye of someone who might want to take you a little higher than where you stood. That meant being well turned out, your clothing clean, your hair neat, and knowing when not to make a point of standing out in a crowd. As it was, Bridget was a product of her time, dressed in the rather more modest attire of a woman from the lower classes in the early 20th century, her hands folded on her lap as she sat near the door. She might have seemed to be staring into space, but what she was actually doing was listening to the requests as they were made to the staff in the center. She was certain that she would catch something about a job she might be suited for.
Thankfully, Sam knew better than to inspect people's teeth and check their hair for lice. He had a good eye for cattle, which helped him have a good eye for people. He only chose those who looked hardy and fit, and were neat and clean in appearance. There was no point in hiring someone who appeared lazy or sickly or unkempt, as they'd never work out. His boss was in the business of making money, not doling out charity, and while Sam might not agree, it wasn't his job to argue. He'd already picked a half dozen hands and sent them to the wagon to wait. He was just about to give up on finding a suitable maid when he spied a young redhead sitting demurely on a chair, as if she was patiently waiting for someone or something.
In the course of her eavesdropping, Bridget became aware that someone was staring at her. Her eyes flickered toward the perpetrator, looking him up and down quickly before looking away. He looked like trouble, that one; the kind of man her mother had always told her to stay away from. Admittedly, the kind of man she'd always been a bit fascinated with, but she wasn't stupid enough to give him any indication that she liked the way he looked. After another moment, she glanced back, and he was still looking at her. Her brows knotted in a frown. "Were you going to pay me for all that lookin', or are you just saving up a memory for later?"
To his credit - or not - he hadn't looked away when she'd noticed him staring, sizing her up, just as she was doing the same. A faint smirk appeared on his scruffy face, as if he found her cheeky attitude amusing. "Ain't no reason to pay for something I can get for free," he replied with equal brashness.
Her brow rose at his response. "Get it somewhere else, I'm not here for whorin'," she informed him coolly, the lyrical lilt to her voice betraying her Irish roots. "I'm here for paid work, honest work, and I'm not going to spread my legs for a man who doesn't even know how to shave himself proper."
"Whorin'?" he echoed, laughing. "Darlin', did you miss what I said the first time" I ain't paying for something I can get for free. And I ain't here to hire no whore. I'm looking for someone who's willing to work for an honest wage, but you might be a speck too sassy." To be honest, he liked his women sassy and spunky and she seemed to have that in aces, but she didn't have to know that. Besides, it wasn't so much what he liked in a woman as it was about her ability to do the job.
She stood up, turning to face him. "Nine years in service," she told him sternly. "Four as an upstairs maid. I'm not afraid of hard work for fair wages, and I've no family to support. Tell me the job or leave me alone, I've not the patience to play games. I need a job or I'll starve, and that isn't so different from home as you might think."
At six feet, two inches tall, he towered over her and just about everyone around, save trolls and giants and the like, but her pluckiness gave him pause. Well, it would be better to have a maid who could stand up for herself and wasn't afraid of a little hard work than one who would fall apart at the smallest thing. "How long you been in Rhy'Din?" he asked, pushing his hat back to scrutinize her better.
"Two days," she answered him fearlessly, but her hands clenched as she said it. She might not have much, but she did have her pride. She'd never been in a workhouse or a soup kitchen all her life, and yet here she was, living off the kindness of strangers. "Why, are you lookin' for something in particular?"
"I'm looking for someone who's willing to work hard. My boss ain't an easy man to please, but he pays a fair wage for a hard day's work, and you'd get room and board." He considered her again. If the decision was up to him, he'd have hired her in a minute; but then, he realized the decision was up to him. This was what he'd been sent here for, to make these decisions so that his boss didn't have to. "How old are you?" he asked. He didn't want to hire a child, after all, and she looked pretty young.
She fidgeted, disliking the question, but knowing it would inevitably come up. Back at home, she was virtually an old maid. "Two and twenty," she said awkwardly, rubbing her hands against the skirt of her coat. "What's the work you're offering?"
"Up to the mistress, but a maid, I s'pect. Her decision, not mine," he told her, considering thoughtfully again before waving for her to follow. "Come along, then. Sooner we leave, the sooner we get there and see you settled in. You got any baggage?" he asked, gaze darting to see if she had a trunk or a case or a bag.
She shook her head, a flicker of real pain crossing her face for a brief moment before she pulled herself together. "Just what I'm standin' up in," she informed him. That really was all there was to it; she was hired. A sense of relief passed over her as she moved to follow him. "Where're we going?"