Anaesthesia Orr is as pretty as an angel with a perfect figure. She has perfect teeth, perfect diction, is poised elegant and has dainty little perfectly formed feet and hands.
Traits & Characteristics
Is transforming from a bratty spoiled daughter to an angelic and extremely nubile young woman.
Hardly required. Her Father is the Postmaster General of Kalispell, for your information.
Anaesthesia Orr can do a little desultory fine point embroidery and play one song, Beautiful Dreamer by Stephen Foster, learned by rote, on the piano, and recite one poem, Song of Hiawatha, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Aliases / Nicknames
'The Beau-laurels' townhouse in Kalispell's upmarket Residential District.
Kith & Kin
Parents: Mr Richard Armstrong Orr and Mrs Dorothea Bosco Orr, née Dransfield.”
Born 1st May 1858. Avon, nr. Hartfort, CONN. The birth is difficult and Mrs Orr's advanced young doctor uses Ether as an anaesthetic. In gratitude, Mrs Orr decrees that the baby girl be named Anaesthesia Ether (later changed to Esther on her birth certificate my Mr. Orr).
After occupying a number of important offices, Mr Orr becomes Postmaster in Kalispell, Montana Territories. Mrs Orr teaches school, showing marked favouritism to her daughter in the class.
Known as a rather spoiled, petulant and unfeeling child by her classmates, but the apple of her parents' eyes, as she reaches Eighteen, Anaesthesia is starting to feel bored at home and somewhat trapped by her parents' wish for her to stay at home as a companion for her Mother and not to marry, especially as no man locally would be good enough for her.
However, through copious reading of The Young Lady journal, she is improving and becoming a better person.
Only likes Lemon Cake made with Fresh Lemons, she says.
Orr's oration was cut off as the door to the public chamber flew open and a figure in white flew in, like a fairy on the breeze: followed by a motley trio of costumed girls: Miriam Kaufmann, looking somewhat terrified and dressed in some sort of toga affair*; Bridget Monahan, with her false leg off, her crutch under her arm and a strawberry jelly splattered bandage around her head and Arabella Mudd, dressed in a sort of sack, soot smeared on her face, and her spindly white legs and arms poking out all over the place like a Granddaddy Longlegs.
The three formed a sort of tableaux vivant behind Dick Orr's own daughter, Anæsthesia, as she launched into a fancy poem that she had written in support of Miss Steelgrave, the hospital and the orphanage.
"The Goddess smiles on the Orphan and the Maimed,
Furious banging by Orr's gavel drowned out the rest of the poem and he, for the first time, seemed to lose his temper.
"Deputy Wentworth, please arrest my daughter for breech of the peace and throw her in a cell! And remove her confederates!!" he bellowed and a few southerners, hearing the word 'confederates', including the symbolic orphan behind Miss Orr, gave excited rebel yells.
*50% of the audience guessed that she was 'Liberty', 50% guessed she was 'Truth', 0% guessed that she was the Goddess Hygeia.
"Er... really it's best to wear these with trousers..." he offered, stepping back slowly as though the belt might fall to the ground at any moment.
It was actually unladylike to even mention trousers, let alone wear them. Again, she gave him the benefit of the doubt, what with him being foreign. But if he really thought that that she was going to walk around town wearing men's clothes like that odd creature Adelaide Chappel, he'd got another thing coming.
Rather than admonish him, she just gave him a tight smile.
What was more disconcerting was the man's seemingly total uninterest in her as a woman. Oh sure, she was used to standing in the exclusive upstairs changing room at Pettigrew's in her underclothes and stocking feet being measured and pawed by the always very complimentary Mr. Pettigrew and him not really being affected by her feminine charms: she had gathered that Mr. Pettigrew was one of those gentlemen. But Winter seemed perfectly normal. Maybe her looking glass lied, and she wasn't as pretty as she thought she was. She did not like that idea one little bit , and was suddenly feeling quite out of temper.
She shrugged off the gun-belt and it fell to the ground, she stepping out of it but not stooping to pick it up. "I shan't bother with that" she snapped "Just have the gun and the ammunition sent around and I shall expect your invoice."
She made to go and then noticed her bare hands.
"My gloves?!" she queried, as if accusing Oskar of trying to hide them and keep them for himself.
"Ah, I see." Oskar said, somewhat dispirited. "Well, there's Miss. Wigfall... she knows her way around a sidearm..."
Anæsthesia visibly wrinkled her nose. "I hardly think so, Mr. Winter. The girl is not only exceedingly common and hoydenish, but I am afraid that she smells strongly of body odour: hardly a suitable teacher for young lady of breeding." she replied snobbishly, dismissing that suggestion.
"I suppose there was a Mexcian fellow... Joté... Javier... something along those lines. He works up at the Evergreen ranch, but I hear they aren't too busy this time of year. He knew what he was doing, certainly, but he was... you know... Mexican."
"A..." Anæsthesia closed her eyes and gulped, she could hardly even bear to say the word "... Mexican, Mr Winter?" She didn't need to say another word on that ridiculous suggestion. "No matter, if you think of a white man of good character who may be able to assist, do have them call upon me." she commanded.
Anæsthesia was even less pleased with Mr. Winter's holster collection: there were a lot of them, but they all looked rather alike and none of them was particularly pretty. She wrinkled her smooth and pretty brow, even though her mother had warned her not to on many occasions, lest the wind change direction and the wrinkles stick. Then again, her mother, like most mothers, was slightly dotty.
"I know!" she said brightly "I'll have the one that gives me the quickest draw, and then get Pettigrew's to make me up some copies in shades that will tone with my favourite outfits!" Sometimes, she was quite amazed at her own cleverness.
"Do strap one on me, Mr. Winter, I wish to see how quickly I can draw my weapon if faced with an adversary." she raised her arms again, expecting him to grovel down and tie the gun-belt around her waist. It never occurred to her to tie it on herself, she was so used to having a maid's help to dress her.
"Oh, I shall have one in Puce, one in Azure, and perhaps Sable. I did think Prussian Blue but that tone is quite out this season according to The Young Lady." she prattled on, waiting for him to adorn her with the leather gun belt.
Anæsthesia listened with blithe unconcern as Mr. Winter enumerated the cost of the weapon and the associated impedimenta; money really was no object. But she watched carefully at the procedure for cleaning the gun out after use.
"Certainly. The pistol itself sells at 17 dollars, but I can give you a ramrod, oil and a box of cartridges for three extra."
"That is very reasonable." she said. $20 was nothing to her, even though she would be paying for this out of her own allowance.
He moved to the door that would lead back into his store, opening it for Anaesthesia and gesturing for her to go first (as was polite). "The holster is a bit more difficult, see they aren't usually made to fit... young girls." Or at least not such small young girls he added silently. "I'm sure I can find something, however."
Anæsthesia felt very grown up now that she was 18, but did not mind the appellation of 'young girl': she was, after all, so very pretty and youthful looking.
Once they were both back inside, the gunsmith ducked back under his counter, before emerging one more time with a little wooden box. He lifted the top to reveal a bottle of gun oil, along with a dainty little cloth for it's application. Next to them sat a steel ramrod.
"Oh, it is simply darling" his customer cooed, clapping her hands together "What a perfect little set!"
"Make sure to clean it after you shoot, and every week or so even when you don't, to keep it in top condition." He advised. "Most important is to put some oil down the bore, in the cylinder chambers, and between the hammer and the firing pin. That's here, here, and here... the ramrod is to go down the barrel and the chambers as well, until you can see no more powder residue in them. That's the blank gunk there..."
Anæsthesia muttered repetitions of what he was saying to help her remember all of this ".... clean it every week.... oil down the bore... chamber, hammer, pin... ramrod in the barrel, chambers... blank gunk..."
"... and if, perhaps, you yourself are too busy to offer me lessons: could you recommend a man of good character who would be able to offer me such a service for a reasonable recompense?"
"Oh!" he said, suddenly. "What about your father? I'm sure he'd make time..."
"I hardly think so, Mr. Winter, my Father heartily disapproves of me buying a gun: it took all my powers of persuasion to convince him that I am mature enough for such responsibility."
she looked mistily into the distance "That is why it is so very important that I become proficient in the use of my wonderful little Lefaucheux: when he sees me shooting the tops off beer bottles and killing bandits and Indians and other such undesirables, he will see how wrong he has been." she smiled in beatific contemplation of the imagined scene of broken glass and dead bodies.
"Now, about these holsters..." she held her arms up, ready for him to try some on her for size, rather as she did when in Pettigrew's and Mr. Pettigrew or the girl measured her perfect waist with the tape measure. "... what shades do they come in? Not just brown, I hope!"
Oskar looked down at the girl, and slowly but surely, his dumbfounded expression changed to one of amazement. "Why, I should think so!" he remarked. "I daresay half the cattle men in this town couldn't land a shot that clean!"
"Really?!" She felt as pleased an excited as she looked, but then reflected that one must always give the impression of modesty, no matter how great one's achievements. "I am sure it was just a lucky shot, aided by your counsel and encouragement, of course." she added, self effacing tones.
He clapped his hands together, entirely willing to ride this wave of encouragement. "You and that revolver seem quite a pair, if I may say so! Every last Indian from here to the Pacific ocean will be fearing for his very life, I'm sure!"
"Oh Mr. Winter, now you are surely flattering me." She had not forgotten their earlier conversation.
He picked up the cartridge box and held out a hand for the gun, still shaking his head in disbelief. "I take it you've, er... found your match, so to speak?"
Anæsthesia looked down lovingly at the instrument of death and then gave it back to Mr. Winter with a sad little smile of regret, yet knowing that it was to be 'au revoir, but not goodbye'. "Oh yes, Mr. Winter, I wish to purchase the gun and a box of ammunition, please, enough to practice with. Oh, and the wherewithal to care for the dear thing, for I see my father clean his guns regularly." she affirmed. "Oh, ... and a ... 'holster'?"
"... and if, perhaps, you yourself are too busy to offer me lessons: could you recommend a man of good character who would be able to offer me such a service for a reasonable recompense?" she asked, for she knew that if she did not practice, she would soon forget all that she had learned today.
"Well done." he added, in approval. "You'll be... ah... I forget the word in English... a gunman? A gunslinger. You'll be a gunslinger in no time."
"Well, let's not get carried away, Mr. Winter!" she tried to keep things dignified but there was no mistaking the delight in her broad grin or the excited heaving of her bosom at her success.
Oskar moved once more to the ammunition box and drew one more cartridge from within, offering it to the girl. "See if you can hit the bandit." he said with a smile. "Just give it a try."
"Very good!" she responded with military precision, like an officer taking an order from the general. She took the bullet and, mouthing the process to herself, went through the rigmarole of loading the handsome sidearm.
Miss Orr had been trained to bear herself always with the correct posture and poise; she was the kind of a girl who could walk around the room for hours with a stack of books balanced on her head and never drop a one. But this was serious target practice and, even though a gentleman, well tradesman, was looking on, she did not stint in adopting as stable a posture as she could for aiming the Lefaucheux, legs splayed, knees bent, bum sticking out behind so that her bustle was virtually in the air above her, one eye closed, and her little pink tongue sticking out in concentration.
Hardly a ladylike posture, to be sure, but one that paid dividends: the pistol cracked, a miracle in itself, and a new hole appeared where the bandit's roughly painted nose had been! Anaesthesia gasped and span around to face Oskar. "Oh, Mr. Winter, have I done awfully well?!" she panted, begging for that praise that was as ambrosia and nectar to her perfect shell like ears.
Oskar nodded in affirmation. "Yes, very close. Why, I could see some of the dust blown off the bottle's side!"
"Really!" she asked, peering at the bottles, then looked at him sideways. "Mr. Winter, I do believe that you are making fun of me, slightly, or even worse, humouring me." she said, but not in an angry way: rather she seemed like she was enjoying having a little repartee with the older man. Indeed, she was bored with talking to her Father or to her Mother and her tedious or just plain odd friends. It was refreshing to have a conversation with a real person outside of her limited social circle, off her own bat, so to speak.
"Please believe that you may talk to me with the utmost candor. I feel that one's relationship with one's gunsmith must always be truthful and honest." she blathered, trying to sound like one of the advice-laden columnists of The Young Lady.
After expressing her fidelity to the six shooter in her hand, she took Mr. Winter's instruction for reloading the piece, listening carefully and committing the process to memory and even going so far as to... possibly for the first time in her life... extrapolating the data to hand and loading a second bullet in the next chamber, so that she could fire two shots in a row. She glanced at him as she did so, just to confirm that this was allowed.
"Close. Click. Aim. Hammer. Shoot. Kick!" She repeated the phrase that she had learned before as she closed up the chamber, and took up her stance.
Here next shot went wide again, although this time she braced herself, sticking out her bottom, bustle and all, and bending her legs slightly, rather than standing straight as a poker. It was a rather indelicate stance for a young lady of breeding, but (for better or worse) it stopped her flying back into Mr. Winter's arms.
The next time, she got one! Maybe not the one she was aiming at, but still!!! There was a heavenly tinkle of glass after the initial loud report of the revolver and a beautiful space where one of the green bottles had once stood. She looked around to Mr. Winter and rhetorically asked "Did I hit one?!" hoping for some praise from the expert arms dealer.
Sure enough, the lightweight girl had stumbled right back towards him, and with arms outstretched, he caught her and quickly pushed her back onto her feet. Hopefully she wouldn't consider that sort of thing too salacious - heavens knew how pedantic the upper echelon could be.
Anæsthesia was not at all put out at the way Mr. Winter had gently, but firmly, grasped her to stop her falling over backwards. She could hardly blame him if, in his attempt to save her, he had accidentally laid his hand on her, ahem, upper echelons.
"Oh drat, it went wide!" sulked the blonde girl with the angelic features.
"There, are you alright, Miss? You were very close to hitting that bottle, I must say." he told Anesthesia. He hadn't been watching the bullet's trajectory at all, of course, but it was good practice to reaffirm the faith of first-time shooters.
"Oh, do you really think so? I should love to try again!" she smiled.
"Not too rough, I hope? We could try again, or choose a smaller caliber weapon, if you'd prefer..."
"Oh no, Mr. Winter, when a young lady has found the one, she must stick with it through rough and smooth." said, paraphrasing something that she had read pertaining to marriage and fidelity in The Young Lady that very morning. She stroked the handle of the Lefaucheux lovingly as she did so.
She looked at Mr. Winter appraisingly. "Do you give lessons?" she asked, rather bluntly.
"Yes, quite." he agreed hesitantly. "Now, while the weapon is loaded, remember to keep it pointed down the range, and under no circumstances should you look down the barrel, or otherwise aim at anything other than your target, okay?"
"Do not look down the barrel. Do not aim at anything other than the target." she repeated obediently. Learning things by rote was her favourite way of taking on new information. She used to love that at school 'One times One is One; One Times Two is Two...' much better that being asked 'if two times three is six, what is three times two?'
He checked once again over her shoulder to ensure that it was loaded properly, before he moved back to his spot about a meter away. "Now, close the loading gate... push it shut until you hear a click... take aim at the bottles, or the bandit, if you prefer.... see the two notches at the back? Hold the gun out in front of you, yes... and line the little notch at the end of the gun up so that it's between the two at the back. Then, erm, when you're ready... just center all three notches over the target, and you can pull back the hammer, and then shoot. Careful, it'll have a bit of a kick..."
The instructions were long and detailed, so Anæsthesia tried to break it down to something simpler to remember. "Close. Click. Aim. Hammer. Shoot. Kick!" she uttered, following his process. She took the gun in both hands, standing face on to the target with legs a little apart (but not so far apart as to be unladylike). She carefully pulled back the hammer and pointed the gun at the centre bottle (she would settle that bandit's hash later) and... and... BANG!
She staggered back, thrilled at the sound of tinkling glass. She was less thrilled when she opened her eyes and not only were all the bottles still there intact, but she found that she had staggered backwards into Mr. Winter's strong arms.
"Your flattery is most charming, Miss Orr. Of course." Oskar replied, a little queasy in the stomach at the sickly sweetness of it all.
Oh dear, he'd accused her of flattery. That wasn't quite polite. It would have been more proper of him to say he was flattered. It was a very nice distinction between the two, but a most important one. One point from Mr. Winter. Then again, she liked him, and he was foreign, so probably couldn't help himself: she decided to restore the point, especially as he was holding her hand now!!
"First, you pull back the hammer to half-cock, or halfway." he told her, placing his hands over her own to perform the action. "This allows the cylinder to spin freely, and the loading gate to open, see?"
"Oh, I see!" she squeaked, feeling his hand through her glove and trying to concentrate on the lesson. Touched by a tradesman! What would the members of the Kalispell Ladies Society say if they heard?! Well, he had to show her how to get half-cocked, didn't he?
To illustrate his point, he spun the weapon's cylinder and thumbed open the gate at the side of the revolver. Next, he pulled one of the pinfire cartridges from their little paper box and handed it to the girl.
"Now, you take one of these... and slot it into the gate, there. Make sure the little pin is sticking into it's notch, otherwise the hammer won't hit it and the weapon won't fire."
"Oh, I shall have to take these gloves off!" she protested, handing him back the cartridge and the gun and unbuttoned the fine calfskin gloves before peeling them from her hands. Her cheeks became a little pink and all of a sudden she felt rather hot: it felt like she was doing a striptease. She was suddenly aware that she was here without a chaperone in Mr. Winter's secret grotto: she had never felt so demimonde in all her life!
"Please hold these." she commanded and giving him the gloves she took the cartridge and gun back. She held the cartridge up in her left hand and examined it. "It's quite a sweet little thing, isn't it?" she asked him before placing it carefully into the chamber, as per his instructions.
For this part, he was careful to stand back from Anesthesia. As enthusiastic as she seemed to be about all this, he didn't entirely trust her not to defy all logic and set off a round in some way or another.
For her part, Anæsthesia had noticed that Mr. Winter had withdrawn from her. Poor man, he had no doubt stepped away in desperation as he tried to fight the irresistible urge to snatch up her hand, gun and all, and cover it with kisses and declare his undying love for her. That, of course, would be quite inconvenient when she was so near to understanding this whole gate loading business.
"I've popped it in!" she beamed, proudly showing teacher her handiwork, like she used to do at school.
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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