ROLE: you can also make up your own—just run it by us first
PERSONALITY: a paragraph or more
HISTORY: can be as short or long as you’d like; most likely they wouldn’t want to speak about the things that have happened in their past.
BRIEF OVERVIEW/SYNOPSIS: your character's concept, what's your character like?
HORSE: a description of what their horse looks like
The Right Hand
Louis Vincent’s second in command, the one who helps call the shots, the one equally as loyal as the veteran. A leader in their own right, there’s no question towards their authority, the rank they hold—not like anyone would dare to question it in the first place. They plan, lead, bark orders from the one ordering them. No, they are not a blind follower, but someone that sees this as a partnership more than anything.
A defector. Unlike the Traitor, they’ve become fiercely loyal to the gang, but not without consequence. Seeing as they’ve recently fled their former posse, it’s no surprise that they’ve garnered the suspicions of the group; with this, they’ve constantly found themselves in odd attempts to win their trust. The thing is, they suspect the traitor the most out of all of them, but their word against theirs? It’s a death sentence.
They say that money is the root of all evil and that very well be true. Loyalty sits nowhere in the heart of the Traitor, a rat for their rival Jim Bell, and someone who has kept their eyes on the gang for far too long. They’ve somehow gained the trust of the people in the camp, successfully escaped their suspicions, but the Traitor’s time is limited. Will they survive this ordeal? Or will the gang find out far before they can escape.
Present in fragile times and the bearer of anguish itself. The doctor is more than the average physician; while they know their way around medical supplies and surgical instruments, this does not limit them towards the methods of torture. A savior to some, a punisher to others, The Doctor has not only found themself as the camp’s primary care, but their enemy’s worst nightmare.
Blood, bounties, bodies, and bullets; the fixer is death and its cleaner. The Fixer knows their place, their job, what they do—supply the ammunition, clean up the bodies left behind, pick up the difficult jobs to make things easier. In a sense, they’re the glue that keeps the gang together and the only thing that separates them from the law. If there isn’t a body, they can’t get in trouble for it.
Sleight of hand and sly of words, the eyes are said to be the silent spectator. Constantly watching, waiting for others to reveal themselves and their true motives, constantly on the hunt for opportunity. For treasure’s a thirst that they simply cannot quench, chasing after it like a mad dog and bringing the rest of the saints with them. They are greed personified, yes, though they much prefer the term ahem, “resourceful.”
Would you bite the hand that feeds you? Most would take the butcher for granted, but not the gang; they cook, find rations, make sure they don’t starve. The Butcher was formerly someone, maybe not for long, but they were somebody at one point in their life; a culinary expert, maybe even a personal chef, but it doesn’t matter now. They’re with the gang through and through, often carrying out torture methods alongside the Doctor and demanding that the Fixer cleans up after them.
They seek the vulnerable, those whose hands are so tied up that they have to ask for loans. Your savior and your worst nightmare, the Loanshark sees to only a few things: the money of which they lend and the means of which they choose to collect the debt. They tend to the gang’s expenses, promise money to the other members in exchange for them doing the dirty work. They’re smart—use others to do their bidding as they sit back and count.
As old as the band itself, if the veteran is anything it is this: experienced. Skilled in a way that is entirely intimidating, they are revered not only for their devotion (and out of slight fear), but for their will. For memory runs a stream through their veins and they often carry the burden of both past and present on their shoulders. They are not fond of change, nor do they wish for it but one thing is certain, these are their people and this is exactly where they are meant to be. And no one is going to change that.
It is possible that there has never been anyone so humiliatingly desperate to prove themselves a true blood saint. A fresher face, the fool acts as a shadow, seeing as they haven’t found their talent yet (although it’s beginning to look like they may have none at all), their clumsy disposition is both refreshing and.. disconcerting to say the least. However, their almost stubborn devotion (or downright admiration) and relentless curiosity makes them an ideal legacy. It is through them that the Blood Saints will never die.
There are only a few words to describe the barfly, but the most common and most noteworthy is this: a drunkard too many bottles deep in their own sorrow. While, yes, the barfly is as chaotic as they come, this does not reflect upon their intellect. Clever to say the least, witty in more situations than most, they often go off into the town with the Gentleman and the Eyes—the saloon is their domain, the most traversed land they’d ever stepped foot on, and with this is their familiarity. When a job involves booze, money, and bitches, the Barfly is first on their horse.
These are the roles available, however if you have any ideas, feel free to include any new roles! Just DM me! Thank you to .Sweet Nothings.
for helping with the roles! Keep in mind that while there are these roles, the characters all have some kind of grasp on combat--even if it's the most miniscule amount.
once accepted, you are able to make a second character.
any roles left unfilled can be taken as a second character.
147lbs and damn well doesn't watch it, not that it matters.
Dirty blond and shoulder length, the hair is covered by hats. They are her lifeline, some would say she is attached, and that is very well the case.
Her eyes are blue, slightly hooded, and tired beyond belief. There was once a light in them, a glimmer unmistakable, but it's lost now. Alcohol's a real bitch.
Slightly muscular, enough to keep herself active and damn well enough to throw people around.
sharon stone in the quick and the dead
Death don't have no mercy.
Such as it were, the world burned around her; here then is a void, no cry of light, no glimmer—not even the faintest shard of hope left. There are many things to say and far more not to say, but there is this: Charlotte, in her sorrow, the grievances, and her bottles, is more than she claims to be—more than she realizes. The bottle lends her comfort, leaves a haze that further protects her from reality, and maybe it should stay that way. But a bottle is not infinite; once dry, no longer comforted by the veil, there is more to unfold: a vindictive nature, one fueled by the past, and a recklessness fueled by the future—or the perceived lack thereof.
She is the unmended, the untended, another one of the neglected; and with time, she is hot water on wool, shrinks with every new beginning with only a growing doubt towards the promises that have consistently fallen short. Charlotte no longer traces the constellations, she does not search the sky for a lingering light; there is only the void that she cannot look away from. It has taken over her years, every minute, every second—but the salt in her wounds aren’t burning like they used to. Not because she no longer feels the pain, but because she is no longer afraid of hurting anymore.
There is the false sense of safety kept within thick walls held up by rope—and much like what is held within, the rope is delicate, easily broken. Some call her a fool, one that seems to trust too much, but the trust she seems to give is a trick; it wins her that of others, a sense of comfort in a lending hand that’s only there to lie and steal. An adequate enough performance to the point of slipping between paranoid fingers, easily averts the gaze of those suspicious of everyone and everything.
Charlotte has become the knight in stories she was read as a child, only with a lesser sense of honor and justice; however, she is fearless. Near to the point it could get her killed, not that it mattered anymore—death was a phenomenon she’d had her brushes with, something she couldn’t escape, only counting down the variables until it was her turn. Nevertheless, she stares down at it, almost challenging the gaze of death itself; some say she awaits it, others believe she truly doesn’t care—Hell, Charlotte doesn’t know the answer herself.
To live in a life like this is to tell stories, so she fulfills this: tells the group of her past like an open book, the unsavory, the unkind, the happy, and the prosperous. Lies are seldom told in her found family, their trust being the only line between her and an inevitable decline—how long it will last, however, is something she doesn’t care to think about.
Stuck in her ways and far too eager to speak, Charlotte is stubborn, easily finds herself slipping in conversation; mouth moving at the same rate as her thoughts. She talks as she pleases, not much thought behind the words unless the situation counts for it (although, she may have to fight it back—bite her tongue), leading to the conclusions of being crass and overzealous—it is often even said that she has no filter. But why hold others back from the words you’d want them to hear?
O' CRUEL WORLD ; TW: ILLNESS RELATED DEATH
Ranchers kept her world running. Hell, it was one of the female ranch hands that helped her mother birth Charlotte. Cold, windy, the rain battering against soil—the storm was relentless, seemed to mimic the screams of her mother. And then silence, broken with then a cry, a baby girl destined for greatness; it was something her mama told her, but Charlotte would say the contrary.
Destined for greatness? Greatness was only a thing in books, as were destinies.
She was raised on a Ranch, family owned, and family grown. Not much to it, a few cattle, sheep, you name it—it was all the Watsons ever knew. It was honest work, kept them above water, a roof over their heads; her father’s pride and joy, not even Charlotte could compete with that. He wanted a son, her mother never gave him that, and there built resentment—not towards his poor wife, no, but the daughter he never wanted. As much as he loved the thought of family, he could never bring himself to love Charlotte the way he wanted to. This is where it starts, the pain of not being good enough, the rebellion. It lies in her father.
He sought a son in her cousin, the one that visited often, a rich boy bright as the sun; and not only did he light up her father’s world, but Charlotte’s too. Age 10 was the first time she held a gun, the first time she shot a bottle after the first few tries. Fond memories were the foundation of their childhood, the only thing that glued this family together aside from sweet Mama Helena. But it was only the summer days where the happiness flourished. By the time her cousin, Jax, left on his family’s wagon with the Watson Ranch in the dust, the resentment flooded back—building a bigger wall between Charlotte and her father.
Charlotte’s mother fell ill on Charlotte’s 20th birthday. She wished it was only sudden so her mother didn’t have to suffer long, but when you make wishes to the universe, they never really get granted. Tuberculosis? Something like that, a big word Charlotte didn’t know much about. Some damn birthday present that was. And she watched her die only a few months later, listened as her heart fell still in the early morning. Mourning was the only thing to do. Her father never lent her a shoulder to cry on, he was too busy crying himself. He fell to madness, somewhat—maybe it had always been there and needed a bit of push, but nevertheless, she watched it happen with her own two eyes. A slow descent into crisis, he couldn’t work anymore—didn’t have a son to do it either, but Charlotte all but complained about picking up the job.
DARK WAS THE NIGHT, COLD WAS THE GROUND. TW ABUSE
She knew he’d lost it completely the night those men took her away—Charlotte was only 22. Some guys he met at the gambling hall, gambled away her freedom—had her married to a man that only made her life more of a Hell than it already was. Life was over then, the moment she stepped foot in that god forsaken house and watched as that man, Benny, kick and scream at the slightest inconvenience. Eventually that behavior turned onto her, his sister a witness, his workers—but not one of them intervened. Maybe they were afraid of his hand, knew what he was capable of, but Charlotte knew better than to feed into it; she would’ve rather died than to give him the satisfaction of fear.
Seldom did the night go when there wasn’t a hit to the face, an endless flurry of words too unsavory to forget; he spat at her, fought with her, never appreciated the fact that Charlotte fought back. He made it a point to try and break her down, but it only made her more vengeful.
He came home, drunk and all, found Charlotte in bed with his sister (a sure way for her to get back at him for all the trouble he gave her)—threatened to kill the both of them too. Instead he held Charlotte in the attic, starved and beat her, called her an animal; said she was his property and that she was lucky she was alive in the first place. That was the first break, something inside snapped, something she never paid much mind to until she was finally alone. Bruised, battered, a broken rib and blood that pooled beneath her, they shouldn’t have left her to her own devices.
Day 5 of being in the attic and she figured out the schedule, when he or his workers would go up there and give her a stale loaf of bread and a single glass of water. She had no plan, the only thing close enough was looking for things to help her get out of that pit of pain. If there was one thing that man was good for, it was teaching Charlotte how to shoot better than she already could—a mistake on his end, but a blessing to her.
Gunshots filled the Ambrose Estate that night, a 24 year old Charlotte fighting for her life, searching for an escape. She took one of his horses, fled into the darkness and never looked back.
PENELOPE, MY LOVE
Charlotte met the love of her life in a General Store. Her name was Penny and dammit, she was the most beautiful person she’d ever met—in soul and in looks. If there was one thing, one person that kept Charlotte kicking, it was her. And waking up to that face everyday was a blessing. It was only a few months until they started talking about marriage, a life Charlotte never wanted to see again, but with Penny she was willing to give it another try. A real chance. Only, Penny didn't know much about what Charlotte did—sure, she knew that Charlotte knew her way around a gun, drank a whole lot and didn't seem to be fazed by it either, but she didn't know it all.
A life like hers was a dangerous one, with death waiting around every corner of the way. It was only when the two had a surprise meeting with a few men from a town only a short ways over, that everything changed. A life in danger, one that Charlotte loved more than her own—Penny demanded answers and Charlotte wasn't woman enough to face the truth: that was she was a damn liar, a murderer, a thief, a gunslinger—someone that Penny wouldn't have given the time of day had she known the moment they locked eyes reaching for that pack of cigarettes.
Charlotte was dumb enough to believe that Penny would want to stay with her after this, and maybe Penny was equally as stupid when she decided to stay; she said something about never leaving the people you love behind. And maybe Charlotte took advantage of that, never made an effort to change and grow the way that Penny did.
The two fled further away, stayed at inns and behind saloons with only a few dollars to their names and Benny's horse—she still never quite told Penny about that story.
But a life like this is no life for a woman of Penny's caliber. She wanted something more, something normal, and Charlotte wasn't ready for that. She never saw Penny again after an argument over Charlotte getting into yet another fight at the saloon. There was only a note left on the desk rolled and tucked into the ring Charlotte gave her. And like that, it was like her love was thrown away. It may have only been a year or two, but it was the best part of her life she wishes she could get back.
Atone for the sins of her past.
Thanks to Penny, Charlotte was better educated in some aspects—knew about the fight for women's rights and damn well agreed with it. She picked up word of a few towns with women's protests, saw the threat first hand when a woman was pulled from a wagon over words she was screaming at the top of her lungs; men vexed at the expression of her opinions. It was only then that Charlotte wanted to protect someone she barely knew, had it been the remembrance of her husband or the fact that these women were more helpless than they'd like to believe, she didn't want to think of it too much.
She started to guard them like it was her job. Fought against the ones that would attack them, became a protector but never could run away from her old ways. Charlotte even tried her hand at teaching others, Penny would've been proud had she seen this, but she couldn't. She needed to remind herself of this.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END
Louis Vincent was a man of many words, a man of charisma, and a man that could appreciate defiance. She joined their gang after a few days of meeting, something about a change of pace but it was the same as the life before. Only, she wasn't alone anymore; no, she couldn't bear the thought of being alone for any longer.
A drunk with a vengeance, reckless and all.
Appaloosa renamed Winnie; her husband's stolen horse and her best friend. Her mane is neatly pulled into a few braids complementing the its Grulla Blanket pattern.
Personality: No better friend no worse enemy comes to mind when you speak off Charles. He is quick on his feet and can adapt to situations
Bio: Charles's father was a farmer and his mother a teacher. He grew up with White Feather a local Indian boy. He taught Charles how to hunt , fish, and track. He was poor but never went without. He was only 16 when he watched his father gun downed but a group of outlaws. All he had was 50 cents in his pocket. He went to the sheriff and nothing was done about it. He waited and tracked down all five men. When he was through he put there heads in a sack and placed it on the step of the Sheriff station. He has been tacking and bounty hunting ever sence.
Equipment rope, hunting gear, bow, minor first aid.
NAME: alphonse hall FAKE NAME: thomas thorne — a name he views as more commonplace than wherever alphonse came from. D.O.B: december 12th AGE: twenty-six GENDER: cismale ORIENTATION: homosexual ROLE: the loanshark
APPEARANCE: alphonse, known as thomas by all except his father, is a suave young man who hides a life-altering rebellious streak behind a tidy appearance well. his hair is a luscious blonde less like the color of dry hay and more like woven gold thread—it gleams and glows under the light of a setting sun, a bit too well-kept for someone who lives the life of an outlaw. most notable, however, are his eyes. seafoam green in an almost translucent way, they truly are the windows to alphonse's soul. peer too deep and discover a secret he would kill to keep. for that reason, he keeps his head—and gaze—low, choosing to hide behind the brim of his hat with only a trail of cigar smoke coming from behind its veil.
if it weren't for his tall stature, his enemies might have mistaken him for a meek little man easily manipulated and easily killed. standing at a solid 5'11, alphonse carries himself with all the posture of a wealthy man, a trait many look down upon and pass off as lingering too long around the rich in his line of work yet fear all the same. it shows he wields power, not the physical kind, but the power of connections and wealth, and everyone knows money makes the world go 'round. to emulate a more muscular body, alphonse dons himself in layers upon layers of clothes. a thin shirt, a leather vest on top, a scarf, and all topped off with a nifty jacket, it's not convincing, but it's enough. if all of these still don't help you recognize him, his full pockets and a cigarette between his fingers at all time might. FACECLAIM: baptiste radufe
PERSONALITY: money doesn't make you happy.
a silly little adage full of trust in the goodness of people and overexaggerated importance in things like love and care. and yet, something that describes alphonse so accurately. this loanshark counts the blood money that lines his pockets with an obsessiveness that is disturbing when you see it as more than flaunting wealth. for a man whose entire being is worth more than some entire communities, he does not feel secure upon his throne of money. he frets over the smallest of details until things are just right in his eyes and despises when a plan get side-tracked. he's stubborn to a fault, unbending on any stance or action whether or not it's right or wrong, and calculates his every move to make sure the gambles he takes, if any, favor him. above all, alphonse needs control, stability, order at any cost—a fact he is unwilling to admit to himself because it is very much like father, like son.
there is a certain boyish charm to alphonse, something that never grew out of him, that lures unsuspecting victims customers to his door. he laughs easily, smiles easily, and isn't the type to initiate fights or be aggressive in the first place. he's especially good at faking good will and kind intentions, knowing just what buttons to push when he has them right where he wants them.
but alphonse is more than just a manipulative and morally-questionable accountant. he is a man raised by the muck of society, and as such, nothing seems too dirty or untouchable to him. he also has a strong sense of family and loyalty, more than willing to do those he likes a favor or two—at a discount of course, never for free. that doesn't mean alphonse trusts easily however. he can engage in the deepest of conversations and still maintain nothing more than an acquaintance's relationship with you at the end of it all. this line of work is a dangerous one, and trusting others is a calculated risk he doesn't want to take.
HISTORY: alphonse says there isn't much to know about him, and he tells the same story every single time. he came into this life when he was 14: a little more than a child but certainly not an adult. for the first few years, it was menial tasks: guarding the supplies, loading and offloading them at every stop, watching for the law. he was especially good at that last one, but it wasn't until he stopped a poor trade that his first gang really saw him for what he was. the rest is history, alphonse says. a man who wields money rises quickly to the top, no matter how low he starts because everyone wants money. they need it. it was only a matter of time until louis vincent and his gang found their way to alphonse's doorstep, and alphonse thought he fit in pretty nicely with them.
BRIEF OVERVIEW: a young boy of mysterious origins, assumed to likely be another orphan in this cruel world, who's grown into something of a man alongside outlaws. something about him is just a bit too refined for this life, but perhaps that is why he handles and wields money like no other. he's undiscerning in who borrows from him, only caring about the quantity borrowed and the quantity returned. and although everyone knows that it's him collecting money and sending whole communities into ruin—no crime or act of violence is too much for his conscience—somehow he hasn't been caught. connections, corruption, or a little bit of both? HORSE: a half thoroughbred and half arabian stallion named clancy. he has a chestnut coat and tawny mane that shines with a reddish hue in sunlight and a tall build fit for riding, albeit not physically strong or imposing like his owner. an ex-law enforcement horse alphonse claims he stole from some poor, underdeveloped community while in his first gang, but clancy is almost suspiciously too obedient to be stolen.
Watchful eyes escape Mercy, barely brushing past his coattails before forgetting him entirely or falling heavily under his spell. The son of a jester and a con-man, an orphan at heart, and the sufferer of duality. God has abandoned Mercy Junebug, but he would argue he left Him long before.
Lies spittle out easily, even as they rub his heart raw. A fish thrown into the desert, thinking a passerby might eat the poisoned goods out of desperation. Now, he’s found an oasis. He swims freely, only to be taken out once more, slapped around, and returned back to his purpose.
Self-indulgence hides his evasiveness. His lack of a history. Confidence shrouds him, and who can’t help but love the kid? A kitten being let out to play for the first time, Mercy doesn’t know what to make of the world other than to pretend it doesn’t exist. His hand rests open, inviting to all, but it isn’t his fault when he crushes you. He doesn’t mean to!
Little do they know he’s been ordered to. Intent is a confused concept to Mercy, who sees every action as his own and yet fails to understand how he is supposed to change. Apologies are shallow, though the emotions behind them are thorny and constant. He doesn’t mean to! Truly, he doesn’t. Programming, a hegemony unavoidable, and the threatening of his livelihood makes him this way, though he is unable to change it.
A confused man, but outwardly, he is anything but. He may give multiple apologies, but all are quick to forgive. Cavalier, but prideful. He always gives his all, and his care for any crime is astounding. Easy to give orders to, clinical in his proceedings, and creative in his manners of criminality. His plans are always absurd, outlandish even, but he provides ideas that would shock any man. Mercy provides an edge to their survival, even if he has to be reigned in.
Around the camp, though, he is the sunshine. A smile, a wink. He is always down for a game or to show you a unique magic trick. A host of dares and body-comedy. Will do a handstand for an extra serving of supper, please inquire within! Free-flowing as the breeze from the meadow, Mercy gives a laugh to all, even if the joke isn’t funny. His fists may be easy to induce, but all extremities come with their benefits. A teddy bear, fluffy and built with real claws.
Outfitted with natural, unintentional muscle from a lifetime of farming and other physical labor. His height thins him out, leaving his shape vague and almost soft. Harsh lines, however, are easily formed by the poking out of bones.
Dust-ridden, with folds filled with granules and grease. Marked by the nascent farmlands of the West, Mercy could fit in amongst nobility, but his roots show. Undeniable, easy to trip on, but with a bit of soap and a haircut, he could charm the pants off any debutante (and he’s tried). Boyish charm, but not without a hint of debauchery. The type of man who would help an old lady carry her groceries and flash you a smile while doing it, making your heart flutter despite his apparent lack of hygiene. Shadow of facial hair, fitting for a man whose build allows him to float away with a quickness. A fairy of destruction and chaos, more-than-likely welcomed, irresistible, even.
a small set of three dots tattooed with a sewing needle and ink behind his left ear. small scars on his chin and right eyebrow. a red gnarly scar on the back of his left heel.
Even the most hard-pressed to be fooled can fall under the spell of the many shades of Mercy’s smile. How could you not? The smoldering smirk beckons you into his tent at nightfall, while the grin of mischief propels you forward on a robbery. One glint of teeth and a twist of his lips and you’re about to forget about the human he just killed. It’s just a body now, as everything else fades into oblivion with a hypnotic, well-meaning look.
Typicals for Mercy Junebug include: his white-and-brown cowhide hat, a dingy, yet tailored suit vest, suede chaps with needless fringe he cut himself, stained button downs with mismatched, varied muted colored patches, a tenderly loved pair of Levi Strauss jeans, black, red, and green bandanas, and his bullet belt.
chewing tobacco on occasion, spitting as way of communicating, whistling a merry tune, mumbling verses from the Bible to himself before any sort of conflict or crime, smiling even when there’s nothing to smile about, biting his nails, side-eye glances that often go unnoticed, praying before bedtime
quick to anger
quick to pull his gun or a prank
seeking to be righteous
painfully aware of his sins
curls of satiny hair
the open sky
Sunday’s calming rhythm
a round of drinks to boost morale
adrenaline (but you already knew that)
people shrouded in mystery, begging to be unveiled
the look of his own ugly mug
the awe in people’s eyes when he wins them over
doing something stupid ‘for the hell of it’
fluffy newborn sheep + shearing sheep
juicy lamb chops
shiny new things
his time with the crew
a lack of transparency
eyes sharpened by the smell of capital gains, even his own
critique on the wrong day at the wrong time
fast movements near his peripheral
guilt over his happiest moments
losing his temper
his bouts of ill-perceived infallibility
opening his runny mouth at the wrong time
a fate worse than death
“God regrets the day you were found.” A savior, incorrectly labeled messiah. Spit marks on his face, and it is apparent he is the locusts, not Moses.
“Messiah needs you.” When doesn’t he? The roadblock for calamity, turned into a friendly, neighborhood cash-cow. A mule for his falsified nobility. One that Noah could only hope to be a part of.
His birthright, founded when he was found. The side of a leafy road, the body next to him. Blood marked his hands from day one, but life forces him onward. No reprieve for the wicked.
Butterflies kept under his hand, crushed by his heartache. “God needs you!” Does he? Moldy questions nip at Noah’s brain, constantly rethinking what was already known. There is life, but he does know understand. The intricacies of its lace are not lost on him, but he does not know what to make of the pattern other than its utilitarian purpose.
A lamb, lost to the sea of sheep looking to cannibalize him. To sell him off so that they might live another day longer. Ezekiel took his soul, rolled it around on the table, and showed his Preschool teacher, God, with pride. Behold!
Now a rat, sticky with spilled beer. Forgotten, left to roam the corners of the bar. Slipping through the wooden pockets and finding solace in the paradise of walls. A mouse, actually, thirsting for some cheese, a warm fire, and a family to breed.
“Remember your teachings, Noah.”
Charm becomes a shield, but easily chemical warfare. The spit now flies from his cheeks, painting adversaries in a hydrochloric mixture sure to bring their faces to his fist. There’s nothing left of Noah, anymore. Flashes, an improperly cut-up piece of film. A slipped-in frame of juvenility.
”They brought it out of him,” Messiah explains to Bell. Bell scoffs, as though Louis could ever be capable of bringing out anything other than the pansy-ass in everyone. “Your boy has blended in, as we needed him to. As you needed him to.”
A hopeless case of an almost feral child. Now, dangly curls are fluffed back and smiles come easily. Careless, impractical wisdom and kindness. Easy to fall in love with someone who isn’t trying to pull the wool over your eyes. Well, at least not like that. Enjoy him, laugh with him, but don’t love him. Blissfully unself-aware, Mercy settles into deceptive freedom. Affection can come easily, instinctually, because of Noah’s upbringing. But never should last.
Now, it does. Imperfections are countless, but they are common. Reproach is quick to follow, but never to last. Lost in the sea of conflictions and paradoxes, Mercy is forced to grow.
Pride can be found in either court. Victory, even. An ego supported endlessly.
But which one offers salvation?
- enjoys doing things ‘for the hell of it’ and will try to coerce you into cow-tipping or bull racing (in the event you ever let him come across a barren field full of either cows or bulls)
- farmer boi ™
- strong Appalachian accent; that is where the Revenant Hand originally hail from
- can play you a song using a blade of grass
- fabulous dancer
- picks flowers for people when they’re sad
- refuses to bury his dead, but will offer to help others
- thinks a lot about God still, but mostly uses the Bible as a way to make wisdom, not as a way to make rules
- still has a hard time differentiating the two
- cannot take criticism, and usually will laugh it off with a mean remark
- serious very infrequently, though he has earned people's respect because he knows when to tone it down and settle in… at least, when it comes to business…
- has hurt himself more often than an enemy has
- king of first-aid
- tender ego as a result of being deeply insecure; the type of man to give you the death stare for criticizing his attitude but will acknowledge his grumpiness and apologize later after punching a tree a few times
- in need of anger management and modern psychiatric medicine
- spiked beast with a soft, white underbelly
- has bouts of mania and minor depressive episodes
- walks with a barely perceptible limp on his left side
A gift from Jim Bell. Sunday was meant to be a peace-offering, as though a new fangled beast made the assignment go down easy. Truly, the horse is just another way for Bell and the Messiah to eat away at him. Maggots to his flesh, but Sunday is an exception. Awe-strikin’, to use a Mercy-word, she is a white leopard Appaloosa with black speckles like a dalmation’s. Her unique pattern makes her easy to spot, but in a strange way, Mercy wouldn’t trade her for the world. A pat at her side or a nightly ride and the world tilts rightly once more.
The Messiahs are a two-fold paper, the same coin. The little one needed a family, and the big one needed money. Often, both can be found in similar circumstances, as any good outlaw knows.
This was before those days, and Ezekial Messiah was actually Ezekial Mursh. Noah-Moses was an unnamed document, waiting to be marred by Ezekial’s hand. Ironically, the Revenant Hand was formed under similar circumstances.
Ministry formed in response to the forgotten son. Ezekiel sucked in a few souls, looking to see salvation in their lifetime. Noah was a sign, a direct response from God. Ezekiel had asked for a sign, a son that would bring the world’s bounty.
Truly, he asked God for a bounty of his own.
But who says the two can’t be comorbid?
The woods of the Mursh property were the Hand’s first home. Ezekiel promised a home, freedom from the harsh solitary of farm-life. Quickly, the fields were being turned by the Hands, followers who don't know Mursh as the trickster he was in his youth. Ancient staples, the golems of the Appalachia, stood in judgment of Ezekiel’s blatant manipulation. Those already fallen under the spell, however, were easily quelled.
The Hand was the world, holding Noah-Moses daintily. He was the son, the origin. He would carry on the Reverent Hand when Ezekiel passed. The Gospel lives in his soul, etched into every moment of his existence.
Abandoned, parents taken by the clutches of The Devil. The Reverent Hand protects its people, as it is the connection between God and the Earth. A one-stop line of fire, beginning with its first savior: Noah.
His face, his name, his being. All of it a marketable advantage.
A symbol of hope for this Garden of Eden.
”Get yer ass out of our town.”
A mass expulsion.
Funny thing about cults - people don’t take kindly to them taking over the town.
The West spoke to Ezekiel, as it was now the place where God could be most easily manifested. A new place of beauty, a saving grace. Like the Scriptures wrote, they too would traverse and escape persecution.
Not to mention, that’s where the law was a bit… loose.
The Messiah directed his people, with the help of his Son, into the great unknown. Along the way, they collected members.
A sea. Tidal wave upon tidal wave, with a tsunami threatening daily.
People took easily to the rhetoric, though quickly they saw the cracks in this holy place. Constant famine, the chill of the nights, and the poison of a snake. Their hard-earned dollars paid in tithing to a man who couldn’t give them God’s bounty, who used the charming, sweet-face angel to trick them. Deceive them into thinking the Lord shined upon them all.
Ezekiel Messiah was in a corner, snapped at by dogs with teeth dulled by his own slop.
And there was Jim Bell.
His hands were open, offering the money Ezekiel needed to provide for his Kingdom. Then some. More, if he wanted a job or two.
Then again, he didn’t have much of a choice.
A debt to pay a debt, the trickster’s curse.
The story finally brings Noah into the picture. An object forced into action because of one man’s penance. The statue has arisen!
As though Judas was the Terminator, reprogrammed to deceive and turn ugly, Mercy was born. Bell chose to use his Godly-token, his newfound alliance, to rip at the seams of Vincent’s crew. Mercy Junebug was the ripper, the undoer.
Except, a trained soldier, a militant being, was never meant to be set free. Mercy is no actor, though he tries to be. He existed under the guise, the permanent punishment, of the Reverent Hand, and now he is an outlaw. A new man. People adore him for it, and his vapid mood swings become quirks, points of love, instead of flaws to be beaten out of.
His heart blooms in a strange pattern, fluttering as the butterfly finally free. Except, ‘home’ is still calling, beckoning him. Ezekiel won’t let him forget who he is, as Noah still exists even if Mercy chokes him. Squeezes the life out of him with every passing moment spent with Louis and his outlaws.
Bell watches from afar, hearing his exploits as Vincent sucks himself into deeper and deeper water. He questions Mercy with a smirk, as though he knows what Junebug thinks when he’s surrounded by his family. Fake, he’s reminded. Nothing’s real. His family is the Hand, which remains a crushing force.
Every turn results in another piece of the cage. Soon, he will run out of escape routes. Already, they are dwindling, and the eyes of his first-time friends fill him with paranoia.
He does not know.
Noah or Mercy.
Murder thunders in his heart, but he knows not which one he will kill.
let our bodies lay while our hearts will stay. let our blood invade if i die in pain. now, if your con
victions were a passing phase. May your ashes feed the river in the morning rays. and as the vermin crawls, we lay in the foundations of decay
Name: temperance boldman Fake Name: jesse mae | in honor of her parents, temperance took their names. in a way, she would always have a piece of them. Jesse was her father's first name while mae was her mother’s first name.
the veil | a name given to her for her appearance. covered from head to toe, people fear that she is a specter beneath her cloak, a ghostly figure who has come to collect their souls.
D.O.B: february 14th Age: 36 years old. Gender: genderfluid | temperance is fine with any pronouns, though people tend to refer to them as male above all else. personally she prefers her or them pronouns most of the time. Orientation: demisexual Role: the fixer
Appearance: a towering darkness that has taken on a human shape. when temperance arrives, a quiet intensity follows them. there is not much detail that can be associated with the outlaw. for the figure is clothed from head to toe in black. above a tightly knotted bandana and beneath the brim of a hat of the same color, sits two eyes that hold all the similarities to a starless night or deep abyss. they give away nothing, there is no cruelty in those eyes, no malice, instead there is nothing. the veil is truly as intimidating as the legends say. they tower over many, looming over people with that dead look in their eyes. it’s to make most people start sweating bullets. it is clear that temperance is strong. beneath their clothing lay hard muscles that tell the story of someone used to hard labor.
beneath the coverings, where very little people have seen, is a face of sharp angles and scars that adorn their body like birthmarks. each one tells of a battle lost or won, a lesson learned from. short curls sit beneath the signature black hat on their head. and from slivers of skin that can be seen. a deep brown is revealed to those who notice.
Personality: it would be ironic really, if one such as temperance held a softness beneath her dark outer layer. but in truth, there is none. her appearance is just like her personality. what is seen is what is given. there is a quiet intensity about her, it’s in the way her gaze is unwavering and piercing. it shows in how her words are clipped and to the point. there is nothing comforting about her and she offers nothing to set people at ease when they look at her and see her dark eyes staring back.
temperance is a calculated individual, the type that weighs her options instead of behaving rashly. her decisions, when made, are final and it’s hard to get her to change her mind. it’s a reason why she tends to keep her word after thinking something over. above all else temperance keeps her promises, which is why she seldom makes them. her blunt, no-nonsense attitude is either appreciated or hated depending on the person.
she is by now means brash, but temperance prefers actions over words. she won’t hesitate to shoot or engage in a fight if she has to. there are no needs to idle threats when dealing with her. some people talk far too much and beat around the bush for her liking.
Brief Overview: a masked outlaw who has become a feared figure. it’s said that the veil arrives like death on horseback. an appearance is a sign that someone’s time has come. a individual who witnessed tragedy at a young age and was shaped by it. temperance is the one called when things take a turn. a trusted member who gets the gang what they need and when they need it. her connections are seemingly endless.
Horse: temperance has an american quarter horse by the name of omen. the large stud is majestic in every sense of the word. with his shiny black coat and flowing mane, he is a beast worthy of admiration. though he has the same stoic temperament as his rider, making him all the more imposing.
Background: temperance is extremely tight-lipped about her past. but it is common knowledge that she hails from rosewood, a freedom town where former slaves settled in hopes of acquiring a slice of the american dream themselves. the town thrived due to the skills that many of the citizens brought with them from the south.
there is a gap in time though. temperance speaks nothing of her years as a child or early teen. instead her time jumps to adulthood. when her days as a bounty hunter began. her most notorious kill? a group of outlaws who had once terrorized the town where she had been born. from then, her reputation began to build. it grew until she became a true outlaw herself. temperance’s time was not only limited to hunting down those she was hired to. no, she had become quite the bandit as well.
there was no job that was too dirty for her, with omen with her, she performed every task. eventually, she crossed paths with louis vincent and the rest was history.
Relationships: jesse boldman | father | deceased
a former southern slave and confederate soldier who was forced to move to the west with his master. escaped into the arms of a local native group who valued him for his knowledge on hunting, animal husbandry, and botany. left the tribe after a while and was found by employers of his former master. it cost the native tribe and jesse sought revenge, becoming a feared bounty hunter during that time. eventually met his wife mae. the settled down and had a daughter. his past caught up with him however and he was killed by a group of outlaws sent by the former master.
mae boldman | mother | deceased
born a free woman in the freedom town of rosewood. a true cowgirl through and through. was valued by the community for the money she brought in through selling and breaking horses. had a technique which included gaining the trust of the group and breaking the leader, thus gaining the obedience of the group. was killed by the same group of outlaws that killed her husband.
Jamison "Jamie" Moore Fake Name:
Mac "The Mad Dog" Matthausen
D.O.B: Oct. 1st, 1861
Age: 29 (or 30, depending on when in the year this will be starting.)
Gender/Orientation: Straight Male
Role: 'The Dog'
Face Claim: Tom Hardy, from Peaky Blinders
Jamie is a coin with two sides, and like a coin, you never really know which side you might get. On one hand, Jamie is like many other outlaw types, loud and boisterous. Always looking for a hot meal, a strong drink, and a pretty girl to distract him from whatever mess he had just clawed himself out of. Jamie likes to make money, and he likes to spend it. However, there is a darker side to Jamie. You might catch glimpses of it in Jamie's glossed eyes or his faraway looks. A rage, a monster, seething and bubbling just below the surface of Jamie's very humanity. In the time that it might take to flip a coin, Jamie might go from a smile and a drink to a snarl and a dagger. Jamie is unpredictable at best, and terrifying at worst. Capable, and willing, to carry out immense violence, Jamie is often the one to pull the trigger first and if a gun isn't on hand, you should expect him to pick up a rock. There are times when not even Jamie seems to really understands what he is doing. When his eyes look almost lifeless, or worse, feral.
This overall unpredictable nature is itself what makes Jamie such a dangerous outlaw to begin with. Jamie often ends up being the hammer behind the nail, and like any hammer, Jamie is a multipurpose tool. Sure, he is typically just like a gun, point him in the right direction and pull the trigger, but having a Mad Dog at your side can be useful when trying to 'aggressively negotiate'. Jamie is not above outright extortion, and he will make sure the gang gets paid, one way or another...
All of this is not to say that Jamie has no morals. Rather, they've been drowned by Jamie's own inner demons. Jamie would prefer to feel nothing at all, rather than come to terms with the events and actions that lead him to become Mac 'The Mad Dog' Matthausen. Jamie knows full well that there is something wrong with him, countless nights spent screaming in his sleep are very clear evidence of that. But if his options are killing his demons, or killing other men, you can guess which option Jamie would take. Few things scare him more than the idea that he might actually be broken. A violent and angry shell of the man he might've otherwise been.
When the setting sun in New Orleans gave way to the waxing moon, who's light could never illuminate the shadowed bogs and marshes, New Orleans' underbelly came to life. While not typically associated with the violent crime of the mighty metropolitan cities of the northeast United States, New Orleans played host to a violent and cutthroat conglomeration of smugglers, all vying for dominance in the alligator infested swamps that hid their protected cargo. The alligators, scavengers as they were, were all too happy to eat the bodies that inevitably were dumped under the shadow of night.
New Orleans hadn't always been this stagnant pool of killers and criminals. In fact, most regular folk weren't even aware of the bloody war that was playing out right under their noses. After all, bodies were never found. No, New Orleans, like many of the great cities of the south, became plagued by this criminal infestation following their defeat in the American Civil war.
During the war, New Orleans had first attracted this class of smugglers in order to keep the city alive! Union blockades kept trade goods and supplies from ever reaching the Southern States, but the marshes of Louisiana were perfect for discreetly moving goods. While other cities in the south withered during the war, the wealthy of New Orleans could simply continue through their days, business as usual.
However, these smugglers that had been attracted during the war wouldn't just simply leave after the wars end. When the war ended, and suddenly there was no need for them anymore, this metaphorical army of blockade runners now found themselves unemployed and undesired. From there, things turned very bloody, very quickly. After all, these men and women hadn't come to New Orleans because they were patriotic Southerners. The South be damned! These people had come to get rich, and they wouldn't simply leave.
Jamie's father was one of these numerous smugglers. His mother, a prostitute born and raised in New Orleans. Jamie himself had been born shortly after the war's official beginning.
As such, Jamie was raised in this criminal underworld. His father was never a kind man. In truth, Jamie had always preferred when his father was gone. The man was a drunk, and a angry one at that, and Jamie was just the bastard son. An accident. By the time Jamie was a boy, not quite yet a real man, his father had decided he was done providing for the mistake he had unwittingly brought in to this world. Jamie was left to fend for himself, and where else could he go, but to the smuggling gangs he had grown up around all his life. Jamie was criminal before he was a man, who wore a gun belt before he could wear a moustache.
Jamie won't talk about his time smuggling in the bayous around New Orleans. He'd kill a man who was dumb enough to press him on it, but there is something you should know about fighting in a swamp.
It's not the same as dueling it out in the arid deserts of the west. You can't run. The water slogs down a man's boots, and the mud makes you stick. And you're not alone. Snakes are one thing, gliding across the water or coiled around branches. The gators were another monster entirely. Covered in fowl smelling moss, they blend right in. You could damn near step on one before even seeing it, not that they'd let you. You'd be dead before you got the chance.
In these stinking bayous the smugglers all had hidden away their little stashes, and there had to be people protect these stashes. Standing out in what amounted to a wooden shack, all hours of the night, just waiting for when a shot would echo through the muffled corridors of the swamp and a bullet might whip past your head.
A gunfight in the swamp is not nearly as quick and final as a fight anywhere else. You creep and crawl through the waters, praying the wildlife doesn't kill you, eyes peeled in the darkness, searching for any movement. Gun barrels shining in the light that filters through the canopy above. Often, a man could be just waiting to die. Silence erupts into a symphony of gun fire. And then silence once more.
The shadowed waters of the swamp were never quite deep enough to drown the monsters that were born there.
While more intelligent men, more stable men, spend their time planning and mapping out the events of the future, The Dog is more akin to a wild animal who is best left on a short leash. The violence of The Dog’s past have left them unpredictable and irrational, bad traits for any man in regular society, but the hallmark qualities for any self-respecting enforcer. Like any good dog, they are unwavering in their loyalty, but beware if you hear them howling in the night. The Dog’s own nightmares plague their sleep mercilessly.
Jamie plays an Enforcer roll within the gang, often tagging along with whichever member of the gang needs a little extra muscle or intimidation. While he might not be the Boss's right hand man, he is the Mad Dog that gets let off the leash whenever things go south. Jamie most definitely suffers from PTSD or some multitude of similar mental health issues stemming from a history of violence, making him unpredictable at inopportune times. If you are going to let him off his metaphorical leash, you'd best be prepared to face the consequences of it. This is not to say Jamie is some rage monster, he is generally more than capable of keeping himself under control, but there is a line. Typically, Jamie is more prone to violence than most.
Jamie rides and Appaloosa mare named Pepper. She is white with speckled black spots. Pretty generic looking Appaloosa.
NAME: Adrian Walters - his name is symbolic for "rich" and "commander of the army," demonstrating that Adrian's father wished for a powerful man and a healthy son.
FAKE NAME: Elijah Pritchett - Its overall modesty in the name alone attracted Adrian to coming up with a name which was easier on the tongue and one unconnected to his family.
ORIENTATION: Pansexuality but currently still in mourning.
ROLE: you can also make up your own—just run it by us first
Adrian is comparable to an incision in human form — aptly sharp but closed up. He's stitched with various emotions, some better than others, but still within the shell of his former self. The good doctor can be a wonderful doctor and other times, that emptiness, which sparkles his eyes with a lustre resembling broken glass. Transparent in glittering misery and unquestionable anguish, a father without a legacy and warmth to temper back his demons at night. Adrian's been coined a simple man in his life by looks and presence. His very 'core' in essence can be read as both humbling and 'fatherly' — the type of smile at morning breakfast and when the faintest star in the sky appears. He's a dichotomy, though, rearing both silent anger and unending patience, warred through a time that his heart got pierced. It's surprising just how much duality lingers.
The rugged pastures have worn his skin down, finding no pleasure in drinking (he discourages all forms), and perhaps even taking on a more virtuous stroke when his mood allows him to elevate beyond his sadness. He’s earned himself the rusty mantle of a wise old man.
It's telling though, in the quieter moments, yearning for something he knows that he can never have again.
HISTORY: can be as short or long as you’d like; most likely they wouldn’t want to speak about the things that have happened in their past.
BRIEF OVERVIEW/SYNOPSIS: your character's concept, what's your character like?
HORSE: a description of what their horse looks like
Eleanor is the definition of elegance. Pretty brown eyes that hold the sun's warmth within them so easily. Endless waves of chestnut hair reached just below her shoulder blades. Her hair, that never seemed to tangle, always seemed overly silky as well. Probably due to the oil mixture she used after every bath. Long arms and legs, giving her an extra bit of decent height. She has a lean, mesomorph body type. Skin, fair and pale as an ivory dream.
Oh sweet thy Eleanor. A girl born into this world with nothing. No claim to anything nor anyone to claim her. So she was determined to make something of herself. She is strong willed with a good head on her shoulders as well as one who looks forward, towards the sunset, towards her ever growing future. Although at times she can be quick to anger, especially when overwhelmed. She occasionally snaps out at others but doesn't mean it in a wrong, or hurtful way. It's all but a twisted sigh of resentment and pent up animosity towards anyone who has let her down in life. A bubbling pot waiting to be unleashed. But beneath all of the sugar, and obvious bitterness, Ellie is a little unhinged. After witnessing so much torture and horrible ways to kill, she's taken it upon herself to mimic these acts. Anyone who double crosses her might end up with missing teeth, and not in a fist fight. Pulled from their head and shipped off to their loved ones in petty fashion.
While on missions, Ellie is probably a little more cold. Focused solely on the mission before her. Because it is her job to make sure they all get their reward but most importantly; they all make it out alive. So forgive her if she doesn't immediately laugh at your joke or if she doesn't react like normal. She will once the job is completed and they all go home safely.
a good book
losing a fight
September 11th. The day Eleanor was brought into the world. Of course, she remembered nothing much of it, other than the stories Emilia told her. How she had been found in a whicker basket among a field of the prettiest wild flowers. Left with no name, no home, and no parents. So she gave herself a name, a home, and a parent to look up too. Her beginning was bland, but the rest of her life was nothing but a fiery spark. Tall flames, aching to reach the sun once more.
Ellie is nineteen, moving out from beneath Emilia's wing to find her place among the world. She heads east to try to find a job. To maybe manage a life without being forced into a marriage she did not want. If Emilia could do it on her own while raising her, Ellie could attempt to do the same thing. But....it did not go as she had planned. No job would hire her anywhere. Not even the silliest or grittiest jobs would take a woman. Wouldn't pay a woman a dime just because she was just that, a woman. Angry at the world, she joins other woman in a march for equal rights.
But things turn sour when she realizes just how awful women are treated. She watches her sister in arms, beaten day after day. They've been spit at, yelled at, trapped in dark corners, shot at, more times than she can count. One particularly dark day, Ellie notices a group of men following a group of women. So she plants herself in the middle of their business. Walks with them through the streets but things turn bitter too fast. They're backed into a corner of a dark alley now. Unafraid, Eleanor stood between the women and the men. Daring them to try to harm them now. She was a wild animal, backed into a cage, and was capable of doing harm. But this is where she meets Charlotte Watson. A hard headed girl who protected those just like Ellie, trying to make a change in the world. Beating the men until they ran with their tails between their legs. After that, they were quick to become friends and depend on each other during these times. A badass like Charlotte taught Ellie everything she would come to know and be.
With Eleanor's desire to protect woman now, she begged Charlotte to teach her more about guns. Sure, she had been taught how to shoot one but she had never had the opportunity or the drive to do so. But now she does. And with the help of her friend, Ellie learns her way around a fight. Training day in and day out to fight with her fists while also learning how to be a sharpshooter.
A year after training with Charlotte, Ellie is twenty one now, and better with a gun than she had ever imagined. She is walking home after a morning march when she decides to take a short cut to get home. This is when she runs into Emona. Literally. In a hurry to get home she barely watches where she is going before running into the man. And for the first time in her life she's starstruck. She has had many men come and go, begging for her hand in marriage, but none were successful until Emona Crown-Halon. Ellie fell in love the moment she looked upon that handsome face. Something within her told her that, this was her home. That he was. And where ever he went, she would follow, and he begged for the same. He propsed to her shortly after their first meeting. Which, of course, Ellie said yes. They were, for better terms, unsuccessful in swaying his parents for the blessing of their wedding though. They denied Emona to marry such a "common, rowdy" girl like Eleanor. So they did what any couple in love would do. They gathered what little they could and ran. Enamored, full of love, and riding on the wind to wherever their fate may take them.
Luckily the two come across Charlotte on their way out of town, where Ellie begs for her friend to introduce them to the gang. Which, somehow by fate, they joined in. Ellie knows this is where she belongs. The moment she and Emona are offered the chance, they take it. To live as if they had never done in the past. For the freedom they deserve. It took years before Eleanor was finally given the chance to be the Right Hand. And she would not let anyone down.
The sweetest lady you will ever meet. This is the Eleanor's "grandma". The woman who found Ellie in those wildflowers so long ago. She truly isn't as old as Ellie makes her out to be yet I still wouldn't ask her about her age. She's got a sure head on her shoulders and can take care of herself. A woman Eleanor inspires to be and someone she truly wishes nothing but the best for in life.
Ah, her Emona. A man she had not expected to meet, let alone fall in love with. He was a charming, clumsy, man, past his uh crude activities. Even with his wild tendencies, he cared deeply for her. And her, for him. He was handsome in a way that captivated younger Eleanor upon their first meeting and even further until this day. So much so, she knew he was the one. And they have been together ever since, happily engaged and running with the wind.
This is a girl Eleanor met at her lowest time. A girl who came to her rescue and showed her how to live. Taught her a little bit of everything. How to fight, how to shoot better. Truly, her best friend and someone Ellie cares deeply about. They go hand in hand when it comes to missions. Char being the one to back her up in a fight. One who is the voice of reason while the other is the voice of chaos and rage. But don't underestimate either one or you'll lose your head.
Eleanor is a hard working gal and a natural leader. She is quick to keep everyone in line while also being the kindest she possibly can. It's a little contradictory but it works. She's the one you got to when you're having a hard time with something. Someone who is willing to put her life on the line to save others without a second thought. She leads and is followed without much of a fight. As she is fair and justified, even at her young age. She has nothing but the best interest of the gang in mind and nothing will stand in her way to see them rise to glory. To see everyone within the gang shine like gold.
Killion. Her male, buckskin, American Quarterhouse. A sturdy thing standing at 16 hands, or 64 inches. A mountain of a beast but gentle in every way. Although, he is kind to Ellie and Ellie alone. Anyone else who is not her, he is a menace. Biting, neighing, kicking, and screaming until she is back. Throws a whole tantrum like a child. Killion is her little baby and is spoiled far beyond than he should have been but he is always there for her. He's fast as lightning, sturdier than any man or machine, and gives the best cuddles.
― a very good singer
― loves eating honey
― and every single pastry she can get her hands on
― has a habit of chewing on hay when she's nervous
― sometimes she thinks about who her parents might have been
― but then remembers they didn't want her
― she has the gang anyway
― actually a pretty good cook
― writes letters to emilia once a week
― same with emona
― doesn't matter how far apart they are, she still writes him cute love letters and delivers them by hand most of the time
― it's prob nauseating with how in love they are
― never got the chance to have a big, fancy wedding but she prays one day she will
― always imagines getting married in a big church with those giant stained glass windows one day
― loves to play with fire
― swimming is one of her fav activites
― so is plucking the eyes out of anyone who wrongs her or the gang
― if she's out on a mission she brings everyone in the gang back a little souvenir
― since she didn't have a last name, she called herself wilds for the wildflowers she was found in
― emilia taught her how to do basically everything
― sewing, mending, braiding, writing, reading, everything outside of actual fighting
― although eleanor is soft hearted towards the gang, she is unforgiving
― she will not take shit from no one and everyone should learn that
― she cares about people but should not be taken for granted
― she is young, not stupid.
― when char first started training her, she gave ellie an old gun she owned and ellie still uses it
― hopes one day she can be as respected as Louis Vincent is
Graham's natural hair color is bright red. It's fairly easy to pick out in a crowd - as he doesn't really take many pains to hide it. Keeps it somewhat long like a lion's mane and in its natural state of exceedingly curly and basically fucking everywehre.
Bright green and just a bit mischievous, it's a rare sight indeed to see him in any state of actual seriousness. Most things are incredibly funny to him, and even when they aren't he has the tendency to act like it's hilarious.
Graham has toned himself through a series of hiking and heavy working out that made him exceptionally muscular. It totally isn't a point of pride for him or anything. It's chill. He's exceptionally handsome and he knows it.
Built for practicality, he dresses in a lot of grays and greens, simple, but done to accentuate his muscles and his attractiveness. Not really one for jewelry or the fine things in life, he tends to shy away from silver and gold, except for a single pinky ring on his left hand, and some kind of bracelet on his right hand that he wears constantly. He also tends to have a fondness for dog tags.
He has one tattoo. It's of a broken calla lily and it's on his foot. He doesn't talk about it.
Snobs, rich people, big cities, concrete, climate change, buzzkills, winter
Stargazing, playing guitar, flirting, making better bombs
Flirting indiscriminately with anyone that has the misfortune of looking at him, blowing things up,
Survivor's guilt, intensely claustrophobic
Abandonment, love, death, claustrophobic
Looking at Graham, it would be excessively easy to say that he has 0 thoughts. Well, maybe one thought: who he's flirting with for the day and what he might eat later and then sleep. A seemingly simple being, Graham follows pleasure with a wink and a smile and an easygoing manner that seems extremely close to being a lad. Something like a strike of lightning - pure chaos and excitement and gone before you can even blink.
Exceedingly self-aware, he knows he isn't particularly the sharpest tool in the shed. But what he lacks in book smarts he makes up for in an almost unshakeable steady nature and a surprising amount of emotional intelligence and charisma that often takes people by surprise. Simply put, once he has his sights on something, historically speaking, people are usually inclined to giving it to him with very little resistance. And perhaps this is his scariest trait.
It's not that he's particularly forceful, or that he's even particularly scary. It's that he's so disarmingly charming that people find themselves pulled in by his gravity and wanting to do what he asks.
Of course, underneath all of this glib charm he's fucked in the head.
See, Graham suffers from intense survivor's guilt. Alongside a general lack of self-preservation, a pervading feeling of failure, and a mild drinking problem, he often gets ideas in his head that maybe one day he should make a mistake while making his bombs.
Graham was always the charismatic one of the two. Born one minute before his fraternal twin Aoife, the two were inseparable from birth. Aoife was always the bold one - the firestarter. The troublemaker. And their parents basically put it on Graham's shoulders to make sure that Aoife didn't get into too much trouble.
She managed to drag him into a lot of trouble, but Graham's sheer charisma and charm managed to get them out of trouble. But, everyone saw him as a kind of arrogant charmer as a result. Which Graham didn't mind, the only people whose opinions mattered to him was his family as they all played out on the moor.
And then, they were playing out in the wild near their home, and an avalanche suddenly washed over them all.
Graham survived and was found wandering, shaking, covered in blood, and with this broken expression on his face almost a week later.
Aoife was dead.
Graham was... different after Aoife died. He was angrier, and he spent longer and longer times out on the moors no matter the weather. He lost all of his friends, just searching the moor for whatever. Maybe for his own death. His family sat him down and told him that he needed to shape up or he was going to be sent to the head doctor.
Now, Graham comes from a very traditional household and the idea that he may have had to go get psychological help as a totally straight man? Unheard of. Absolutely terrible. He immediately represed all of his grief over his twin sister and they never spoke of her again. Aoife became a banned word in the house, and Graham was left to suffer alone, completely isolated.
But, he managed to put on enough of a mask that he could become something that people thought he used to be. Except now he didn't have his twin as his confidante, he leaned more and more into the charismatic asshole playboy persona that he'd created for himself until Graham managed to convince even himself that he didn't need anybody. And that he was doing great actually, thank you for asking, speaking of which would you like to get some chips, love? He'd like to take you on a ride (wink wonk).
There had been a deep wedge driven between him and his family, though. And even though his mother really tried to help, his father took one look at him and decided that the best thing to do was to tell him to feck off. So Graham left.
He was penniless, but strong and charismatic. So when he got to the nearest city, he almost immediately got a job... well, a "job" for a local gang. But he needed to survive so he changed once more. Going from an arrogant playboy to someone just... ridiculously good at blowing shit up and weaseling his way out of trouble.
That is to say, he was the only one in the gang who was insane enough to try giving bomb making a try - the only one with enough of a death wish to want to even touch stuff like that.
Ireland was way too small. A friend of his sister found him and decided to hold an "intervention" or whatever. He ran away from Ireland after that, fleeing to America where he was met with discrimination and hardship.
So he ran out to the desert and got wrapped up in a bandit clan.
Graham's horse is a red and white American paint. Very well-maintained. Heavily fussed over. Graham would cry if it died before its time.
A fucking idiot from Ireland who knows how to blow things up and live through impossible circumstances even though he kinda just wants to die at this point.
Basically he helps the gang get into places like breaking people out of jail and breaking into bank vaults, helps distract people, works with tnt a lot, makes sure the explosives they keep with them won't murder everyone in the camp.
- Can't fight for shit
- Has a high alcohol tolerance
- Really good at surviving intense circumstances
- Used to have a dog. It died. He cried... a lot.
- Doesn't really identify as any sort of sexuality. Just falls in bed with anyone who'll have him
- Really good at planting bombs and then hustling away as fast as humanely
- Does he know how the bomb works? No. Absolutely not. He just puts the thing in the thing and then light it on fire
- Knows a lot about space
- Common sense? Never heard of her. Sounds hot, can he hit?
- Needs glasses. Usually does not wear glasses.
- Really likes a good whiskey
- Gets sunburnt a lot. It's fine.
- Good at playing the guitar and sings a bit
- Lowkey kinda wishes to die but we don't talk about it he's doing great guys
APPEARANCE: Alexander looks not like a man dead, but a ghost that has forgotten to stop living.
Heavy, black-lashed eyes to haunt a portrait and a face built for a marble bust; handsome in a delicate way that broken glass is. A gentleman in every move of his limbs, with strong shoulders and an infectious smile. His skin is pale, easily burning up in the harsh, careless sun and his face reminds of a dead hero. His posture is straight, every raise of his hands deliberate, his posture tall at six feet two.
A boyish tousle of dark brown hair sits on his head, well-taken care of despite the rough living. For a man of healing, Alexander has a decent amount of muscle; he is a tall, strong figure, clean-cut and dressed like a man deserving of a more upstanding class.
PERSONALITY: a paragraph or more
HISTORY: When Emona Theodore Crown-Hanlon was born, he was born quietly.
The last son of prestigious, aristocratic, cold-eyed Boston bankers that have ruined more lives than they created; his father a man that would have married his business if he could, and his mother a woman that firmly believed that hugging your children leads to spoiling. Bitter halls filled with pale, bruised servants and portraits of ancestors long dead raised Emona instead, whispering to him dark tales to fall asleep to. His grand-grandfather was murdered in the same halls, a grand aunt stabbed to death. Their ghosts must still have walked, his childhood memory is sure - for why else would it have been so cold, cold like the family tomb resting beneath their home's stone?
Emona grew into an odd child. Quietly. He couldn't help it, making shrines for the dead and watching the world rot.
His mother was horrified. 'Why must you drag these awful things into our house?' she cried, sending for a maid to scrub the blood off the floor. But Emona was strange and his questions were strangers still, and his family agreed that he will either become a great genius or a mad-man.
And his professors at the university were just as horrified as his mother was. Were he anybody else, he might not have been expelled - he would have been jailed.
It was there, when Emona was studying how to stitch a man back alive and how to let him die in the most painful way possible, that he met her. Eleanor - Ellie, his Ellie, love, darling, light of his life. The beginning and the end. The first time Emona has loved anything other than ghosts and figuring out how beings work from the inside out.
He was struck immediately.
Emona all but begged for her hand in marriage - it mattered not it would mean leaving his life behind. It meant nothing that his family would disown him, erasing the name Emona from every contemporary document. And even if another man wanted her for himself, Emona and Eleanor could always just pack up and run.
The West called, and who were they to say no?
SYNOPSIS: A man that, if God is real, has no use for His mercy.
HORSE: A chestnut brown Missouri Fox Trotter named Belladonna, quick on her feet and gentle with most anybody. Well-trained around injured patients and a calm runner.
sage, a chestnut american quarter horse with a white patch on the nose. to strangers, skittish and untrusting like his owner
dirty blonde, closer to brown in the winter and in the summer lightens to a golden colour. it has a slight wave and is usually tied back or stuffed into a hat. although it’s past-the-shoulder length can be inconvenient, her stubbornness in the face of many telling her so has caused her to keep the length.
a dark brown, almost black. narrowed, half lidded, or obscured by the sun, she manages to see everything. if you come face to face with her they can have an unnerving quality, remaining perpetually dark, like the light can never quite catch them.
slight, willowy, all sharp edges. it’s usually in billie’s favour to go unnoticed so she’s prone to leaning against doorways or hunching over the bar rounding her shoulders and obscuring parts of her face.
billie likes to opt for oversized jackets, mens vests, and plans to wear the same boots until they fall off of her feet. she has a pinched front, black hat and a selection of kerchiefs to protect her face and cover her hair.
a smattering of freckles across her face and most visibly; a pinky length scar across her left cheekbone .
smoking, chewing tobacco, picking at her nails, tapping her feet and cracking her knuckles when antsy, grinding her teeth while focusing.
Shy to a fault in her youth, Billie spent most of her time by herself with a vibrant imagination and a penchant for avoiding others. Over time that timid nature evolved into a withdrawn, cold, deliberate silence and careful choice of words that shifted her childish meekness into an apathetic, indifferent demeanour. When Billie does deign to open her mouth, it’s well thought out. Although accented by her country lilt, she’s been known to come across as well spoken. Once upon a time, she was book smart, taught to read by her father alongside her brothers. But over the years, the knowledge she deemed frivolous was replaced with a more streetwise bounty of information.
Billie’s brain is always two steps ahead of the rest of her body, constant thinking has made her the sort of person who expects little pause between question and answer. So usually, she’s on the same page as the people she interacts with, but is unsympathetic to others who fail to grasp concepts she deems rudimentary. No challenge is too steep in her eyes, Billie is willing to sacrifice blood, sweat and tears no matter who it belongs to, to get what she wants. Despite her ambition, her plans and presumptions tend to exist within the realm of reason, for the most part her feet remain firmly on the ground with her head steadily on her shoulders.
For all of her level-headed, logical facets, Billie’s desire for what she can’t have always manages to influence her actions. Billie is no philanthropist, in fact the well of selflessness inside of her is more of a shallow puddle. She comes first, Sage comes second, and others usually aren’t called into question until she’s knee deep in some incredibly high-stakes, dangerous plan that’s put everyone around her in harm's way. She wouldn’t call herself a master manipulator but is certainly no stranger to getting what she wants through deception. Billie, however, isn’t fond of violence. Enjoying the results, it reaps and actually doing the deed are two very separate things. Secretly, she's actually moderately squeamish and would prefer to avoid or outsource any bloodshed where possible, which it often isn't. So, she prefers to get things done quickly, acting with ruthless, brutal force.
raised with nothing, on stories of when her family had everything
After honing a talent for picking up on the subtleties and nuances of other people’s body language, the way they speak, and how they carry themselves. ‘The eyes’ an omnipresent figure, discovered there was very little she needed to do or say, just watch and listen. Constantly searching for opportunity in the whispered secrets of drunk bar patrons, stilted interactions between corrupt sheriffs and their blackmailers, and any other soul with secrets who is unfortunate enough to cross her path. In her boundless mission to obtain what she craves; power, material goods, respect, ‘the eyes’ is willing to lend her services to a group she believes will get her there.
NAME: Samantha (Sam) Medina
FAKE NAME: Nico Reyes, if asked she’ll say it was chosen foremost for its simplicity.
D.O.B: April 29th
GENDER & PRONOUNS: Female, she/her
ROLE: The Newcomer
HEIGHT: 5’4 and standing to the fullest extent of it.
HAIR: Dark brown and wavy, typically at least pulled back away from her face.
EYES: Dark brown and alert, always scanning her environment. Sam’s eyes are full of life, optimistic, the spark clearly visible in them.
BUILD. Sam is clearly muscular, one trained for quick reflexes and an ability to pick up on most physical tasks. She has good posture, always standing tall. Sam’s been in a fair amount of scrape ups, her body littered with evidence of scratches and scars.
FACECLAIM: Adria Arjona
PERSONALITY: Sam grew up relying first and foremost on herself, and that imbued her with one of her strongest traits; Sam is always very sure of herself. There’s no real time for self doubt in survival, no overthinking. Sam trusts her instincts to near any end, and tends to refuse to so much as consider being wrong. On good days she’s confident- on bad ones, self-righteous and unrelenting. This makes Sam a quick thinker and one to never freeze in hard situations, but never admitting mistakes means never fixing them and being more harm than good when she’s wrong, not that she’d ever admit to being in such situations.
Sam can be a reckless woman, or in a more positive perspective, a brave one, one to rarely fear danger. Most of this comes from a place of needing to prove herself, but much of it is out of a love for the rush that comes with taking a risk and coming out of it. Sam loves adventure, painting herself the hero of her story, and her tendency to make quick decisions and never second guess them means she rushes headfirst into situations and thinks about consequences only after the fact.
Despite being able to be quite independent, Sam genuinely likes people, and likes being around them, seeking out company as much as she can. She’s quick to make friends, make judgments, and even make enemies, finding her role in a dynamic and sticking to it, and is loud but fun to be around, quick to joke and join in to whatever group will have her. She connects to people quickly, and her loyalty knows next to no bounds, being willing to put anything on the line for those she’s chosen, and Sam has a kind heart she shows to those closest to her. A strong personality, however, Sam can be quick to anger, and holds onto her grudges just as strongly as she does her loyalties.
Above everything else, Sam wants a place she can be a part of. She seeks out people, connections, any form of relationship she’ll have, and sticks closely to the worldview she decides on. Sam has spent her life trying to prove herself to everyone around her, scared of making any mistake, and she still strongly feels the need for that. She’s a risk taker, and one to rarely say no to requests, wanting nothing more than to make everyone see her as someone worthy, to give her the respect and desire she believes she’s meant for.
HISTORY: The first time Sam was alone was when she was seven. She wasn’t sure why she was left behind. Perhaps it was simply too much trouble to travel with a young girl to take care of. Regardless, Sam was left on the side of a road. She waited, as long as she could, but it was a different sort of family that returned to her.
Sam doesn’t give out their names. They took her in, offered her a name, her own horse, and all the skills she needed to survive. But where Sam saw a family, they saw an opportunity. Someone to take jobs others didn’t want, whether ones filled with boredom or excessive risk. Not a child but a quick fingered tool. Sam caught on to this more and more as she stayed with the group- and it wasn’t quite fair to her, was it? Not with her skills, not with the loyalty she’d have offered. A robbery gone wrong left a group of criminals caught, and Samantha off without a scratch. Well, more accurately with a few scratches and a bounty on her old name, but alive and free.
The second time Sam was alone was when she was twenty-nine. It didn’t last long. Louis Vincent found her, bleeding and on the run, and took Sam in to the type of family she’d always wanted.
BRIEF OVERVIEW/SYNOPSIS: Self-righteous, fiercely loyal, long made comfortable on the wrong side of the law, and a little more desperate than she’d like to admit, Samantha wants nothing more than to prove herself to the group she’s decided on as her chosen family, and to leave her past firmly in her past. Still, with convictions that continue to make her seem like trouble, the task of truly being a part of the team continues to be an uphill climb.
HORSE: A dark brown mustang named Courage with a black mane and tail but patches of white stretching out from his hooves. He’s temperamental but a brave and strong ride, grown loyal to Sam.
valory queenie chase. he rarely goes by valory anymore, considering people's first thought is that it's a girl's name. his middle name of queenie doesn't help either.
most commonly nicknamed fallon, but he also introduces himself as victor.
january 18th, 45 years old
very very gay, but due to his beliefs he is in denial and rather presents as aromantic/demisexual
preferably the doctor, but he can be placed where you see fit. generally a versatile character and i'm up for anything
listen before I go - billie eilish
hurts like hell - fleurie
don't forget about me - cloves lion - saint mesa
sociopath - stayloose
young and beautiful - lana del rey
raise hell - dorothy
unlike most of the wild west rancheros, valory boasts no intimidating physical attributes. lean, a little thin, and walking like a fifty year old man, he "towers" at a mere 5'8 with greying hair and a deadpanned face. there's nothing particularly attractive or repulsing of him. his uninspiring figure earns him the assumption of being a simple saloon owner or farmer. pale blue eyes are deeply set in valory's features, accentuated with what little blonde he still possesses in his brows and scruff. there's always something a little mischevious behind the coldness of his gaze, matched equally with a distaste for others. valory's expressions often shout everything but kindness or joy, ranging most frequently between a grimace and exasperation.
despite his unimpressive physique, valory still enjoys considerable lean muscle for an older man. broad shoulders and a figure hiding the effects of growing up as a farmhand offered surprising strength and durability throughout his life. although considerably weaker now than when he was in his prime, he makes up for his lack of comparative physical strength with his adroit use of firearms and keen sense of danger. nothing really comes to his surprise anymore, as being a farmhand required fast shooting capabilities to berid the livestock of coyotes and dingos. valory always seems to be tense, watching and feeling for any change in ambience in order to react quickly. it was a useful skill in patrolling his parents acres of land, where predators seemed to enjoy sniping up a quick meal in the chicken coup, and now as an outlaw.
dennis the fucking menace, or also often called for as "denass, is a black flaxen chestnut stallion. with its beady black eyes (or so valory says), he lives up to his name with every trick the pony can pull. it took a year for valory to get dennis to let him onto his saddle, and more years for the stubborn horse to listen to his commands. however, the relationship between rider and horse is a fate sealed to whatever gods linger above. dennis refuses to listen to anyone else but valory. and, despite all the name calling and one-sided arguments, valory could not trust any steed to come to his rescue besides his little menace.
ALWAYS SEEN WITH
valory never leaves unarmed. it'd be one of the only things that he would be found dead with, buried in a black holster. the gunbelt was passed down from a rancher who looked after him as a boy, and it was the holster he practiced quick draw fires with as a teen. when riding out into unknown territory, he may also keep a pistol strapped to his chest in a harness, unloaded for obvious reasons but never without bullets far from hand.
around his neck serves as the only jewelry he'll ever wear: a wedding band secured onto a leather cord with an adjacent engagement ring. pic 1, pic 2 (imagine pic 2 is stacked ontop of the wedding band in pic 1)
valory also has various tinctures and salves kept in the saddlebag of his horse. although resourceful to a fault, some anecdotes and temporary medical supplies just can't be found on the field.
"god save the prom queen."
likewise to his appearance, valory is rarely found cracking a smile or laughing with his fellow outlaws. he tends to have a rather serious demeanor to him, only expressing dislike or disapproval through the subtle changes in his gaze or lips. many speculate that he had only laughed when his wife passed away, but such rumour would not explain the rings found around his neck or the fact that any passing comment about his late lover is met with his fists and a challenge to a gunfight. in a sense, keep his wife's name out your fucking mouth. [I really couldn't resist, sorry]
although he may pose as halfway a corpse due to his stoic and mildly unnerving stare, the few ways that others get valory to talk is when he moves to make sharp, often sarcastic remarks. always quick with his wit, his distaste for others is expressed solely by a... somewhat playful but condescending statement. although they may come off as brash and usually targeted, there is always a mild philosophical and true meaning behind his words. such examples include: "when god talks to you, you're religious. but when you talk to god, you're psychopathic". however, most of his remarks sound a little like "at least when you're dead you can get your head out of your ass".
the most substantial aspect to valory is his level-headedness. afterall, you can't save somebody from death if you start panicking over a little blood. valory always comes into medical puzzles and fist fights with nothing more than his usual temperance. be too invested, and you'll be running for the hills if someone you tried to revive ends up joining the reaper anyway or overthinking a left hook. however, his cool-toned personality does not come without its cons. it's overtly difficult for him to become too close with anyone, as feelings of fondness or compassion make him run for great mercy. plagued by nightmares over losing someone he loves, the first thought that rises in his mind is not one of "oh gee, what a standup guy. I like 'em" but more "if this kid dies on me, i'll start digging two graves". a fatal flaw in the programming of the doctor, one that privately gets a little too attached too quickly. valory prefers to play it off, banishing such feelings for his own sanity. he's well aware what crimes against the human race he will commit if he hears the funeral bells for another person he cares for.
— "are you stupid, or are you dumb?"
— has shot himself in the leg before,,, learned the lesson of keeping your pistols unloaded until necessary the hard way
— "if you die on me, i'll personally drag you up from the pits of hell to kill you again"
— "you squirm one more time and i'll put salt on your wound like the little worm you are"
— dennis has bucked him off so many times valory will smack his horse butt whenever he senses his ass is about to get thrown off again
— has only lost... 35 patients before. most of them people he didn't like, honestly
— "i'm not saying there's a stick up your ass, but there's definitely something"
— his guns are secretly named stacy and sandy. you may hear him whisper to them before he sleeps
— dennis is actually a menace and will steal your cowboy hat
— he's pretty good at finding random shit that will stop your bleeding for a little while
— totally not guilty of giving someone hallucinatory plants to make them shut up
— king of the death stare
— anemic af, too much movement or random bloodflow to his brain and he may pass out
— a little psychopathic but at least he doesn't talk to god about it
— the moment he gets a whiff of how much he's supposed to or actually hates you, there is very little holding him back from giving you a one way ticket to hell
— "see my guys over here don't like you and I can see why"
— usually the older or oldest one of a group. has a slight soft spot for the younger outlaws unless they're little shits
— master of the eyeroll... and childishness at times ("oh you're talking to me? sorry, couldn't hear the bullshit you're spewing. try again")
— absolute yolo on the horse, ride em horsey to sunset
— idk how dennis and valory put up with each other because they're both such... personalities
— onesided arguments often end up like this:
"dennis there's a reason why I call you denass. you're a tool yk that?"
"don't neigh me, I will abandon you at the next town if you pull that shit again"
"thats it. ill put every pretty mare at a 100 foot radius and lock you in a barn so your rocks for brains doesn't create more dipshit ponies"
"fuck you, love you, eat some damn food."
— after running from his farm, valory went under the name of "fallon" and began an apprenticeship for a local doctor in order to earn some money
— depression is a bitch
— he could have taken over the medical practice, but under fear of being found he disappeared once he caught wind that he was to inherit it
— really fucked up over his wife still tbh, and for good reason (read that history ooohhh)
— but why is he gay now do you ask? he lives and breathes the same air as men everyday and refuses to touch another woman you could connect the dots,,,, men hot, woman make sad
it's like the origin story every tragic movie tells about their anti-hero main character. baby's parents abandoned him at a church. church took him in. church burned down. little kid gets shipped off to an orphanage. escapes orphanage. gets taken in by a farmer. farmer raises him as his own. the end. except, the minor details that escape valory's retelling of his past are what populates his mind every time his eyes shut for a night's rest.
valory never knew his birth parents. they were outlaws themselves, perhaps setting a precedent for their last-born son. dropped off at a church, he was taken care of by an old lady who found him for sunday's mass the next morning. the lady was the pastor's wife, a kind woman who had never gotten the ability to bear her own children. he was named valory, coined so originally after the word "valor". she believed he grow up to be steadfast, brave, kind, and chivalrous, in order to protect their church from the town's uprising against the faith. only two of those prophecies turned out true. the pastor was under fire for using the money donated by the churchgoers to secure wealth and comfortable living for his wife. it was with good intentions, but at the age of six, valory watched as the townspeople burned down the church. he sat outside, safe from flames, hearing the screams of what he would have called his parents echo from inside. the townspeople believed they saved him from "evil", despite their actions being worthy of the devil himself, and rehomed him in the orphanage for "a better, more honest life".
the orphanage did nothing to give him such luck. days spent locked in his room for misbehaving or roughhousing with the other kids created a very solitary, quiet boy with anger painted so clearly behind his eyes. at fourteen, he disappeared from his wooden prison cell, climbing through the window of the bathroom and booking it north. he lived on the streets for a few years, getting by with pawning off the daily steals and pickpockets of those who offered him any money or food. he was living up to his parents legacy of petty crime. however, one promising victim got the upperhand, catching the boy in the thievery of his gun. yet, more surprising for valory, was that he let the boy keep it. for an exchange. one year on his farm as his servant boy. or more depending on whether the young thief found it better than his life on the streets.
it was an easy decision for valory. a chance at a home. a gun to call his. food and water supplied rather than searched for. within the hour, he started his new life as a farmhand to the decisive and stern "Charles". after several years he graduated from patrolling the acres and hauling bales to managing the receipts and funds by 25. valory fell in love with the beautiful housemaid who called charles her father. after years of courting, and earning his permission to marry, he had a quiet, simple wedding. they moved into the guesthouse, preparing to add another fateful life to their family.
as charles aged, valory began to take over most of the farm duties. he'd find himself in the office, managing sales, and also out in the field with the other workers. yet despite all his work, the farm was never to be written under his name. charles had promised it to his own son, a deadbeat kid named jennings who only came around the farm to ask his father for money. upon his master's passing, valory challenged the son for the farm's title and deeds. it was intended to be a simple brawl on the open plains, but of course, a boy who never grew up is a boy who never played fair. townspeople will be more than happy to gossip about how the gun was pulled out of a holster, barrel affixed to the chest of the other, a shot that screamed of foul play.
their version of the truth is not far from reality. jennings recognized he was going to lose the fight against a man who had spent his years working tirelessly on a farm instead of visiting brothels, and pulled out a cheap trick. a gun, to which he was going to first shoot valory, then his sister as a witness. no one said he was loyal to his family. the first shot missed the target, but collected on the second. worked for him, either way valory was distracted enough for a fatal blow to the head. but his career as a farmworker gave him more than brawns. valory was quick with his gun, and retaliated with a spray of bullets that spelled the demise in the head of his enemy.
when the shots rung out from the farm, the ever meddling townspeople arrived in flocks to see what the commotion was about. murder is never taken lightly, especially for former thieves. he made a run for it, knowing how this picture would be painted in the local news. criminal-turned-farmboy shows his true colours in the brutal execution of his family. oh his poor family, who had took him in and given him everything only to be betrayed and murdered. valory lost the love of his life. he lost his career. he lost his only chance at fulfilling the prophecies set by his first caretaker. he lost everything, and some might go further to say he lost himself that day too.
valory is a sarcastic little bitch who is somewhat comedic relief but also a little maniac. his main traits are being condescendingly funny, having a menace of a horse, being a damn good trauma doc, and having fire gunslingin skills. he's a little depresso expresso which translates to a very deadpan, serious, and just generally mean human being who never really smiles or shows emotions outside of "I hate you get out". however !!! secretly kinda soft and just in need of love without someone letting him go he's just scared bc he lost a lot of people for no good reason in his life. also old.
First, there's his undeniable ability to convince anyone of anything. Lord knows what it is, but Jed's always been a talker. Fast and smooth, like the hide off a purebred horse's back. He could talk a rabbit out of its hole and once the shot was in, comfort it in its last moments. He could turn the harshest of skeptics into saints in a single night and hell, give him a couple of hours more, and he'd have the brothel whores joining him for Sunday morning sermons.
Now, Jed ain't nothin' if not a storyteller. He's chock-full of them; each as shiny and as memorable as a child's first new penny. Despite the fact that words on paper never stood still in his eyes, his odd love of literature and natural-born zest gives him a strange sort of eloquence rare for a man of his background, profession and time period.
It is also said that Jed has God's ear when it comes to the woes and plights of life. A keen intuition, a passionate friendliness combined with conventional and biblical wisdom means that many, against their better judgements, have come to him seeking his advice and his particular perspective, all for a certain price.
Pride is a capricious thing, but nonetheless, Jedidiah has no shortage of it. Especially when it comes to never forgetting a face. Hell, he'd been on the desert roads so long, he even knows the lizards by name. His mind's eye is like his legendary aim; sharp and on the mark every time. It is well known that Jedidiah never misses unless he means to, and like the crows flyin' at noontime, he never forgets a face. And neither do his bullets.
Because in the end, the man is no saint. And nor does he proclaim himself to be, simply due to the fact that by all accounts, a saint could never do what he does. No, not even the good Lord Himself, trapped by His promise and nature as all are, could do what he does in His name. No, only a sinner like Jedidiah Bishop knows that sometimes, when the Devil lurks in every corner, poison to the hearts of men, the only cure is to bite the bullet and shoot the fucker dead with a poison of your own.
CHARISMATIC. exercising a compelling charm which inspires devotion in others.
GREGARIOUS. fond of company; sociable.
HAWK-EYED. quick to notice things; vigilant
METICULOUS. showing great attention to detail; very careful and precise.
SHREWD. having or showing sharp powers of judgement; astute.
GUTSY. showing courage, determination, and spirit.
DYNAMIC. positive in attitude and full of energy and new ideas.
FANATICAL. filled with excessive and single-minded zeal.
LOQUACIOUS. tending to talk a great deal; talkative.
CHEEKY. impudent or irreverent, typically in an endearing or amusing way.
OPPORTUNISTIC exploiting chances offered by immediate circumstances without reference to a general plan or moral principle.
GRUDGE-BEARING. seeking to harm someone in return for a perceived injury.
MORBID. characterized by or appealing to an abnormal and unhealthy interest in disturbing and unpleasant subjects, especially death and disease.
CUTTHROAT. characterized by acting without pity or compassion; ruthless.
A peppery grey Mustang by the name of Gunpowder, mostly just shortened to 'Powder'. Despite her age, she is temperamental and full of attitude, just the way Jed his likes ladies. Took him years to tame her but in the end it was worth it; they share a bond like no other.
The only thing a man needs to count is his blessings and his fortunes.
That was one of his daddy's favorite things to say. Words of wisdom coming from a man who couldn't tell dung from honey, but wise words nonetheless. So as a young boy who also knew diddlysquat, Jedidiah took them to heart.
The first blessing from God that he counted was the fact that his old man was a free and workin' man. Fortune-wise, it was hard to tell. On the one hand, they'd say a man's riches was measured in how many sons he had. So to a young Jedidiah, that meant that they were rich six times over. But in the cruel, ever fault-finding eyes of their mother, their children were nothing more than ungrateful, wretched curses they had no choice but to keep, sucking her dry with each new season.
And in a way, who could fault her for seeing things in such a light? From Jedidiah’s first step to the day his daddy died, they were poorer than church mice. The old man’s blessings were fading away fast; when they came for the sorry shack the family called home, their mother traded in the only thing she did have an abundance of. At the age of ten, Jed watched their mother clutch the bag of coin as his two older brothers got dragged away against their will, condemned to work in faraway places where no one would know their names. With his daddy gone, the beatings became as sure and constant as the sunrise. The years trickled by and one by one, Jed watched his brothers disappear, and just as he was the last to come into this cruel and forsaken world, he was the last to leave. Sold off into the ranks of boys who’d step out onto the battlefield and become soldiers.
War, to Jedidiah, was a talented being. It could teach, take and tear a man apart, often all at the same time. It was God’s grand chessboard and the men were nothing but its pieces. Most importantly, it awoke a beast the young man hadn’t the slightest clue was growing within. A bloodthirsty beast of gnashing teeth, with an anger so raw and ruthless it made widows weep. All the while, a faith as brutal and gritty as the war itself began to blossom inside, gifting Jedidiah a sort of brazen fearlessness that even the white men suffering alongside him couldn’t help but respect. God’s gunslinger, they called him, one of the first monikers he had emblazoned across his growing reputation. His faith did not stop on the battlefield; God had made his words ring just as true as his aim did. In the midst of bayonet fire and flickering firelight, Jed read and preached from his daddy’s old bible. Just like he did with his old man, he took every word to heart, sharpening his natural talent for speechmaking. Jesus and Jedidiah, the soldiers would say. If they had Jesus and Jedidiah on their side, who could stand against them?
By the end of his days as a soldier, Jedidiah emerged a war hero with not a cent nor a roof over his head to call his own. But at the time, it mattered little to him. Because for Jed, the mission was not over, not until he found out where his brothers were, scattered like chaff in the wind. And only one person could tell him where they were.
There was no relief or gratitude in his mother’s cold, dark eyes when a son of hers showed up at her doorstep, home from war. Like the old Pharaoh of Egypt, it seemed these years had only served to harden her shriveled heart further. Long hours of bitter negotiation did not wear her down; truly, the Devil’s hand wrapped tightly around her heart, refusing to do him this one kindness. He had nothing: no coin, no bargain, no wise word left to move her. By the end of the night, Jedidiah had no choice but to trade in the only thing he did have an abundance of, festering deep since childhood…
As was the way of things, the death of an old, poor, black woman barely rustled feathers. Nevertheless, the woman left her mark in the unlikeliest of places. Ferocious in facing death as she was in life, Jedidiah left his childhood home a blazing work of fire, gurgling blood, a good few teeth in hand. With nothing but the bullets in his smoking pistol at his disposal, Jeremiah made do. For the next twelve years, he turned his attention to God, preaching His Word on the dusty roads of the Wild West to any willing to listen. On one such occasion, he caught the ear of the infamous Louis Vincent and before long, Jedidiah had his respect, trust and back as another fellow outlaw...
hi everyone, just a reminder that sheets are due sunday, may 22nd! if you need an extension, let us know and we'll give you the extra 24 hours!
it's crazy seeing how many placeholders/cs' there are and we're excited to see them when they're all complete.
NAME: oria lovelace FAKE NAME: hesper freeman | hesper, meaning "evening," is an inversion of her actual name (oria, meaning "dawn"). freeman is the original last name that she left behind.
D.O.B: december 22nd AGE: 25 GENDER: female ORIENTATION: bisexual ROLE: the penman
APPEARANCE: oria was once the picture of softness and youth. many of the boys in her hometown tried to court her by comparing her to the delicate flowers of a well-tended garden. oria hasn't necessarily undergone substantial change since then, but she has hardened. her beauty is no longer that of the garden blossom but rather the wildflower.
she looks with wide, downturned eyes, nearly black in color. people used to tell her they looked innocent; now they look inquisitive—observing but hesitant to judge too quickly. she has dark brown skin that once earned her comparisons to confectioneries. now, her tone is reminiscent of a heavily-clouded, shadowy sunrise. in starlight, she becomes purple. oria stands at 5'6, slightly above average height. she has black, coarse hair that keeps in a simple low bun, although she once styled and decorated it extensively. she has a heart-shaped face with a soft, broad nose and full lips. she has a slight crook in her right index finger from holding a pen so much.
her mouth is shaped in a perpetual slight smile, giving her a certain warmth but also a certain firmness.
PERSONALITY: years of living by someone else's principles have made oria even more passionate about the ones she's chosen for herself. she is quietly resolute, adhering to the values of stoicism and simple, humble living. she didn't become an outlaw for the money but for the self-determination. although steadfast when it comes to her fundamental morals, no one would describe oria as hard-headed when it comes to learning about the world. she tries to navigate life with patience and the understanding that everyone else, just like her, is trying to find their way. however, she is still young and passionate. her understanding nature can be tested, often leading her to feel frustrated or confused. she finds herself particularly angered by those who refuse to question authority and bootlick for the elite.
oria hasn't lost the warmth nor the friendliness that made her popular in her hometown. as long as they don't rub her the wrong way, she enjoys talking to people and learning from them and about them, as she thinks it is all information that can benefit her on her journey. her talent in conversation lies more in good listening than it does in talking. if she gets you to open up, she might even pull out her pad and begin writing, eager to capture your thoughts and/or story.
oria doesn't have much of a capacity for cruelty and often struggles to make tough decisions that require violence or turning a blind eye to things that seem unfair. she can get flustered or become indecisive to the point of inaction. she's aware of this flaw, and thus respects her superiors and her friends even more for everything that they do. she is as loyal to her companions (her family) as she is to her moral compass. some may say that that can't be true since she abandoned her father; she'd say that her father was never her family to begin with.
HISTORY: oria's father was sixteen when emancipation occurred. the union soldiers told him he was free, but he didn't know what that meant yet. so, he endeavored to make it mean something. he moved to a small town populated by many recently freed men and women. he took on the surname "freeman" and promised himself that he would pass it on to his children. he looked for a job, and he found himself at the sheriff's office. oria would tell you that this is where he went wrong. he thought that he found meaning in the law. oria would tell you that all he found was power and that he mistook it for something more.
oria was born to the town's sheriff, benjamin freeman, and the town's teacher, charity freeman. growing up, oria spent a lot of time in the schoolhouse with her mother. she loved learning to read and write and was advanced enough that she helped her mother in teaching her peers. she grew to be a smart and well-liked girl. many of the townspeople suspected she would take on her mother's job in the schoolhouse or that she would start to write for the local newspaper.
throughout her childhood, oria's father tried to instill in her the necessity and the goodness of the law, and he was successful while she was small. as she got older, however, she became more and more dissatisfied with his teachings and with him. she saw her father beat the starving for attempting to steal food. when she traveled to other towns, she saw how other freed people were treated horribly and often accosted and forced to work through loopholes and exploitative methods allowed by law. she reflected on the fact that, not too long ago, the law permitted enslavement. oria began to realize that living by the law alone was no way to live. there had to be something beyond the law. something with true meaning and value.
benjamin didn't like these new ideas that oria had, and she, with her newfound resolve, wasn't willing to give them up. thus, she was disowned—thrown out into the wild. her father said that since she didn't respect the law, she could try living without it and see how she liked it. so, she did exactly that and found that she loved it. she dropped "freeman" from her name and replaced it with "lovelace," the old english name of outlaws. she did it because she realized that no one was truly free yet.
BRIEF OVERVIEW/SYNOPSIS: some may be puzzled by oria: sheriff's daughter turned outlaw. she was raised with values of obedience and adherence to the law, but growing up and learning that the law wasn't always just affected her deeply. now, she endeavors to find truth and meaning beyond the injustice and hypocrisy of the law. she wants to learn from the people that the law abandons and forge her own path in the wild west, even if it means coming to blows with men who wear badges—men like her father. she's newer and does a lot of writing work, sometimes with the loanshark: recording and archiving information, managing communication, keeping up with coverage of the saints' exploits in local newspapers, and even chronicling their exploits herself in a journal. most often, she's seen with a pen in hand.
HORSE: a black tennessee walking horse named castor. he is calm, a smooth runner, and always cooperates with oria. she is quite attached to him.
APPEARANCE: A six-foot caucasian man, Dennis has soft vanilla hair, hazel eyes, and a slim, tone face. His physique is thin and defined, having certainly lost weight surviving in the west. He has yet to receive any scars and has hands creased like a working man. Is typically armed with a Smith and Wesson .32 caliber revolver, though on special jobs he brings his father's 1861 Springfield Rifle. Equipped with surplus mini-balls for ammunition, he knows every shot will at least cost somebody a leg.
PERSONALITY: When it comes to Dennis' personality, the least one could say is that he is quite the loner. He's cynical of the world around him, trusts few people, and is fairly antisocial. Really, Denny doesn't want to be remembered as some walking talking cowboy; but as a bounty hunter that strikes fear into others. If you do get close enough to him though, he can be quite sociable and tends to resort to "dark humor" to cope with situations. He might even have a drink with you or two. He's always loved whiskey.
HISTORY: Before D. Fulcher, there was R. Fulcher. Rufus Fulcher, a man from rural Ohio, was forced to postpone his hunting life and his love life in order to serve in the US army in 1861. Using his hunting skills and knowledge of the wildlife from back when he was forced to provide for his family by hunting small game; Rufus showed off his potential as a rifleman in a regiment of Ohio regiment Skirmishers. After surviving battles, dueling snipers, and barely recovering from a bayonet wound received while fighting off a confederate charge, Sgt. R. Fulcher made it back home to his mother, father, two sisters, and the love of his life and Dennis's mother; Emma Chelder. After about two years of marriage, D. Fulcher was finally brought into the world.
Like his father before him, Dennis was taught that life was rough, and if he wanted to make a living, He'd have to hunt for the family. Unfortunately for Dennis, he never got any brothers or sisters, as in the years following the war, Rufus would fall into a slow madness; haunted by the horrors of war and eventually developing a morphine addiction due to the residual pain from the veteran's bayonet wound to the leg.
After his father died from said addiction and depression by overdose in 1879, Denny knew he was now the sole caretaker for his widowed mother. Stuck in Ohio with no war to take him away from an eventually monotonous schedule, Dennis soon formed a sense of wanderlust, and after a hard talk with his mother, decided to leave home; seeking fame, fortune, and glory like his father before. But not from war, but by collecting bounties and bringing justice to the lawless western lands of America.
BRIEF OVERVIEW/SYNOPSIS: The son of a Union Skirmisher, Wanderlust has driven this soldier's son to abandon his home in Ohio in exchange for a life on the west, hunting animals and bounties.