Filagree d'Accord, Female, 19, in the lands beyond the Butte Mountain Range

Both parents dead, no known siblings.

-occupation, skills, (and the learning was acquired):
Horse trader/trainer/breeder.
Harness-making, shoeing, horse care and healing (herbs, linaments and poultices, etc.), also livestock care such as cattle, sheep and slightly familiar with goats and poultry. Learned trapping, skinning, tanning, trailing and hunting skills. Can use a knife quite well thanks to this background. Oddly enough, she can also sing quite well with her lovely contralto, and can play the cello.

-weapon, livestock, equipment:
Two knives, one a hunting/skinning knife, the other one smaller and carried concealed. Also carries a hoof pick and an awl, which could potentially be used as weapons in a pinch.

Owns four mares of good bloodlines, and one gelding. All of the horses are black, rather small (14.2 hands) and hot-blodded with silken manes and tails. She has a 'fringed greyhound,' a gift from a man her father helped out once. She also owns a red and white milch cow with horns and a black sheep.

-physcial description, clothing, personality and quirks:
Tall, with a light build, her eyes are dark golden. Her features hint at 'good breeding,' but she has nothing on her person that suggests she is in any way 'well-off.' Her long, straight hair is a mixture of caramel, russet and gold. There is a small space between her front teeth. In public, her hair is held back in a pony tail with a leather thong, or sometimes French braided. She wears black leather or woolen breeches tucked into boots the color of cognac. Cotton, flannel or woolen shirts are worn depending on the weather. She also wears a leather vest sometimes. She is not fond of patterns or bright colors in her clothing. Her boots had spurs of silver, and she has a black leather and silver concho bracelet around her right wrist.

Despite never having attended school, she can read and write, and speaks French and a native tribal dialect in addition to English.

Aloof and reserved with strangers, she comes across as almost chilly. Once she knows you, she warms up. She can be mercurial in temperment if she preceives that someone is trying to cheat, use or otherwise take advantage of her or her horses. She is intensely curious, and that trait has landed her in trouble in the past.

-likes and dislikes:
She has not ever met a horse she doesn't like. From the smallest, ugliest, oldest, most brutish to the most elegant and refined, she likes them all. She loves to ride, and if she can't ride, then grooming, caring for, training, driving or otherwise doing something 'horsey' is her preference. She is very fond of music, and will sing when around her horses. In the past, she has played the cello extensively, though she does not do so currently. She likes to be outside whenever possible, enjoys midnight swims in the river and exploring her universe, whether through books or in person, her thirst for knowledge is insatiable.

She dislikes speaking to, or being around strangers. She is reserved and aloof toward most. She dislikes ale and drunks. She has a pathological fear of locomotives. She does not care for rifles and pistols, though, if hard pressed, could probably manage to load and fire one. She can be too quick to pass judgement or dismiss people. She hates bears.

Scenario:
Already she'd discovered that she needed more supplies than what she'd arrived with. She'd thought she'd been so careful when she'd packed the wagon and moved herself and her horses to this place, but not quite careful enough it seemed.

Trotting along the trail into town, Absythe shied at some imaginary horse-eating creature and leapt six feet sideways. Quite used to her favorite mare's fancies, Filagree calmly reined the black mare in and made her walk. The mare snorted and blew, but stopped her sideways motion. Filagree knew that forcing the mare to walk sedately was a far harsher punishment than a jerk on the reins or a spur in the flank.

Streak loped past them, her lean greyhound's body working in perfect unison as she hunted lizard, jackrabbits and anything else unwise enough to move and catch the dog's keen eyes. Like all her sighthound brethern, she relied far more heavily on what her eyes told her than her nose. At the next turn in the trail, Streak came to a standstill, her ears alert and body taut with excitement.

Used to the fact that even a blown scrap of cl0th could excite Streak's insticts, Filagree turned her dark golden eyes in the direction of the dog's gaze out of idle curiosity. The road was dusty and since she was forced to walk Absynthe for the moment, anything to break the monotony was welcome.

This time, however, it seemed that the dog had hit upon something. What looked to be a horse and cart were off to the side of the road at an awkward angle. Pacing back and forth beside the cart, was a woman complete with a parasol.

Filagree clucked her mare forward and the trio soon reached the cart in distress. As with most carts in distress, a lady was attached to it. It didn't take much intelligence to figure out that either the horse had been harnessed wrong, the cart had been driven badly, or that the harness was in poor repair. It could have been all three, Filagree thought to herself as she drew up rein and tapped her finger to the brim of her hat. "Ma'am."

"Oh! You quite startled me, Sir" the young woman swung in a circle to peer up hopefully at Filagree.

Absynthe took exception to the parasol and made her displeasure known by taking a leap that would have made a mountain lion proud. Sensing that the woman intended to wave the parasol around frequently, Filagree hastily dismounted and left her mare ground tied several feet away.

"Oh," said the parasol-weilding woman again, "you are not a man." An accusing look was sent Filagree's way for emphasis.

"No Ma'am," Filagree replied, her attention giving to the broken breeching on the harness.

"But I thought you were the new owner of the old Rocking G spread," she said in confusion.

"Yes, Ma'am, I am." Finally, she spared some attention of the parasol weilder. "I expect I'll be changing the name, though."

"But your name is Phil Daccord. Certainly that is not the name of a female!" Argued the parasol-weilder.

Bemused, Filagree went to her saddlebags and pulled out a bit of leather and an awl. "Name's Filagree, Ma'am." She made no attempt to correct the mangling of her last name. It was how most folks pronounced it.

"Well what sort of name is 'Filagree?'" the parasol-weilder huffed indignantly.

As Filagree fixed the harness, she wondered how this woman had learned her name. Obviously she'd had to have seen the property deed which was registered to 'Fil d'Accord.'

"You can't do that!"

"Do what?" Filagree asked as she slid the harness buckle into the new hole she'd just made in the repaired area.

"Fix that!"

"Ma'am, would you rather I left the harness broken?" Filagree looked around them significantly. "No tellin' when the next rider'd along."

"No. Of course not," the woman snapped and moved toward the driver's seat. She didn't in any way acknowledge Filagree's hand up or repair of the harness. Instead, she settled the parasol on one shoulder and slapped the reins against the horse's back.

As she waved the cloud of dust away from her face, Filagree took up Absynthe's reins and remarked, "Welcome to Hell."