（ nero's sitting off to the side somewhere mending what looks to be a fishing net. he's got quick, deft hands, and seems to know his business. he ain't a fisherman, to be sure, but he's spent a lifetime (more than one, if he's being honest) wrangling all manner of god's creatures, and he knows ropework. the man is dressed like he's either here to reenact tombstone or like a rancher hipster, there's really no in-between. but the stains of sweat and salt around the brim of his hat, at the throat of his shirt and beneath the arms at least speaks to him being somewhat better versed in work than the average shill.

what is entirely more remarkable about him, however, is the fact that he's got a horse beside him that seems to be a bit... on fire. mostly its mane, tail, and the tufts of hair at its fetlocks. the horse is small, compact, and covered in about as many scars as the man beside it, and it seems content to stand there hipshot, its eyes half-closed and its neck roughly aligned with its spine. dozing, to anyone familiar with horses.

the horse will rouse itself if anyone passes nearby, ears flickering attentively to track the sound. it will also make a faint wuffling sound as it tries to scent you on the air.

the man beside it looks up from the net he's repairing, tips his hat back and gives you a once-over. he ain't used to being seen or noticed, much less able to speak to people, so his tone's affable when he says: ）

Don't mind him, he's picky 'bout his company.

（ his accent is a jumble of places. a little southern, a little spanish, a sprinkle of irish, as old and out-of-place as his outfit and as strange again, surely, as his horse. ）

Could use a hand with this net, if'n you're looking to help out.

（ what he won't say is that he's mighty lonely, and having other folks around is a half-decent way to quell it. ）

（ he's absolutely fuckin' filthy, a towel slung over his shoulder, long hair pulled back into the world's messiest bun. the hat is nowhere to be seen. he's collecting plates into a push-cart, and right when he rolls past you one of the wheels on it breaks.

he ain't about to curse a hardy blue streak in front of a stranger, but he does mutter a very quiet well, fuck as he bends to see about fixing it. with a tired sigh he sits down on the bench across from you. ）

Put your plate in the bin when you're done, yeah?

（ since he's probably going to be stuck here a spell while he fixes this. ）

（ have you ever ridden a horse? what about a scrappy little mustang pinto with fiery accents to its mane, tail and fetlock?

... do you want to? because nero is absolutely offering one gloved hand out to you. ）

The fire won't burn you. He's harmless, my hand to God.

（ the horse crowhops a little sideways, and the man speaks to it in low gaeilge and it stills with a snort that somehow still conveys its irritation. ）

Gamble, mostly. Beer maybe. Can't say as I'd do anything smart with it.