Habituellement à ce moment-là, Anita serait à moitié morte avec fatigue ou complètement enterrée dans ses textes. Elle n'est pas venue en ville comme ça. Surtout pas si loin, près du bureau du shérif. Le shérif était un homme fort et courroucé, et il a mis la peur du seigneur en elle assez farouchement. Mais quoi qu'il en soit, elle était là. Attiré par l'agitation de la ville, alors qu'elle faisait ses courses quotidiennes. Elle était en chemin d'avoir inspecté l'un des gens les plus malades des villes quand la commotion est montée et a attiré les gens dans le champ derrière le bureau du shérif. Coups de feu et cris, deux bruits qu'elle a absolument déplorés. À cause de ce qu'elle savait de la douleur qui est venue, et de ce qu'elle savait de devoir faire face aux blessures qui en résultent. Des balles à extraire, des blessures à soigner et d'autres travaux sanglants à faire. Et ça lui tomberait dessus, comme toujours.
Mais, ce n'était pas un appel qui l'a attirée alors qu'elle était attirée en ce moment. Non, son intrigue a été surmontée par les gens éloignés engagés dans la lutte contre le feu. Tous contre une autre personne. Même de loin, avec ses yeux, elle voyait que quelque chose n'allait pas. Différent. Les mouvements de l'homme seul étaient trop rapides, les balles le frappaient et semblaient n'avoir aucun effet. Les coups de feu ont jailli du champ et ont résonné dans ses oreilles. Elle sifflait nerveusement, la gorge démangeait. Elle a dû se rapprocher, mais les coups de feu lui ont fait sentir que son cœur allait s'arrêter à tout moment. Mais elle devait voir, c'était une merveille à sa manière morbide. Avec un sac à la main, elle avance lentement, collée au pinceau et sous-bois autant qu'elle le pouvait. Ses chaussures et sa robe devenaient sales, elle pouvait sentir, mais son facteur de soin était déjà tombé au-delà de la récupération.
Elle était assez proche pour voir l'homme se déplacer plus vite qu'elle ne pouvait l'imaginer. Ses entrailles étant retenues par ce qui semblait être la volonté seule. Aucun signe de choc, ni les effets de la perte de sang. Curieuse et curieuse, elle vit les protubérances osseuses du bout des doigts. Qu'est-ce qui se passait ici? Elle s'accroupit à la périphérie du combat et s'engagea dans le sac de son médecin, à la recherche de ses références anatomiques. Elle a dû les laisser chez elle. Elle a regardé à nouveau. Cette moquerie grotesque des sciences humaines était contre nature et inouïe. Ça a rendu Anita malade à son cœur. Et en même temps...
Ça l'a fasciné.
L'explosion n'a cependant pas, comme l'étrange monstre-homme a été rapidement vaporisé, devenant une fine brume de cendres. Ce qui venait de se passer, elle ne savait pas. Mais elle devait savoir. Elle devait le faire. Le parti offensif, celui qui a attaqué l'homme, semblait avoir blessé parmi eux. Comment a-t-elle pu savoir qu'ils étaient amis? Ont-ils simplement chassé cet homme parce qu'il était déformé? Grotesque? Étaient-ils une bande d'extrémistes qui rôdaient pour des proies?
Au fur et à mesure que son esprit se précipitait, sa respiration sifflante devenait de plus en plus intense, se transformant en coqueluches qui lui brûlaient à la gorge. Si elle ne se taisait pas, ils pourraient la voir.
Name:
Anita Lambert.
Age:
26.
Nationality:
British-American.
Profession:
Street Doctor/Animal Caretaker/Scholar.
Apperance/Clothing:
Anita's hair is black and smooth, her eyes are bright blue and her skin is sun-kissed, slightly tanned. She stands at 5 feet and 9 inches. All over her neck and collarbone are horrible scars from a dog mauling earlier in her life.






Combat Skills:
Excellent knife-work. Good at running away.
General Skills:
Conventional medicine, triage care, field surgery, animal handling/care, horse riding, some mechanical and sciences knowledge, running, swimming, climbing, cooking, reading, writing.
Languages: Understands English and American Sign Language.
Weapons:
A short blade hidden at her inner thigh. Her father's British Bull Dog revolver.
Possessions:
Doctor's bag (containing scalpels, tweezers, razors, scissors, gauze bandaging, suturing material, bullet probes, bullet extractors, stethoscope, mercury thermometers and laudanum vials), canteen, eyeglasses, writing implements.
Personality:
Anita is a reclusive woman. She prefers to keep to herself, even when in groups, as her injury makes it difficult to interact on a person-to-person basis. Most times she does not bother. She is, for the most part, uncomfortable and favors avoidance of social interaction. Though, when necessary, she can hold a conversation if the other party has either the patience or the ability to understand sign language. When alone, she is rather whimsical and subject to fantasy, due to spending most of her life with her nose in a book. She can occasionally be found dancing in a rather uncoordinated manner. Her bedside manner as a practitioner of medicine, official or not, is extremely gentle and serene. Anyone in her care would do well to respect the silence, as disruptions can make her nervous. She does not operate well under pressure or threat. Or around dogs. When her trust and respect is gained, she can be an extremely loyal companion and friend. Her fascination with the sciences sometimes overrides her fears and anxieties. All in all, she is a kind soul.

"Ohhh, my poor Anita. Such a lovely girl. A soft soul. When she was born she was so tiny, so weak. The doctor's told us she would die when the cold came. But when winter came, she was fine. The wind would batter at the windows and she would giggle as Frederick and I scrambled to keep the house from blowing down. When we were snowed in so heavy that the door splintered, she was crawling around and squealing with joy, like it was a big game."
"When it came time for the move to the Americas, Anita was a girl of 8 years. Frederick was honorably discharged from Her Majesty's Royal Forces. And I was with child again. Things were going wonderfully. The move went as smooth as it could have and we settled in nicely. The Americas seemed to call to Anita, she was so excited by everything. When Frederick introduced her to caring for the livestock, she took to it like a duck to water."
"Everything was perfect. Frederick and I urged Anita to pursue scholarly interests, and she took to that just as well. Frederick read to her every morning and every night until she was 14. She loved him to bits for it. They were inseparable even as Anita turned from young girl to young lady. She would rather spend time with him out in the fields or buried in a book than with me. I didn't mind, she was happy."
"Then one day, we were out at a gathering. The nature of which escapes me. We were on our way home, in the dark of the night. The same way we always walked. But at this hour, there was a gaggle of those awful men that hold the dog-fights. All drunk and brazen and... ugh, just repulsive in their behavior."
"We walked past quickly, but one of the dogs got loose, and tackled poor Anita to the floor. The beast was more muscle than dog, but that didn't deter Frederick when he saw his beloved daughter in danger. The mutt tore at her neck, there was so much red. I could hear her screams becoming muffled and weak before giving way to wheezing and gurgling. Had Frederick not been quicker, poor Anita might have been dead right there."
"But... he pulled out that shooter of his and put two rounds into the hound. The hound hit the floor and I picked Anita up as best I could. The owners of the beast had more than a few choice words for Frederick that night. Much more. I didn't even see the knife come out, but it was only a moment, and we were off in search of a doctor."
"Frederick, he... we arrived at the doctor's office and he... fell. Right there in the street. His blood seeping onto the stones. He yelled at the doctor and I, to get her help and make sure she survived. He thought of her and her only, right until the moment he stumbled in to die beside the table she was on. A few more minutes and she wouldn't have survived. Her throat was torn, ravaged, by that disgusting thing. She never spoke after that, whether she could physically or not. She never cried or screamed or mourned either. She simply... stopped feeling. Became cold."
"For a number of years it was like that. The doctor told me that with the damage that had been done, she would never speak again. But I never anticipated how lonely it would be. At the dinner table she struggled to swallow her food, and when she reads, the only sound form her is that unholy rasping wheeze. She coughs like she's on her deathbed. She is still a beautiful girl, but between her scars and her demeanor, no suitor will go near her."
"I just want her to find herself. Outside of those books and bags of steel horror. I want my happy daughter back."