[CHAR] Six-Shot Story - An RP of the American Old 'Wild' West (On indefinite HIATUS)

[Kingfisher]

Not an obese woman (sorry Jb)

Name: Phillip Taeorinn

Age: 37

Gender: Male

Origin: (West) Virginia born Pinkerton Agent

Current Occupation: Gun-For-Hire

Appearance: A dark haired, green eyed, man of 6’1, with a strong build and an even stronger jaw, Phillip Taeorinn carries himself with the bold stance of a military man. He has broad, sloping shoulders, lightly tanned skin, and a muscular upper-body. A short scar slices through the left side of his upper-lip, and a tell-tale white mark on his nose indicates that it has been broken, perhaps multiple times, in the past. He dresses in a smart manner, but his clothes have become ripped, torn, and stained during his long career.

Personality: Phillip is a slow-thinker, and prefers to solve his problems in the simplest ways possible. That said, he is by no means stupid. Whilst his brain is slow to adapt, once he has adjusted to new ideas his understanding of them is flawless.

Neither an introvert nor an extrovert, Phillip is happy to discuss what’s going on inside his head, but doesn't feel the need to run around and shout about it.

He’s reasonably calm and well-humoured, but it serves ill to push him too far out of his comfort zone.

Skills/Abilities: Capable Horse rider. Keen shot. Literate. Reasonably skilled in close quarters combat.

History/Bio: Growing up in the small town of Gritston, Phillip had a fairly peaceful and sheltered childhood, side-by-side with his best friend Terrance Whilterby. The pair were as close as children could be, and shared a bond which went above and beyond friendship, and even, some would say, brotherhood. As they grew their bond only strengthened, and they became inseparable. If ever Phillip and Terrance had a problem with women, or a schoolyard bully, then it was each other who they turned to, and there was never a time when one of the boys was not there for the other.

Their friendship came to an end, however, when a young Phillip went off to the capital to pursue a career in private security with the Pinkerton agency, and Terrance stayed behind in Griston.

It wasn’t long before the Civil War Broke out, and Phillip found himself working as part of President Lincoln’s own private security team.

As the war was drawing to a close, Phillip was sent to help reinforce a garrison in West Virginia, which was falling victim to numerous raids by the Confederate Army.

Stationed in his home town of Griston, Phillip was enjoying a nostalgic trip down the roads of his childhood, until raiders slipped out of the darkness.

The battle was long, bloody, and shrouded in the night. Pistols flashed, gunpowder burned in the air, and brave men lost their lives. When the haze of battle finally cleared, Phillip found a familiar face laying limp at his feet.

That of his childhood friend, Terrance Whilterby.

Phillip didn’t know who had fired the killing shot, but it didn’t matter to him. As far as he was concerned, he’d sent the closest thing he had to a brother to the grave.

Riding out into the darkness, Phillip spent the rest of the war in exile, drifting from place to place and finding work as a gun-for-hire.

His travels eventually brought him to Laredo, where he now resides, trying his best to make it to the next dawn.

Also not an obese woman

Name: Deminora Corett

Age: 18

Gender: Female

Origin: Heiress of the Corett family

Current Occupation: Aspiring entrepreneur

Appearance: A short, full-figured young woman, Deminora just about falls on the latter side of chubby, possessing a noticeably soft form. She has long auburn hair, with a neatly trimmed full-fringe, and slender maroon eyes. Deminora has a oval-shaped face, and an ever-so-slightly pronounced chin.

Whilst her full-breast and broad hips prevent her from disguising herself as a man, the young heiress dresses in a noticeably masculine fashion, more for practicality sake than preference, which she accessorizes with the odd piece of feminine flare, such as ornate jewelry and powdered makeup.

Personality: Whilst her exterior is calm and polite, bordering on that of an anxious recluse, a history of neglect and abuse has wrought a shell of savage cunning into Deminora’s person. She has an eye-fluttering charm to her, but it's less obvious than, say, a playful seductive streak, and manifests as more of an innocent teasing.

Her rapid and uncontrolled mood swings hint at an element of instability, which are accompanied by long bouts of depressive emptiness. To keep herself from becoming too down, Deminiora makes sure the she is constantly occupied, which helps her in fighting off a bout of searing anger, or all-encompassing darkness.

Skills/Abilities: Ingenious strategist. Able with a gun. Apt manipulator.

History/Bio: When the first whisperers of Manifest Destiny swept through the colonial settlers, the Corett family were already setting up shop and sowing the seeds of a thriving new economy. Ever the opportunists, the Corett’s had hands in establishing some of the first industries within America, and using the Church as a front to pull strings with utter immunity.

When the War of Independence came about, the Corett family saw a chance to build a business without the British Empire’s intervention, and were quick to back Commander Washington.

During the years building up to the Civil War, the Corett’s were major advocates for States Rights, and vocally backed Calhoun’s nullification of the so called ‘Tariff of abominations’. Holding numerous plantations in their grasp, it was in the Corett family's best interests that slavery remained legal, so they supplied scores of private militia men to the Confederate States.

However, the unorganized nature of the South would prove to be its downfall, and the Corett’s soon found themselves facing crushing economic ramifications.

Deminora is the youngest in a long line of cunning young entrepreneurs within the Corett family. She has the means to go forth and find her own way in the world, but is also burdened with saving her ancient dynasty from imminent destruction. Deminora needs to seize power, one way or another, and is willing to crush whoever gets in her way to achieve her goal.

Heading out to Laredo, the young woman has hired former Pinkerton agent Phillip Taeorin as her own personal bodyguard, with the intention of finding as many other guns as she can to rally to her cause.

Secrets: Deminora wears an emerald necklace, which was intended as a gift to another woman, from one of her childhood crushes. When she found out that her feelings were not reciprocated, the young Corett used all of her available assets to ruin both of their lives, and took the necklace as a reminder of what she could accomplish when she put emotions aside.

[Sterling]

Name: Harriet Coleman

Alias: By those who know her she is called Harri. The rest probably call her Miss Coleman.

Age: 24 years old

Gender: Female

Origin: Lexington Kentucky, a border state teetering whether they were Confederate or Union.
Being a Coleman her family probably hailed from England some time back.

Current Occupation: Nurse and Midwife. Before the war Harriet was just a farmer’s daughter, but with the fighting came the need to heal. While rather young, the Army trained Harriet for a nurse by the Union and the skills stuck. She now works with the town’s local Doctor, though the ailments of Laredo are not as trying as the ailments of war.

Appearance: Harriet is not what one would call the most beautiful woman in the world. Or even a beauty at that. She has fair skin and bright brown eyes, but her features are common place, as is her straight brown hair (mostly worn up in a braided bun out of the way in a practical and comely fashion) .

An average build and an average height Harriet’s most striking feature would probably be her nerves of steel, and her ability to perform and even be soothing in a dreadful situation (as an army nurse would need to be, experienced in battle field amputations and dying men all around her, or a midwife would need to be with a screaming soon to be mother laboring) . She has a sweet reassuring smile normally tucked into the corners of her mouth and steady hand and a kind word while stitching a fellow up.

She dresses for cleanliness and practicality, in long sleeved dressed, cuffs typically rolled up to her forearm to keep them out of the way and worn boots. Almost always Harriet wears dull colors of fawn brown, dove gray, or the lightest of blues, her goal in dress had never been to impress or to be seen. Normally she wears a starched white apron over her dress with its pockets carrying the contents a nurse might need readily available.

When going out Harriet modestly covers her head from the scorching sun of Texas with a plain white bonnet. A little dated but then during the most 'fashion driven' years of Harriet's life she was covered in mud and gore. Pretty things just didn't seem to matter after an adolescences of blood.

Personality: Her vocation speaks volumes to her nature, a person who wants to help and isn’t afraid to get dirty in the process. Also the fact that after the war she did not return home to her brothers and father to marry as many girls her own age says something more.

Harriet likes her work, helping people and being independent. Sure she’s not loudly proclaiming her freedom as a woman but her choice to move to Laredo and peruse a life on her own rather than the one she knew back on the farm shows that Harriet might be an adventurer at heart.

Soft spoken and gentle handed Harriet believes you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Of course that is not to say she is a pushover. She knows what is right and if a patient is proving difficult Harriet’s iron will and stubborn side is known to show itself. Nurse knows best after all.

Skills/Abilities: Being a farmer’s daughter Harriet has a fair green thumb (she grows her own herbs (for cooking and medicinal) as well as her own small vegetable garden) and knows her way around livestock.
Being a nurse she has medical training and can sew up a wound just as easily as she might darn a sock or hem a skirt.

She does know how to handle a rifle and a few pistols but hunting and shooting other people had never been something Harriet wanted to do.

Harriet learned to play the piano as a special treat for being the only girl in the family.

Miscellaneous: Since Harriet from such a young age was tending to others she is not the most adept at the other skills women her age 'should know'. She can keep a tidy house, but it is medically so, not ecstatically. She can cook but it is just the bare necessities and is often more comfortable with campfire cooking than in the big iron ovens.

Never will Harriet produce a beautiful cobbler or pie, nor design a complex patch work quilt. She can can and pickle and jar foods but those made by another will always have a more refined taste.

This applies to her own appearance as well. Harriet never learned complex hair styles or makeup at all. A nurse doesn't need to have ringlets and pink cheeks. A braid and her own simple face will have to do.

History/Bio: Harriet was born and raised on the family farm in Kentucky. She was the only daughter in a family with 4 boys. A middle child Harriet was expected to do her chores and keep up with the rest of the Coleman’s, no special treatment for her aside from the piano lessons granted for not making as much trouble as her brothers did.

Living a fair distance from all the other farmers Harriet spent most of her childhood either trying to keep up with her older brothers, keeping the younger ones out of as much trouble as she could, or sitting with the cows and the chickens . When Harriet became old enough to go to school she made more friends and found she enjoyed learning her figures and her letters much more than talking to the chickens. An excellent student Harriet’s parents allowed her to attend school much longer than her brothers and so she became the most educated of the Coleman’s.

When the war broke out Harriet watched in dismay as all the young men went off, including her brothers. As the fighting waged on the only girl Coleman felt she needed to contribute as well, though she chose to be nonviolent. The army took her and trained her as a nurse. While terribly excited to be learning more skills and acquiring more knowledge, Harriet had a heavy heart from all those moaning crying boys whose hands she held as they died. War was just as awful as she had expected it to be, and each time the injured were brought to the medical tents she was afraid she’d see the face of one of her brothers.

However, she never did. In fact while two of her brothers came home from the war ( to some degree at least) a third was killed and the fourth missing, presumed dead. When the south fell and the armies were recalled Harriet returned home, only to find she no longer belonged. It wasn’t enough to bring a smile to her father’s face with her piano playing, and it wasn’t enough to watch her brothers stare out at the fields vacantly. Harriet wanted to help more.

So she left Kentucky and moved to the new and terrifying state of Texas, where there was a sure promise. A promise to never have to see her own family broken into little pieces, and a promise to help as many sick and injured as she could. It took some years to finally find a doctor who would take her on and even pay her but the traveling and searching was worth it.

Secrets: None

Relations: Harriet’s family back in Kentucky. Father: John Coleman Mother: Elizabeth Coleman Eldest brother: Samuel Coleman- Alive, wounded. Second Eldest Brother: Jesse Coleman – Died in the war, Younger Brother: Horace Coleman, Alive, effected in the head from the war, Youngest Brother: Ira Coleman- Presumed dead, missing.

[Bluetommy]

Name: Lorenza Arvid Carter

Alias: Arvid Carter

Age: 33

Gender: Male

Origin: Born in Mexico.

Current Occupation: Huntsman

Appearance: Square jawed, pale skinned, with no facial hair to speak of. Arvid has a prominent scar that passes over the left corner of his mouth. He has dark brown hair, worn short in an undercut fashion. He is 6'2", thin but still toned, and lanky. He wears a vest made of aged horse hide, with small pads extending over the shoulders. Over this, he wears a belt from left shoulder to right hip, and another belt in traditional position. His pants are tweed breeches. On his left hip, he wears a colt single action army, made of gunmetal.

Personality: Arvid is loyal to his family, fiercely so. He hates those who take advantage of others, and has a strong sense of honor, however, he is gullible, and will compromise his code of honor if it would save himself. He wanders the west in search of a purpose in life, wanting to see new places and do what he believes is right. He has a fear of death, and often contemplates what comes after. Arvid has no personal religious beliefs, but he does think that a higher power exists. Arvid loves fighting, and often smiles when he gets the upper-hand in a fight.

Skills/Abilities: Arvid is a very good shot, with years of hunting on his belt. Arvid trained in various bar brawls, eventually creating a hand-to-hand fighting style, crafted for spontaneous fights, the style is very defensive, focusing on waiting for his opponent to slip up, and if that doesn't work, he shoots them, often after a punch to get them off of him long enough to draw and fire.

Miscellaneous: Arvid speaks in a Mexican accent and is fluent in Spanish.

History/Bio: Lorenza Arvid Carter was born to a Mexican woman, and an American man. Abraham Carver was a fugitive, running from the law, on charges of murder and arson, which were completely founded, but Carver had a reason, a reason that he took to the grave with him. Maria Carter was the daughter of a Mexican farmer, raised on a ranch with six brothers and two sisters. The two met when Abraham crossed the border to escape the law, they were married within the month. Eventually, Lorenza was born, his name was chosen before they discovered his sex, and Maria refused any attempt Abraham made to change it. The two ran into the wilderness, becoming hunters who sold the pelts of Pronghorns to the highest bidder, eventually building a log cabin near a river, just off of the American border. Growing up, Arvid (As his father called him) was a hyperactive child, who loved to help his father hunt, Lorenza (As his mother called him) also loved being with his mother. A few weeks after Arvid's fifteenth birthday, american authorities took Abraham away in the dead of the night, executing him for his crimes. Arvid and his father were hunting when they heard footsteps off of the beaten path, with Abraham informing his son to hide in the bushes. A few minutes later, Arvid emerged to find his father's gun laying on the ground. Due to this, Arvid, in pure rage, rode across the border, engaging in a shootout with the law. Barely escaping with his life, Arvid began travelling, as outlaws aren't very good at holding jobs. Arvid wrote to his mother often, he was pleased at the fact that she was able to live on her own, promising to return someday at the end of every letter he wrote. Arvid made a living hunting, using the knowledge his father passed on, travelling from town to town with whatever pelts he had gotten, selling to whoever would buy it, and living off of the meat. Arvid had already been in Laredo multiple times, only returning now to finally rest and stop travelling for a while, he was unsure as to how long it would last

Secrets: Arvid doesn't want anyone but his mother calling him by his actual first name.

[PhoenixWhite]

Adam Smith

Name: Adam Smith

Alias: N/A [Ex Sergeant]

Age: 23

Gender: Male

Origin
Georgia
-Irish-American descent
[Confederate Army member - Ex]

Current Occupation
Hunter turned Confederate Sharpshooter
Following the end of the Civil War, Adam fled westward following the Union Victory and sank into a life of banditry
Recovering from the lows of thievery and murder, the man has become a wanderer

Appearance
The man is short, which is a glaring mockery in the face of his ruggedness. However, it is also a distinguishing factor in his appearance; he rises up to the height of 5 foot, leaving him shorter than even most women. His hair, a faded shade of red that hints at his Irish heritage, is never precisely the same, as the man hews it down with a knife rather than visits a barber. His face is scarred hinting at an early life in the wilderness rather than an early life full of conflict and combat. His hands are rough, and his body strong- lending to him the image of someone far larger than his height allows him to be.

His voice is rough from lack of use, as he is a man of few words. The most startling thing to his appearance is his eyes, for they express the man's emotions far more than he himself does...

His eyes are hard and bright, giving his otherwise rough appearance a considerable amount of light and vibrancy. His gaze is not piercing, not judging, not accusing- merely observing, which serves to make him appear amicable where his body language does naught but say otherwise.

To sum it all up; Adam is a man whose appearance has been crafted by a hard life spent in the wilderness, that swiftly turned into a hard life where his expertise in the wilderness turned into the art of hunting his fellow men- and the experience was one that caused the man to recede into himself and become the remnants of a soldier, and the remnants of a young happy man.

--Armaments--
Being a confederate sharpshooter, Adam was one who used long range rifles to lethal efficiency. Regardless of what outfit the man is currently wearing, his trusted Whitworth Rifle is always in hand or slung up over a shoulder. The rifle has a telescopic scope, which extends down nearly the entirety of the barrel, and is a somewhat dated weapon for the time period- but is a damn fine long range rifle that can accurately hit targets of 1,000 yards, and in skilled hands [And lucky hands!] even farther, and is still superior to other ranged rifles of the time.

As for a handgun, the man wields a Colt Model 1860- but he often goes through many handguns over time, and this is viable to change at any time.

An Arkansas toothpick, a thinner, longer, counterpart to the bowie knife is commonly seen upon his hip.

Personality
Adam is a very neutral man. He does not often rise to considerable angers, nor does he stir to great melancholies or great joys. His emotion is very greyed out- watered down. His great fondness for alcohol does not assist in this aspect, as he is often found with the smell of whiskey- or whatever cheap swill he got his hands on- on his breath.

This alcoholism does not sway his personality much, if at all, however. He does not drink to excess, only to maintain. To put it simply, he doesn't get piss drunk- he just makes himself feel numb. However, he does have his few antagonistic flaws...

As most men of short stature tend to be, Adam has a tendency to be very 'handy' with those of a superior nature. If someone is acting high and mighty, Adam is the first one to step up and put them on the ground. However, Adam is also one lacking a sense of societal morals. He lives by his own strange system of morality, crafted over years of warfare and, following the defeat of the Confederacy, banditry.

His morality has thus skewed and warped considerably as time went on, and things that began as good intentions have become very morally grey indeed. He is by no means a good man, but in the same regard he is more a vigilante than a bandit if the distinction can be made. While he is no lawman, he still believes in a sort of justice- and from time to time finds himself being the one to dispense it in the west's turbulent nature.

A man who tries to stay neutral, but has his fair share of shining moments- as well as his share of dastardly deeds.

Skills/Abilities
-Sharpshooter: Trained in the military as a skirmisher and sharpshooter, Adam is amongst the elite of marksmanship in the American south- and west!
-Handy: When a problem arises and you can't settle it with a gunshot from half a mile away, and a handgun just isn't satisfying, sometimes you need to deliver your message with a solid blow to the jaw from a tightly wound fist.
-Survivalist: Having spent his youth as a hunter in the wilderness, Adam is very much so at home in nature and in solitude. This encompasses the skills of first aid, rope tying, tracking, and similar skills.
-Gun Enthusiast: Adam takes very good care of his firearms, and is very enthusiastic in their care and maintenance.

Secrets
[Not really relevant but still a guarded secret]
-Smith fired the shot that killed Union General Sedgewick
-others to be added as discovered

Relations
[Family - deceased or lost contact]

[NPC relations // Non-player relations]
Ulysses Parker - An outlaw by profession, banditry and gunslinging are his strong points - Very...Very...poor relations

[Other non-player relations are nearly superficial at this point, and will be elaborated upon should the need arise. Which it probably won't.]

Duncan [Dahteste] - A fellow sharpshooter, a member of Smith's squadron of confederate skirmishers. Present at Spottsylvania. - Amicable

The Story of a man named Adam Smith

The rifle was perched on his shoulder tightly, the barrel balanced on the branch of a tree carefully as the man lay his weight against a cross of branches at his back. One eye was shut in a tight squint, the other held steadfast against the rear of a telescopic sight that ran down the length of his gun.

An old gun, well maintained through years of service, that was dated by today's standards but in this man's hands was one of the most dangerous tools a sharpshooter could have; A whitworth rifle. Every few moments a gunshot would erupt from around him, fellow sharpshooters of his unit firing down at the artillerymen of the union forces. After a few moments of this continued fire- which had sent the opposing men into hiding- Adam shifted up and brought the rifle off the branch to peer down at the field.

They were roughly one thousand yards out- a damned hard distance to land a solid shot, but something that his unit was comfortable operating out of. They had the comfort of cover and distance- they could take the time to place their shots.

"They'll rally soon, that general's gonna get 'em fired up and we'll have to scramble out of here. Sound off!"-- someone from off to his right shouted out the directive, and Smith's voice rang out heavily--

"One!"...and the rest of his unit similarly counted off. They were still at full capacity, and had the enemy pinned. Defending the flank of the main force was a simple task for the confederate sharpshooters, especially when they turned tail and ducked behind cover at the first few shots fired.

Smith leveled his rifle against the branch once more and peered through the scope down the field towards the Union soldiers. What he saw made the world stand still; the enemy's general was a well known and easily recognizable figure, even to the confederate forces- they respected the man, he was a damned fine leader and had put up a very hard fight in the war so far.

It was almost dishonorable to take a shot like this- that's how respected the man was.

But Smith's gun didn't waver, and he felt a sick feeling in his gut. He'd killed dozens, if not over a hundred, men in this war so far, but for some reason this moment felt slow. The general had just walked out into the field, yelling at his own man.

He probably doubted a shot could be made at this distance.

When Smith's rifle fired off its first round of the skirmish, the general probably didn't have the time to realize he was wrong before his body hit the ground. As soon as the shot was made Smith knew he had hit his target, and it was almost as if his own heart had stopped beating when the man's body hit the ground. It was a ripple of consciousness throughout the unit- everyone, simultaneously, knew that the general was dead...but nobody knew who had placed the shot.

Smith pulled his rifle up and dropped from the tree, sweating heavily as he pulled back from the front skirmish line.

Later, when it was asked whom had killed General Sedgewick, none stood forth to claim the shot.

----

A confederate sharpshooter, born and raised in Georgia as a first generation American-born Irish man, Adam Smith had nothing but patriotism and fire in his heart at the civil war's start. By it's end, he had expended all that fire in the form of gunfire and drunken gambling. He was a firebrand, passionate about his country and fellow men, but by the end of the war he was a tired and hollow soldier.

One cannot have faith in one's country when you've spent years killing your brothers and countrymen in what amounted to a war of possession. People often claim the south fought for slavery, or fought for money, but by the war's end when half the south was burnt to the ground and her sons were dead or imprisoned... Adam Smith had a hard time putting his faith anywhere but in the barrel of his gun after the war ended.

He spent several months back in the wilderness, where he spent a great deal of his youth. For a time he felt calm, but as the nights wore on nightmares plagued him of the things he'd seen during the war, and of all the dishonorable deaths he'd sent men to- men who would never know the face of the person who pulled the trigger that sent them to heaven. Nightmares that made a man hollow- returned him to the hollowness he'd felt at the end of the war.

A hollowness that makes a man melancholy, makes a man reach for the drink, makes a man search for answers. For Adam, his answers came in the form of a man known as Ulysses Parker.

----

Adam was heavy in his seat. He'd had far too many drinks of the cheap swill he often 'enjoyed' to fill the hole in his gut that the war had taken out of him. It'd only been a few months, and half the south was still in ashes, but he'd tried to make his peace.

Today he was drunk, again, and people had learned to give the drunkard a wide birth. Everyone except newcomers to the town, that is- people who were moving west to seek new fortunes and make new homes in the war's aftermath. Adam originally saw them as cowards fleeing their failure, but soon enough he realized they were survivors making the best in a dead world by going to a wild one.

One such newcomer had come in, had been making too much noise. Adam can't remember what the fellow was saying- just that he was being too handsy, too touchy, with one of the local girls. Adam couldn't remember anything until he was already holding the, far larger, man by the collar of his shirt and sending a wild punch into his face that made the man sprawl down onto the ground with the force of the blow.

Adam was a small man, yes, but he was a soldier- most men these days were either a fighter, soldier, or worker of some kind. War did that to people, and the man Adam had struck was no different than him. He just didn't realize it until after his hangover had worn off the next day.

He woke up in a corner of the bar, the last thing he remembered being the first punch he threw. When he blinked his eyes open for the first time, his head ached and throbbed- and then he was doused in water as a man laughed.

"Get on up, you crazy bastard. You throw one hell of a punch, let me tell you that."

Adam rubbed his face and fought up to his feet, resisting the lethargy brought upon him by both beer and exhaustion. He peered through his fingers at the man who spoke and licked his lips in exasperation- for it was the great bear of a man he had struck the night before.
"Yeah? I'm crazy? I'd rather be crazy than a great arse like ya'self, getting all touchie with the lady just because you're some big strong fella." Adam retorted bitterly, still recoiling from the pain in his head. The large man laughed, the noise like a bass drum. It pounded into Adam's head with a great resounding throb. "The hell do you want- was one fight not enough for ya, you want me to put you on the ground again?"

"No, no. Nothing of the sort. I wanted to tell you 'you throw a mean right hand' but it seems you know that already. Names's Parker, I think you and I are gonna be great friends."....

And that was how Adam Smith met Ulysses Parker.

-----

Following the man's meeting, Adam found himself swept along in Parker's aura of wild energy. Where Adam once had a hollow feeling inside him, Parker's philosophy of strength and power was very appealing- what else did Adam have left to believe in after the war? God? His country? No, he had naught but himself and, now, Parker to follow.

They robbed people, kidnapped, murdered. They even gathered up a posse and organized into harsher crimes- but Adam broke free, he couldn't stay in that life. It required him to perform another great betrayal to break free, but once he was on his feet and had a purpose he realized he was riding with the wrong people- the wrong person.

He was no saint himself- he hadn't been a clean, holy, man since the civil war's inception- but he hadn't realized just how far he'd fallen in his crazed state until he was awoken from his sleep at night by yet another of his ever-recurring nightmares.

He had jerked awake, and looked around with a lucid clarity, and felt, very strongly, that he needed to get away from these people.

So he planned to escape, and simultaneously grant himself a sort of repentance, at the next heist the group had planned...

---

Smith leveled his rifle in the ever-familiar manner that he had grown accustomed to over years of practice and use. He was far from home, on the fringe of the West as it was called. A caravan, two horse carriages protected by a few handy guns, was carrying medical supplies westward and Parker intended to capture this particular caravan and make a killing off of the ensuing stranglehold of medical supplies on the surrounding towns.

Smith, however, had a different plan.

He sucked in a sharp breath and swiveled his rifle away from the oncoming caravan and off to the side of the path, where Ulysses and a few of the other men lay in wait.

A squeeze of the trigger sent Ulysses toppling to the ground, a shot in the center of his chest. Smith's hands were cold and his heart calm as he went through the mechanical process of reloading his rifle.

Surprise and terror afflicted the would-be bandits as their leader fell to the ground, and the gunshot more than warned the caravaneers of the danger that lay in wait.

Smith's next shot incapacitated the lead carriage's horse, meaning that the caravan and bandits would be forced to fight each other- and with Ulysses incapacitated, the rest of the bandits would simply flee or fail to organize fast enough for the caravan's guards.

Smith shouldered his rifle and swiftly climbed atop his horse, driving the speedy beast away from the soon-to-be battle-zone....

Years later, Smith learned that Ulysses had survived, and was actively hunting him down. Smith simply took it in stride however, as his life had changed considerably from that day and vengeful bandits were as normal to him as lawmen kicking down his door.

---

Adam changed throughout his life, as one would expect a man to. He had his passion and his youth, then he had his duty and his honor, and finally he had his grit and his will to survive. Years passed, the war was left far behind him, and in the ever-civilizing lands of The West Adam found himself constantly getting into trouble and, whether he realized it or not, evolving into a near vigilante position within society as he fought to fill the hollowness within himself.

[Sombrero]

Moses Jones

Name: Moses Jones

Alias: “Rattlesnake” “Sunburnt Alligator” “Ol’ Badger” and “Growlin’ Bastard” are some of the many names used behind his back. To avoid being smacked upside the head or given withering looks, he is usually called “Moses” or “Mr. Jones” within earshot.

Age: 36

Gender: Male

Origin: Farmer’s boy in Kansas

Current Occupation: Ex-Cowboy, amatuer Pinkerton private eye.

Appearance: A shorter than average man just as sun-faded, rough, and leathery as an old hat. He looks every bit of his 36 years, and then some, with a steely-eyed gaze, a cold resting expression, and black, oily hair. His broad, well-built body is covered in scars, bullet grazes, stab wounds, and miscellaneous scratches. He is dressed and cleaned almost too well for a man of his history, but he did splurge a bit on clothing and cleaning products. He is, after all, representing a prestigious law agency. He carries with him a hatchet (His regiment was too hard up to give him a proper sword) a hunting knife, and two colt dragoons (Not for dual-wielding, obviously, it’s too big of a gun. He’s just not big on reloading) from his time in the Union Cavalry. Another weapon from his cavalry days that he takes great pride in, (but doesn’t usually carry around with him) is his Spencer repeating rifle.

He has his hair combed back and well cut, with his beard’s length never going more than halfway down his thick, leathery neck. He wears a brown leather cowboy hat, albeit a new one, mainly because he ran out of expendable pocket money at the tailor when he was finished buying his white shirt and “fancy” black waistcoat. He walks in old boots and his best sunday trousers. He has two holsters and a strap, if he ever feels the need to carry his guns. But he usually keeps them safe in a locked trunk. (Or the hotel vault/safe, if they have such accommodations where he’s staying) However, he always keeps his knife and axe available on his belt, and perhaps at least one dragoon if he’s in a neighborhood like this one...

Personality: Moses is a beat-up, bitter, civil bloodbath survivor and war veteran from a town that wasn’t that nice to begin with. He has major trust issues, bordering outright paranoia when things get heated. There are three things in life that drive him. His family, which he hasn’t seen in years, the stalwart upholding of the Law, which he believes would have given him a much happier life, and his own survival, which he’s been tending to pretty well.

Skills/Abilities: Moses is street-smart, vigilant, and good at reading lips and facial expressions. His noticeably smaller-than-average frame allows for quiet, stealthy movement and easy hiding, if needed. He’s a fine shot, not wild-west legend material, but remarkable in many respects. He is positively vicious and dangerously efficient in close-quarters combat, and holds no inhibitions against maiming genitals and clawing out eyeballs if it means he keeps on living and the other guy stops attacking him.

Miscellaneous: While a strong and articulate mover, he is far from a quick one. While he has recovered nicely, a shot to the leg he received during the war has left him with a slight limp. He is capable of running, but he won’t ever outrun the average man, barring sabotage or divine intervention.

History/Bio: Moses Jones was born in the Kansas territory to a farmer 32 years before the war started… And everything went to hell in Kansas, of course, because nobody could decide whether Kansas was northern or southern, and so it had to be decided by shooting. Struggling to survive, and at times literally having to fight his way across the street to get home, Moses fled to Illinois with his mother, younger brother, and sister, who were the only members of his once 14 strong family that weren’t shot to death.

He joined the military to provide for his family what he could, where he was put in the cavalry regiment. His horse was shot a year into his service, and the general he served under wasn’t in a good enough position to buy him another one, he spent the rest his days in the military shooting what equipment he had left, fighting from the battlements and trenches, and sneaking around enemy flanks. 2 brutal years in, he was left for dead by the military and not asked to serve again thereafter. The ranch he and his fellow soldiers had been occupying was raided by bushwackers, and nobody except himself and a few others, and some farmhands had survived the attack.

Now 35, and lost somewhere in the west on a ranch without a general, Moses became a typical, (if rowdier and more violent than most) cowboy, and over the years, developed something of a reputation in the arts of stabbing, shooting, and punching. He was recruited as a deputy in his hometown, and later, in the interest of finding his way home, spreading the law, and seeing the states, he went abroad his 36th birthday and enlisted his services to the Pinkerton agency.

Secrets: He only knows how to read and write his own name, and even then, he’s not very good at it. He also doesn’t want anyone to know he has a family in Illinois, in case they’re still alive and someone were to track them down. He holds much disdain for rivers and their water. Most of his war nightmares revolve around watching men’s bodies flow down them, and most of his memories regarding them are either about said carnage or witnessing the effects of cholera on his father and neighbors as a child. He is hydrophobic in general, and avoids swimming (and drinking anything other than ground, rain, or lake water) as much as possible. He also would prefer to hide the fact that he has nightmares about the war and the riots in Kansas leading up to it.

Relations: Nope, more plot points to cover that way.

[idlehands]

Name: Benjamin J. Ross III

Alias: none

Age: 31, born April 13, 1837

Gender: male

Origin: Born in San Antonio, Texas and his family moved to Austin briefly but lived much of his life on a small farm to the west of the town in the hill country.

Current Occupation: Currently working as a hand on the Double Eight ranch owned by Joseph McCall.

Appearance: Benj stands about 5’11’’ in his stocking feet, his body is wiry and lean muscled with little fat to spare. His hair is deep chestnut brown, tousled and grown out, it now hangs down past his ears. He has a thick moustache and has let his beard grow, currently a rough thick stubble. His eyes are pale blue-grey, set in a lean, chiseled face lined from war and the hot Texas sun. His left leg is slightly crooked and shorter than the other, a result of a wound taken during the war.

He often wears a faded blue striped work shirt under a dark brown wool vest and a pair of sturdy tan colored trousers, patched at the knees. His boots are well made sturdy waterproofed deep brown leather, worn down at the heels, especially the right as he compensates for his limp. Though it’s rare to need to wear a coat in Laredo, he has a long tan wool duster that he keeps on hand, his hat is his Confederate cavalry officer’s hat, a black hat with creased crown and one side turned up more than the other. He carries with him a Bowie-style knife, a Henry rifle and Colt Navy pistol he took from a dead Union cavalry officer. He rides a sturdy grulla dun mustang mare named Lucy.

Personality: Laconic, introverted for the most part he is more intelligent than he looks and given the right mood and level of intoxication, will tell a few stories.

Skills/Abilities: Experienced tracker and rider, he can go long distances in the saddle, following the trails of bandits. He’s had to learn to pick up the often hard trails of Apache and Comanche raiders and has a rather keen eye for detail. He is a good marksman though will never claim to be the best. He can hold his own in a brawl but prefers to use his words than his fists if he can, especially since his injury.

Miscellaneous: He is an avid reader of pretty much anything though his favorites are history and poetry. It is not something he talks about much though he has been seen with a book in his saddle bags or writing in a journal. He does have a habit of drinking but his real crutch is opium, in particular morphine, that he became addicted to after he was injured.

History

History/Bio: In 1837, Benjamin Ross was born in San Antonio to Ben and Mary Ann Ross, one year after Texas won its independence from Mexico. His father and uncle Bill had volunteered in the war, his uncle died at the Alamo but his father had been riding as a scout and missed the doomed stand in his home town. He went on to fight under Sam Houston at San Jacinto, defeating the Mexican army. He went home to his fiance and they married in the cathedral not far from the ruins of the famous little chapel.

Benj had one younger brother, Samuel and two younger sisters, Anna and Jane. His father and mother worked on their small farm, often with the help of her younger brother who was a teenager when their parents died. Benj had a large extended family that lived scattered through the Hill Country. Benj's father moved his family to Austin and joined the Texas Rangers. His father rode with the Texas Rangers to protect the frontier from Indian attacks and further invasions from Mexico until Texas joined the Union and the US went to war. He rode with the likes of famous rangers like “Bigfoot” Wallace and the McCullough brothers, and Robert Gillespie. When the US went to war with Mexico, he rode with them, fighting in small mounted units with a variety of weapons the Rangers earned a fearsome reputation, known as “Los Diablos Tejanos” by their enemy. Once the war was over, his father returned home but not permanently. When called upon, he eagerly took up the badge and rode with the Rangers in pursuit of wanted men and renegade Indians.

Though he was not around as often, Benj idolized his father and the men he rode with, staying up listening to their tales and war stories. His father taught him about weapons and tactics, how to ride and track but his mother pushed on him the importance of education, planning for her son to go to college but Benj wanted to join the Rangers. Unfortunately, they had lost most of their captains to the US Army that had taken over the defense of the Texas frontier but there was a still a core group dedicated to tracking down outlaws that the Army could not as they had their hands full with the raiding Kiowa, Comanche, and Apache Indians. In 1861, Texas joined the Confederacy and Benj decided to sign up to go to war. He longed to emulate his father and uncle’s exploits in the wars before and their service with the paramilitary Rangers, he was tired of cleaning up the little messes of the Union forces and did not want to be left out of what he felt was going to be the only big war of his generation. His father warned him against it, told him if he was to fight let it be on Texas soil but Benj had dreams of glory and fervor, arguing that if Texas joined the Southern cause then it was their fight. His younger brother and two cousins joined the famous Texas Brigade led by General Hood, all of them were killed in one battle or another.

Determined to stay in the saddle, he signed on with volunteers in Houston under Col. Benjamin F. Terry to form a unit known as Terry’s Texas Rangers. They were sent to Tennessee though originally were supposed to go to Virginia with the Texas Brigade. The cavalry unit saw action in all the major battles west of the Mississippi and were renowned for their riding and shooting skills. Benj rode in the battles of Shiloh, Murfreesboro, Chattanooga and Chickamauga. In 1863 he was promoted to lieutenant and lead a group behind enemy lines to harass Union troops. He was part of the failed defense against Sherman’s march to Atlanta but made them pay through guerilla warfare as they harassed the flanks of their troops and he saw first hand the devastation to the civilian population. During the war he had been wounded lightly, never bad enough to stay out of action for long but in the Battle of Bentonville his horse was shot out from under him and this time he did not roll away and the animal fell, breaking his leg and tearing up the tendons of his knee as it twisted under him. Many officers were killed and it was the final battle for their unit, the Army of Tennessee and the rest of the Confederacy surrendered shortly after.

Benj made his way back and found a riderless horse, managing to get mounted and find his unit. They were decimated and on the retreat. Sherman did not pursue though and not long after, the war was over. His leg healed badly, slightly crooked and shorter than other which now gives him a pronounced limp. Morphine was used in the field hospital when his broken leg was set, the doctor not sure if he would have to amputate the compound fracture but Benj insisted on getting up and limping off the operating table. There were too many other wounded to bother stopping him so his leg was splinted and he was given a liberal dose of morphine. He continued to use to mask the pain in his leg and the nightmares of war. He returned to Texas and saw what what Reconstruction was doing to his home town and the blue coats patrolling the countryside were now no longer professional rivals but once deadly enemies. Unable to settle and finding out the woman he had loved and left for war married another gave him no reason to stay. He took a horse and rode south despite his dislike for Mexicans after the wars of his father and grandfather. He ended up in Laredo, finding work as a ranch hand despite his crippled leg, he could still mend fences and ride.

secrets

Secrets: There are things he did in war and witnessed that he refuses to speak of or even write about. His brother's death in the war weighs heavy on his conscience. His addiction to morphine and opiates. More to be revealed.

Relations: (PM me for any ideas)

[User]

Name: Doctor Charles Richardson

Alias: Doc, Richardson, [For what the players call him]

Age: 38

Gender: Male

Origin: A white caucasian male, he is from the union side of the war.

Current Occupation: None, he has just finished his role in war

Appearance: A very tall man, standing at 1 meter 7, short brown hair is forever stuck to his face as he walks around, he has one eye, one being biological the other being made of glass. He wears a monocle, not because he needs it but because he thinks it makes him look smarter. The one eye he has is a light brown going grey over time. In terms of clothes he wears a grey waistcoat with a gold chain connected to his pocket watch in his top pocket. A white smart shirt and red jacket over the top. He has grey trousers and black leather smart shoes. His Colt 1851 Navy Revolver strapped to his leg and a Spencer Repeating rifle on his back.

Personality: Crude and miserable. He cares not for their endless ramblings and problems, sad from when he arrived home from war to the day he will die. He hates life as a whole, can't imagine how all these kids can live knowing that great men died for them to live, men better than him. A real sour puss but has a heart none the less, if you have a problem. A real problem then he will try to help you the best he can.

Skills/Abilities: Speed when in a hurry, Quick Drawing and shooting with his revolver despite the kick it has. He can also fire his rifle to a fast degree with a lower amount of accuracy. Speed with a horse and cart, lieing to anyone he can see.

Miscellaneous: I'll cover IC

History/Bio: Doc Richardson had a fairly average upbringing, average for what he would become. You see, Richardson is a troubled character with a troubled life and pedigree to prove just that. Born in 1827 to a couple of townies he had a ideal childhood in the large city of New York. His Father was a local Physician and he looked up to him like a hero, He worshiped and adored his father, because of him he never had to worry about money or other children giving him a tough time with anything. As he grew up he learnt lots about medicine and bio science. He even convinced his father to import medical journals from england and europe that he could learn from.

A few years later he was made a surgeon, he was good at it in the next years, he felt, for those short years as if he was helping people. Making a real difference, he even had people survive surgery occasionally, and that made him feel talented. He read up on people who had racked up a fatality rate of 300% and laughed thinking he would never be like that. He vowed he would never be like that, never in a million years. How wrong he was.
In 1861 the war started, he was at that time in a great point of life, he had money. Land and a wife. It was a real grand time, so when the war started he didn't want to join, would just be a waste of time. But when they started conscripting he knew he had to volunteer or he would just be another foot slogger. Unfortunately, they didn't take kindly to his late acknowledgement of duty so they made him a field medic, a really embarrassing job for a well known surgeon. All the men and women he treated were people he recognized from New York city and the look of glee when he was there to help made it better than he expected. Moving through the war he had to deal with bullet wounds and sword strikes. He saw many good men die because the army wouldn't free up a bed if an officer was taking some extra time on it. He went into that war a man of honor, believing that the government cared. And left knowing that too many good people died for what little reason. When he arrived home early in january the second 1865 he learnt his wife and children had moved on to a new husband and forgotten about him. So now he travels away from NY towards better opportunities. And that's how he arrived in Laredo

Secrets: He was a feared man in the war, having a higher body count than most soldiers. The men who entered his surgery room left without their life, their soul or a appendage. He changes them when they enter his room, for better or worse (IE the pain would drive them insane. Not magic)

Relations: PM me for ideas

[Antediluvixen]

Dahteste (

Name: Dahteste ("Warrior Woman") Grey Nascha ("Owl") Warden

Alias: Red Sun

Age: 24

Gender: Female

Origin: Half Apache, half Scottish. Former Confederate sniper.

Current Occupation: Gun for hire.

Appearance: Not what most would consider a classical Hellenic beauty, Dahteste is powerfully built, an upbringing with an unconventional father and a martial mother assured that. She stands at five feet seven inches, with strong shoulders and clearly defined muscles evident along most of her body. Rough, calloused hands are if anything more muscled, used to handling the kick of a rifle, the snap of a pistol, the impact of a knife with its target, and before that - the thud of a pickaxe against soil, and the reins of an ill tempered horse.

Her features are an interesting mix of Scottish and Apache, but they still share the same eyes and high cheekbones that come from a life living out among sand storms and scorching desert sun. Her hair is thick and black, cascading in waves down her back like a stygian waterfall. Skin tone is also a midway point between the Scottish fair skin, and tanned Apache color.

She dresses for trouble, with two heavy leather belts crossing each other, and physically sewn together where they meet in the middle. They also have the holsters for her pistols, and plenty of premeasured paper cartridges sitting in pouches along the length of the belts, and still more stashed in a larger pouch, with several extra large ones in loops on her belt for her rifle. The belt also has a sturdy sheath for her short broadsword knife. She wears a heavy matte brown leather duster, cut short to just above her knees and bristling with interior pouches, pockets, and holes from myriad fights.

Dahteste is heavily armed by any metric, carrying the deadly accurate Sharps rifle with a scope, and two customized third model Colt 1851 Dragoons lovingly inlaid with simple yet elegant designs and the names of her parents; and a wickedly large Bowie knife -more of a short sword- strapped to her thigh.
Personality: Redacted.

Skills/Abilities: Dahteste is above all, known for her skill with a gun. Rifle, pistol, shotgun, if it goes boom, she has an almost supernatural skill in connecting it with her targets. That is not to say she can’t miss, but she rarely does.

Dahteste is passable when it comes to melee combat, relying more on physical strength than skill, and if she wasn’t able to pick them off from a distance, something is wrong.

Survival skills that come from growing up in the desert, especially with a native mother.

Skilled rider.

Fluent in English and the Navajo/Apache language, basic working knowledge of Spanish.

Miscellaneous: Bisexual, but not openly. She doesn’t beat around the bush about not being a proper lady though.

Has a deep and abiding hatred of the Union and its soldiers, one that will almost certainly never cease.

Is racist towards black people (yes, I’m playing this realistically for the character, no, there will be no n-word usage. Yes, it makes me personally uncomfortable too.).

Backstory: Dahteste was born in 1844 to a Scottish immigrant father and an Apache mother. Originally born in the then independent Republic of Texas, she grew up very atypically, at one point moving to California with her father and mother during the California Gold Rush, even though at the time she was only four. Where other girls might’ve been taught to sew and cook, her mother was an Apache, and her father seemed to have never heard of the concept of femininity.

From an early age, she was taught to read and write, and then to ride and start a fire, and then how to shoot and survive in the wilds of the desert. She showed skill at all of them, like her two brothers, and her parents. However, it was shooting at which she excelled the most, and almost as soon as she had shot her first rifle she seemed to have some innate connection with any firearm she held, and an unerring aim. Her father was delighted at this, and not only encouraged it, he bought her a rifle of her own with money earned when he struck it rich during the gold rush in California, which the family had moved to all the way across the country for, helping to pan for gold while her parents and older brother swung a pick, and were she older, would’ve done that too. Her father and mother showed good business sense, which they passed on to their children, not relying on gold to make their fortune, and investing a good sized chunk of their profits in the stores that made a killing selling tools to prospectors.

Even though the gold had long ago dried up, Dahteste built her strength and endurance swinging a pick for long hours. She continued to shoot as well, and could handily outshoot any of the men in the camp by the time she was fourteen.

Her mother too played a role in her upbringing, in addition to knowledge for the western world, which her father also taught her, she taught her all the customs of her people, and their language, and learned the music of the Apache as well. She taught her everything there was to know about survival and hunting, how to find food, how to get water. And then how to deal with white men, and women, how to not simply be dismissed as an ignorant savage.

Eventually her mother wished to return to her homeland and a compromise was struck, for a few years the family would return to Georgia where her father had first arrived and lived in the United States, where he could gather what he had left and sell his property before moving back west to Texas, which by now had joined the Union. This plan was all well and good, but not a few months after they had returned to the state, the American Civil War had broken out. While normally they would’ve left straight away, they were kept in Georgia by extenuating circumstances, waiting out the years until everything blew over and the Confederacy was either conquered or succeeded in its independence attempt. While Dahteste thought it hypocritical that a country that only existed because it had seceded was now invading one that was trying to do the same, she and her family avoided taking sides.

That all changed in 1864, when, during Sherman’s invasion of Georgia, when both of her brothers were executed by Union scouts for being suspected rebels. At one point, searching for them, she saw across their corpses hanging from trees on the road, guarded by a lone soldier. Her first impulse was to scream, not in grief, but rage, but she quickly conquered that instinct, instead hefting the rifle she had brought with her and creeping to within a stone’s throw of the soldier, putting a single minie ball between his shoulder blades and, when he didn’t immediately die but lay feebly calling for help, slit his throat with a knife. She dragged her brother’s bodies back home, and from that point on her side in the war was decided, and both her father and mother immediately began sheltering as many Confederate injured as possible, and donated much of their fortune to the war effort, saving some for retirement and their only child left alive - a child who immediately set off to war under cover of darkness.

With the same rifle she carries today she arrived in Virginia on the eve of the Battle of Spotsylvania Court House disguised as a man, marching straight up to the nearest officer she could find and insisting that she be allowed to serve as a sniper in the army, giving a quick demonstration of her shooting skill. The officer even provided her with a scope, the need for warm bodies to man rifles was pressing enough that he didn’t particularly care about anything other than that.

The next day, during the battle, she shot and killed at least twenty if not more Union soldiers, including as far as she could tell, General Sedgwick himself. Her rifle had gone off, and not long after the man had crumpled with a bullet hole in his face.

Her vengeance would be short lived however, as within the year, Sherman’s army had marched to the sea.

She watched Atlanta burn, powerless to do anything.

She ran the whole way home, arriving at a scene of carnage and a charred ruin. Judging by the bullet holes in what parts of the walls remained and the bodies, the occupants had not gone down without a hell of a fight. Within the burned out walls, she found the bodies of at least twenty Confederates, many still with the charred remnants of bandages and splints on them - and no sign of her parents.

However, when she opened their hidden safe in the basement, she found a note, a small fortune in gold, and the two Dragoon pistols with their names etched on either one. The note left things ambiguous, and to this day she has no idea whether her parents made it out in time, went down fighting and were lying amongst the bodies in the house, or were taken prisoner. She’s still keeping an ear open, and her gut tells her they’re still alive somewhere, but the world indicates otherwise.

She knew the war was over, no point in fighting it anymore. Immediately she set out west, taking everything she could, and not looking back, helping what Confederate refugees she could, and killing any Union soldiers that were unlucky enough to be alone or with only one other person. Eventually she arrived in Texas, and invested much of the gold and money she had in various companies and stores, making a tidy profit. However she grew bored, and unholstered her guns in ‘67, adding to her income by killing people who needed killing. Her latest bounty has led her straight to Laredo.

Secrets: If she told you, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore!

Relations: If anybody wants to have prior relations with her just lemme know.

[RoadRash]

Name: William Joseph Cothran

Alias: Bill

Age: 41

Gender: Male

Origin: Born in San Antonio in 1827, moved to Laredo as a child in 1840, after the Texas Revolution

Current Occupation: Cowboy / Foreman at Joseph McCall’s Double-Eight Ranch

Appearance: Bill Cothran is the quintessential cowboy. He stands 5’8 in his stocking feet, all lean muscle and wiry strength. His skin is tanned dark, leathery from exposure to the elements, and there is a good deal of gray in his unruly shoulder-length mop of hair, his bushy mustache, and the stubble on his jaw. He walks slightly bow-legged, a testament to a life spent on horseback, and his hands are scarred and calloused from decades of hard, honest labor.

He wears the usual long-sleeved work shirts and trousers associated with cowboys of the day, as well as sturdy leather boots and a wide-brimmed hat. He has battered leather chaps for use on the range, and tan duster for when the weather turns ugly. His horse Injun is a bay paint gelding, a mustang he roped and broke himself.

Armaments:
Remington 1858 Revolver, with the new 1868 conversion to .46 Rimfire cartridges
Winchester Model 1866 Repeater chambered in .44 Henry, carried in a saddle scabbard
Double-barreled shotgun, carried in his bed-roll on his horse
Natchez-style Bowie knife
40 foot lariat

Personality: Bill Cothran is a grump. He’s an ornery old ranch-hand with little time for nonsense, and among his men he’s known for his zero-tolerance policy in regards to whining, back-talk, and laziness. While he’s known to let expletives and (occasionally) fists fly around his hands, he’s unfailingly polite in the presence of ladies and believes that a man who doesn’t take his hat off at church is a man who’s looking to get a beating.

Skills/Abilities: As a lifelong trailhand, Bill is a master horseman. Some men ride their horses; Bill makes his dance. He’s raised Injun to be a cattle-running steed, and can make the horse jump, stop, or pirouette on a dime, and has the skill to stay in the saddle on the sharp, brutal turns required to cut a cow from the herd or lead one back in.

He’s a decent hand with a revolver, but is a solid shot with his Winchester. Though not a veteran, Bill has fired plenty of shots at banditos, rustlers, and Apache raiders in his long tenure on the plains.
By far Bill’s greatest assets are his physical and mental toughness. Rain or shine, hot or cold, feast or famine, Bill’s single-minded nature and lifetime of trail riding allows him to stay on task in conditions and situations that many men would shrink from.

Thanks to a life lived in Texas and often working alongside Mexican ranch hands, Bill speaks fluent Spanish.

Miscellaneous: As a young man, Bill was married to the lovely Maria Cothran. She died in childbirth in 1849. He also has a fear of snakes, and kills them on sight.

Fun Facts: Bill is very nearly illiterate. He only began learning to read within the last few years, at the behest of his employer.

Joseph McCall, the owner of the Double Eight ranch, is a childhood friend of Bill’s.

History/Bio: Born in 1827 in San Antonio, Texas, Bill was the son of Arkansas ranchers who moved to Mexican Texas seeking good land for low prices. His father, Thomas Cothran, owned a small ranch with a few dozen head of cattle, and began teaching his son to rope and ride almost as soon as he could walk. When Texas launched its revolution against Mexico in 1835, Tom Cothran went to war and left Bill and the rest of the family behind. After the Battle of San Jacinto, he returned home to resume his duties on the family ranch.

In 1840, five years after the war, Thomas moved Bill and the rest of the family to Laredo. Tom found work at the Double Eight ranch, then owned by John McCall. Tom Cothran quickly proved himself a skilled hand, and by the time Bill was old enough to start working out on the range his father was already the foreman of the Double Eight.

After his father died in 1855, Bill stayed on at the Double Eight, eventually taking over his father’s position as foreman in 1858. When the war began, Bill stayed out of it. Though not a stranger to violence, he couldn’t bring himself to go out and kill his fellow Americans over what amounted to political squabbles. Instead he remained in Laredo, faithfully running McCall’s cattle for the duration of the war.

Secrets: None

Relations: Benjamin Ross works as one of the hands under Bill on the Double Eight.