When she arrived in Whitefish in December 1875, Arabella was not exactly pretty, thin as a rake and flat as an ironin' board, gawky teeth, skin pale and ill looking. At 14 she was so stunted and emaciated that she looked more like 10 or 12.
By April 1876, and her 15th Birthday, with four months of good food and care under her belt, Arabella had grown considerable. She was a good two inches taller, hitting an upward growth spurt that effectively cancelled out any more horizontal developments. She still described her figure as "range-y", whatever that means, and many hours of posing in front of Ms Devereau's big full length mirror failed to display any signs of the voluptuous Victorian figure she desired.
Still, she was no longer a big girl, but more of a young woman, and one day told Mammy Cookie that she had, at last, been visited by the "Sin of Eve" The big chubby cook had, to her surprise, first slapped her face and then given her the biggest hug in the whole history of hugs. That's what some folks did, apparently. She was part of the sisterhood, now.
Traits & Characteristics
A romantic daydreamer with a strong religious streak and a propensity to gossip and self dramatize.
Mostly helped out on farm, but when Pa headed up North to the Utopia of "Canadia" and then up and died on her on the way, it left her high and dry in Whitefish.
Now works as a pot girl at the Stardust Saloon, Kalispell, plays the harmonium in Church on Sunday, and the piano to accompany saloon singer Caroline Mundee in the week!
Women's work, farm work, can quote scripture and Sir Walter Scott with the best of 'em, allegedly "The best reader an' writer an adder in the whole of Virginia". Can dance, play the pianna and the harmonium and gossip like nodody's business.
Aliases / Nicknames
Her Again (as in "Oh no, it's HER again!")
Stardust Saloon, attic room.
Kith & Kin
Once just a poor orphan with no family and no home (sniff) she now considers Mammy Cookie, Mr Flandry and (sigh) even Ms Devereau her family. Her best and bosom friend is Clara Anne Redmond, with Bridget Monahan on the reserve bench. One day she will marry Mr Michael Wentworth.She HATES that Mike Wentworth! She is over men. Billy kissed her. She kissed Billy. Nah, men are definitely not for her.
Born to Abeizer and Anne-Mariah Mudd at Monroe, Virginia in 1861, coincidentally on the day that the very first shot of the civil war was fired, she was soon taken to, and grew up on, her father's dirt farm up on the Clinch Mountain Ridge. After her mother up and died of the dropsy in '71 she more or less took over the management of the place, her Father being an indolent dreamer. When her brother John up and died of the typhus, Pa decided it was time to fulfill his dreams of transporting to "Canadia" where he had heard that plumcakes grew on trees and the muskrats smelt like perfume. When he up and died somewhere near Whitefish, Montana, his last words to his daughter were "Nearly there, Sump, nearly there."
Nearly kilt in the destruction of Whitefish, she was rescued by Mike Wentworth and nursed back to health by Clara Redmond. She now works as a pot girl in the Stardust Saloon in Kalispell.
"A good church going girl - will work hard for bed and bord" [sic]
Arabella let the final few notes of Mr Pike and Mrs Blakesley’s chosen melody echo around the building and turned to watch the ceremony from her seat at the Harmonium. Well, she thought that was the one that they had chosen: to be honest, they’d started to discuss it at some length when she’d asked them and she’d become so distracted by the antics of some ants that were attacking a bumble bee who was all tuckered out on the ground, that she forgot to get a definitive answer on the musical matter. Oh well, everybody seemed happy enough with the tune, even if Judge Peabody did look a little out of breath.
Mrs B. looked lovely in her dress (but white, really?) and beautiful Clara in her finery next to her. That was funny, Clara was staring at her. Maybe for guidance. She gave her a little wave and mouthed ‘don’t be nervous!’
She wouldn’t have much to do now until the first hymn, so she sat on her hands and tried not to fidget. She had suggested that she play some soft chords in the background as the Reverend Thomas narrated the Wedding ceremony and that she shout out “I hear you Brother Thomas!” and “Testify Brother, Testify!” at apposite moments, like they did at their big camp meetings down South, but he had turned her down.
Mature Content: Yes - Suicidal thoughts. Also: Self-indulgent post warning!
Author: Arabella Wentworth (Aged 38).
With: All Alone. Location: Apartment of the Theatre Critic Charles A. Hanson, New York. When: Night of 31st December 1899 – 1st January 1900 Time of Day: 13 Minutes after Midnight.
It was cold out on the balcony, but when Charles put one of her cylinders on for the amusement of the gay set, it was high time to get some fresh air. He always did that: he’d get her to play some moving Chopin piece at the piano or sing a little bit of operetta in her pure bel canto voice; then juxtapose it by playing one of her more tawdry cylinder records, this best of friends and worst of critics (for he always gave her terrible notices). It was his little joke. Inside, she heard the horn of the cylinder player hiss into life, a tinny voiced announcer sounding, as he always did: “Nuthin’ But a Coon, Cakewalk, sung by Arabella Wentworth, Edison Records!” then an umpah-ing band and a tinny version of her own voice, murdering some tin-pan alley ditty in an exaggerated version of her usual southern accent.
She looked over the edge. It was a long way down to the snowy sidewalk and her stomach lurched. She remembered something, oh, a long, long time ago: way before she was the much sought-after ingénue of the New York stage of the 1880s (Lord, those rôles were tedious!); even longer before she’d become older and plumper and been relegated to second or third billing as the gossipy maid, or the annoying aunt of the heroine (those rôles had been much more fun!). She was thinking of the couple of years, way back in the 70s, when she’d ended up in the middle of Montana in some God forsaken place called Kalispell and… hadn’t she tried to kill herself by jumping off a roof then!? She looked down now at the wind swirling on the paving stones many, many feet below. She was fat and nearly forty. Her stage career, she felt, was coming to an end; recording for Edison only paid some of the bills, and she was alone.
Yes, once upon a time she had decided to jump off a roof and become absorbed into the crystal clear blue of the pure Montana sky; now she considered a leap into the cold black ice of a New York night. Why hadn’t she jumped, that last time? She couldn’t remember exactly, the fellow’s name, all these years later: but she vaguely recalled a sort of beautiful, almost sexless angel sweeping down from heaven and saving her. Hmph. Her fifteen year old imagination had probably invented that.
And yet, as she steeled herself for the inevitable, Jesus reached out His hand to her again.
“It is a very long way down and your skull will actually crack open like an egg when it hits the street. How very awful you will look.” Said the voice behind her.
Arabella knew. This was the one. She didn’t need to look at the woman. She already knew her, even though they had never met. She somehow knew that she would have the same orderly mind and intellectual capacity of Clara Lutz, no that had been her married name – to Arabella she would always be Redmond, Clara Anne Redmond; and she would look a little like Miriam had looked, the first time that they had seen each other together in the mirror in the dress shop, long, long, long ago; and she would have the same sexual allure of La Mundee, she who had taught her so much, without really trying, about performance and about life.
There had been others along the way, but those three, those first three great loves of her life, they had set the bar and set it high: and how gracious was the Lord who could contrive to surpass it now, when she had thought her life quite over and all used up.
Folks who attend church regular, and who have specific tasks assigned to them before, during or after the service, tend to get just a wee bit protective about their roles. For instance, if the roughest toughest, six-gun-shootinest cowboy in the wild, wild west had moseyed into that little church on that Sunday and sat down and tried to play the accompaniment to Hymn number 31 (God reveals His presence) on the harmonium, the usually cowardly Arabella Mudd would have marched right up to that varmint and snapped his neck like a twig! Or if the notorious outlaw Thomas Gage Love had ridden in and tried to provide the flowers that brightened the place up, old Mrs Challenor, the usual provider, would have given him a severe beating with her walking cane.
Arabella also had similar feelings about her role as the-person-what-collects-up-the-hymn-books-at-the-end-of the-service. Her ‘closed shop’ protectivism over the duty had only intensified after Pastor Evans had stopped her doing the collection plate (mainly due to the many sarcastic comments she made about how little some folks contributed. Mrs Evans herself, finding herself short one Sunday, had only put in a couple of cents, earning a derisory “What’s that supposed to be – the ‘widow’s mite?!”).
Anyhow, Arabella bustled up to the scene of the accident in high dudgeon and although she completely ignored the fallen woman (whom she suspected probably was a fallen woman), Aurelian’s subsequent conversation with Lucinda was played out to a grumbling obligato as Arabella muttered to herself as she tidied up the books from the floor.
“Hmmpp, don’t she know collectin’s my job!?”
“Strangers comin’ in stickin’ their noses in where they ain’t wanted...”
“OH! This one’s all bent!...”
“And people say I’M clumsy...”
“Well, she’s getting this bent one from now on!...” etc. etc.
Another person less than thrilled with Mrs Dietrich’s sudden appearance on the scene was Leonora Lutz who had just summoned up enough courage to talk to Aurelian after the shambles she had made of keeping her brother and his daughter at a ‘respectable distance’ from each other. She had puffed her courage up into a balloon and was about to float over to her new Sister-in-Law’s father, for whom she burned an ardent torch, when the sight of him talking to the stunning blonde woman popped her bubble, which withered flatulently as she withdrew and sadly walked outside.
Lucinda was making lots of new friends in Kalispell!
[OOC: didn't want to interrupt, just adding some background noise!]
“Don’t do this, please.” James looked quickly around but found that no one was close by. Arabella had chosen her rooftop well, it was on the outskirts of town, just his luck that he was walking by when he did. James offered her his hands, “Please… Let me help you down… We can talk about this. I...I’ll buy you lunch. We’ll talk.” He stammered, anxiously, praying she would listen to him.
This was her out: she should have taken it. But like many of us, her frail moral compass was the mere imagining of what others would say of us and our actions in the future. It wouldn’t make a very good story in the history books: Arabella Mudd was about to jump off the roof but someone asked her not to, so she didn’t. It was a limp and lame fizzling out to what was supposed to be a dramatic and heart-rending conclusion to her ‘tragic young life’. After all, confused and depressed as she was, the girl had some self-respect!
She turned again, nearly at the main roof now, James suddenly seemed very far away down on the ground. She wanted her final words to be sad and soft, but she actually had to speak up a bit to make sure she was heard. “Don’t worry about me, Jim. It’s all up with me.” she bellowed, giving what she hoped was a touching little sad smile and a shake of her head.
“I’m all wrong and this is the only way out. Just … tell my friends that I’ve gone to a place where I am happy, and all my troubles soon forgotten.” She had a feeling that she might have stolen that last line from somewhere, but there was no copyright law in the great beyond, so tough luck, original author.
She continued with her plan. She knew she was far too much of a coward to look over a precipice and jump, so she contrived to walk along the peak of the roof, eyes closed, pretending she was just off for a happy stroll along the street (a somewhat strangely angled street, to be sure, but she had picked the flattest roof in Kalispell to aid with the plan). This was it. She took one last look at the beautiful Montana country beyond the town, the mountains, the sky, and the blue of the horizon: that’s where she was headed: and maybe there was Heaven and maybe there was Hell, but right this very second she sort of felt that she was going to somehow just dissolve and melt into that blue.
She closed her eyes and began to walk, affecting as nonchalant a gait as she could, and singing in her pretty voice to drown out the cries in her head:
🎶 I'll twine 'mid the ringlets of my raven black hair 🎶
(I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die, I don’t wanna die!)
🎶 The lilies so pale and the roses so fair 🎶
(Oh God, this is gonna hurt when I hit the ground!)
🎶 The myrtle so bright with an emeral hue 🎶
(What about all my friends, they’ll be so sad and hurt I did this!)
🎶 And the pale aronatus with eyes of bright blue. 🎶
(Please James Vaughn with the strange accent and the crazy hair, please get up here and stop me!)
But she sang louder: it worked, she was suddenly in a fugue state where all she could hear were the words of the song she was singing, and thinking of the girl of whom she sang.
🎶 I'll sing and I'll dance, my laugh shall be gay
I'll cease this wild weeping, drive sorrow away.
Tho' my heart is now breaking, she never shall know
That her name made me tremble and my pale cheeks to glow... 🎶
She was footsteps away from the edge of the roof, but in her mind she was with the one she loved, closer than she had ever imagined she could be.
Mature Content: Not really.
Author: Arabella Mudd.
With: Miriam Kaufmann, Caroline Mundee, Worchester Pettigrew & Jemima Wigfall. Location: Pettigrew's. When: 22 June 1876 Time of Day: A fitting time.
No hat. No Bonnet. Outside, on the street, with just a black velvet band in her hair. Black choker pressing at her throat, black dress clinging to her. No shawl, no basket. Scandalous! This hot house atmosphere of demi-monde bohemianism in no little part contributed to the wild alcohol fuelled misdeeds that took place a few nights later between the two saloon workers. But today’s activities were a little more restrained, if vaguely indicative of the excesses to come.
Arabella looked at herself in Caroline’s full length mirror one last time before running downstairs to catch up with the other half of their little double act. She looked wildly at the outrageously hatless blonde and considered that she too must look equally debauched. She took a deep breath as they pushed through the swing doors together and out into the prudish, frowning streets of Kalispell. You could get addicted to this sort of thing.
Meanwhile at Pettigrew’s, the eponymous owner of the place flipped open his hunter and directed his staff. “Miss Wigfall, you will attend to the store. Miss Kaufmann, you will assist with the fitting.” He hadn’t completely explained what was involved in the ‘fitting’ – it was better to learn by doing than describing, in Worchester’s book.
Jemima pulled her usual sulky face, but if Arabella tagged along with the wanton singer again, as she strongly suspected she would, she would hear all about it, by and by: whether she wanted to or not. She had already spent an hour yesterday being interrogated about ‘The Jewess’.
“This here fancy dog collar’s called a choker, why don’t you get one Cara’? This is Miss Kaufmann – she sold ‘em me!” she added, stating the obvious.
"Maybe next time when I come to get fitted in my new dress," Caroline left it open.
Arabella made a round, excited oooo! shape with her mouth and nodded her head as she looked at Miriam, happy to have helped the girl to a possible future sale. In fact, she spent the rest of that day and most of the next telling any female who crossed her path all about the new shop girl, what wonderful taste she had, so attentive, so pretty and polite. They should ask for Miss Kaufmann next time they went into Pettigrew’s.
The walk back to the saloon with Caroline was punctuated by questions about the new dress that the songstress was commissioning, panegyrics about Miss Kaufmann and, when she remembered the choker around her throat, loud howls and barking noises that scared old ladies and sent cats fleeing.
"Easy as can be. With one hand at least. I will be up on stage ya see," Caroline answered.
“Hmm, maybe an arrangement with magnets?” Worchester wondered to himself. “Length?”
"Oh and not down around my ankles, hike it up a bit. So they see my calves. I got nice calves folk tell me," she then lifted up her dress to reveal a shapely pale one.
“Oh sure, they’ll do the job” he agreed “If the other one’s the same.” He could be quite sardonic when he got into his stride.
"See ya want ta give 'em a glimpse of my goods, but always leave 'em wanting more. I ain't about to strip naked, that takes out all the mystery. Although I been told there is a whorehouse in New York near the harbor where the ladies all dance without a stitch of clothing on. Place is always packed, they say," she grinned.
Naked women? Worchester shuddered. There was only one decent purpose for naked women: as stuffing for beautiful dresses!
“Well, I’ll make up a form on my estimations.” Pettigrew announced, “Can you come back in two days for a proper fitting?” he looked up suddenly, for some reason Arabella was making a barking noise like a dog.
"Oh heavens no. You are not a dog. Imagine me a handsome young man gifting it to you," Miriam found herself getting into this sales pitch act. She certainly seemed to be winning over the customer! Her employer would be pleased if she could pull off the sale then.
“Why thank you kindly, Sir!” imagined Arabella out loud curtseying “Woof! Woof, woof!! Hur hur hur!” she chuckled at her own absurd impersonation of a gentle maiden being given a dog collar by her beau.
The girl then launched into this amazing tale of a recent town dance and all the many boys and men (for there were army ranks amongst the listing) she had danced with. Miriam was not certain if this was all actually true but, given her trusting nature, she would believe it for now at least.
"That is amazing. It sounds like you had such a great time. Me, I've never been to such an occasion. I have attended a couple of weddings back in New York but I turned down my brother asking me to dance. No one else asked. Which is pretty much what Papa hoped for. He might not have let me anyhow. I mean afterall I am only sixteen years of age."
“They never asked you for a dance?!” gasped Arabella “But you’re so pretty!!” Her eyes narrowed: “I know what it is – you’re too pretty. Men are scared to ask a girl to dance if she’s too pretty, cause they think she’ll turn ‘em down.”
God, how long ago it seemed that she had said exactly the same thing to Clara at the Big Dance.
"He might have let me dance with a girl," she suddenly chuckled at the thought of it, though still amazed that this little thing had danced with so many partners that night. Kalispell was much different than she ever expected. She worried if she might even fit here. That doubt vanished though at the sudden good news!
“Oh, sure, even men dance with each other up in the wilds when they have a shindig and there’s no ladies around. And me and Bridget, that’s my other friend, we danced together when I taught her to dance the waltz. Maybe we can get together and practice dancin’ sometime, so we’re all ready next time there’s a big dance on in town.” She suggested.
Arabella bought the choker (and a black velvet head band that went with it) handing over a massive $5 to the new girl.
“Come on, let’s show my friend!” she beamed at Miriam once she had entered the purchase into the ledger in proper format, virtually dragging her over to Caroline and Pettigrew.
“Look Cara’! Look Mr. Pettigrew! I done gone all 'fistcated!” she announced pointing to her purchases “This here fancy dog collar’s called a choker, why don’t you get one Cara’? This is Miss Kaufmann – she sold ‘em me!” she added, stating the obvious.
"Well, yes. To be honest I ain't exactly blessed in that department but I do fine with what I got," she didn't even mind admitting.
Yes, it was amazing what you could do with a bit of padding and pushing, Pettigrew considered. If he wasn’t designing dresses which did just that for ladies who lacked in that particular area, he was designing corsets which hid that they had a superabundance of assets in other departments.
"Oh and I'd like the dress to be able to be opened from the front," she quickly added.
“How easily?” he asked professionally. After all, in some situations, it was the fumbling over complicated clasps and hooks and fastenings that was half the fun!
"Oh certainly, let's go over to the mirror, " and as they did so then quickly worked to unfasten the selected choker.
Arabella grinned at Miriam’s accent: not laughing at it, enjoying it. She just so obviously didn’t come from round these parts, it gave her an alluring mystique despite her slightly humdrum appearance and mousy manner.
She watched the other girl come up behind her in the looking glass. Oh, how she loved to see the both of them standing there together like that. She gloated at the sight of the Jewish girl reaching around her, like an embrace almost, and fasten the choker around her throat. That in itself was an odd thrill, almost asphyxiating. Miriam had a good eye, it was a perfect fit, but Arabella had to fight the impulse to ask to try a size smaller, and get really strangulated.
“Kinda like you put a dog collar on me!” Arabella commented whimsically, tipping her head curiously in the mirror and catching the reflection of Miriam’s sphinx like eyes.
“You look nice, distinguished. In all honesty though, it does cost more than a ribbon, just want to point that out,” Miriam smiled, “But would look great on you for some social event… like a dance or dinner party.”
Arabella smiled and tried to pull herself together. This was no good. She was acting all peculiar again. Things were weird enough with Caroline right now, she could do without further complications. And this girl seemed so nice … so normal! … so just right to be her friend. She had friends but … well, Clara only seemed to tolerate her, and she was so busy and married now; being with Bridget was like babysitting a five year old; and Jemima was too deep and brooding to have much fun with. Miriam seemed normal, if only she could be normal too, and be nice normal friends with her, why, life would be just wonderful.
That was it, be normal. Be normal even if it killed you!
“We had a big barn dance here a couple of months ago” Arabella found herself informing the other girl brightly “I danced with twelve different fellers! An’ there was a band and food and drink an’ everything! And they wanted me to play the pianna but I turned ‘em down because I wanted to dance with boys. An’ I introduced two of my friends to each other and they had a dance and guess what? They just got wed last week! That’s just the kind of romantical affair it was! Boys and girls dancin’ all over – I danced with three cowboys, a barman, a Army Captain, a Army Lieutenant, the feller what got married, a undertaker, a telegraph operator, a sheriff’s deputy, and two fellers I don’t even know what the Dickens they do but they sure was high steppers!”
“Oh, and I’ll take the choker!” she said, and seeing Miriam go to take it off quickly added “That’s all right, I want to keep it on. I surely do love it so!”.
"Miss Mudd, I hope you are feeling well." Jonah smiled to the young girl, sincerely hoping that when she left today, she would be free of her affliction.
Arabella gave him the quickest of nervous smiles and then was all eyes for the odd squat cylinder with the slits in the side and little pictures within, all similar but each one just a little bit different from the last.
“Now, you just look through that lil’ peephole in the side there, Miss Mudd and tell me what you see.” She did as she was bidden and Worchester started to turn a little handle at the side of the contraption which made the thing start to turn around like a carousel. Arabella gasped!
“What the Dickens! The little man and horse inside’s all come alive!!” she yelped delightedly and jumped up to peer into the thing from above, expecting to see a tiny little horse and rider in there. “Now it’s just pictures again!” she said, more intrigued than disappointed. “Well, ain’t this the darndest thing?! You seen this?” she asked Danforth and Nurse Leane. “I never seen nuthin’ like this in my entire life and I’ve lived some!” she chattered on in her usual garrulous way.
Pettigrew got her sitting down again and looking back through the little gap in the metal.
“Let’s try it again, Miss, and this time I want you to count how many times the man jumps his horse over the fence, can you do that for me?” Arabella nodded and Pettigrew started the machine spinning again.
“One, Two, three…” as she counted quietly to herself, Pettigrew stretched and yawned (as you, gentle reader, are no doubt yawning now) and spoke.
“Oh, watching that man jumping that horse makes a body so tired and sleepy… yawn … oh, I imagine you’re feeling sleepy too, Arabella, watching him jump and jump and jump…. When he makes jump number twenty, you’re going to fall asleep, quite asleep, and when I snap my fingers you will wake up and listen to me … only to me … eighteen, nineteen, twenty!” his voice joined in with Arabella’s on the last few numbers, as he let the machine trickle to a halt.
Arabella’s eyes had closed but opened again when he snapped his fingers.
“What’s your name?” asked Pettigrew.
The girl turned in her seat and looked at him quite normally, just not her usual excitable self. “Arabella Mudd.” She replied. Again, there was no fake stage trance or staring into space. But there was also no ‘Arabellaisms’ she failed to give her middle name or ramble on gregariously about the history of the illustrious Mudd family in Virginia.
“And where are we?” he asked, evidently trying to gauge whether she was in a trance or just pretending.
“Doctor Danforth’s” she replied, quite normally, but probably more tersely and to the point than she had ever spoken in her entire life. Pettigrew looked satisfied, but glanced down nervously at an open hunter watch, as if he needed to keep an eye on the time, perhaps the mesmerised state could only last so long.
He was right too! Caroline beamed, "Yes, I agree. I like it. Royal purple."
“As I say, fit for a queen…” cooed the salesman of dreams.
She then leaned in as if to whisper some deep dark secret, "I have to admit though I wasn't born into royalty. Just a plain ol' Chicago girl."
Worchester tittered agreeably “Maybe not Royalty, but definitely not plain, Miss Mundee! I have observed the way the gentlemen at the saloon look at you: they are on the edge, Miss Mundee, positively On. The. Edge.! Why a dress in this shade, just the right cut: well that dam’s gonna burst!” he waxed lyrical about Caroline’s charms in way that was effective because it was controlled: he himself was unable to feel the slightest sexual interest in the girl, just appreciate her on a purely aesthetic plane, an ideal clotheshorse.
"So you got a dress in this color? Or can you make one for me?" she never even bothered to ask the price. Hell, looks were important, price be damned. What else did she have to spend her money on.
“Oh, this must be made. Bespoke. You see the lines of these pieces” he indicated the cut of the dresses in the plates. “They won’t stand being truncated top and bottom to make them suitable for your … song presentations. We will need to widen them here and tuck them here to maintain … that certain … voluptuosity.” He shrugged, making a vague hourglass figure with his hands. He presumed that if it was for her act, Caroline would need to look like an utter slut in the thing, Royal purple or not.
“Ooooh! Yes please!!” nodded Arabella enthusiastically, but then had to add “What’s a Chowka?”
"It's one of these, " she pointed over to the chokers and even selected one that should hopefully fit this other girl.
As they both turned around, away from the mirror, Arabella came face to face with the back of Miriam’s head (if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms) and could smell her hair: it was like rugelach and bagels and babka and hamantaschen and Mandelbrot and … oh! … all sorts of things that Arabella had never heard of (yet!) and had never tasted (yet!). Most people in Kalispell smelt of what they had eaten recently, or had been cooked in their presence, along with the things they worked with (like horses and cattle) with an underlying base of their own particular brand of sweat.
Arabella followed the exotic, mousy little creature and closed her eyes as she leaned forwards and sniffed the back of the girl’s head more closely for a second, then opened her eyes with alarm as Miriam spoke to her, proffering the black velvet band.
"You wear it around your neck. They don't really choke you....unless you select one too tight. Here this might fit you, try it."
“Oh! Say, why don’t you put it on me, show me how it’s done!” requested Arabella, skipping back to the mirror and gathering up her long black hair and lifting it over her head in a clump to expose her neck (luckily it had been treated to its monthly scrub only a few days before). Arabella’s hair smelled of nit shampoo and fried bacon and cinnamon and beer and second hand cigar smoke and late springtime when the first buds were bursting open and revealing the true colours of the flowers within.
Sagas of the WIld West is a roleplaying game set in a fictionalized version of the town of Kalispell in Montana territory. Our stories begin in 1875 and are set against the backdrop of actual historical events.Sagas was inspired by the classic television and movie westerns. Our focus is on writing, storytelling and character development.
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