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[SIZE=1][FONT=Verdana][SIZE=2]WARNING: The following RP is expected to contain copious amounts of swearing and graphic violence (and likely sexuality of some degree). If you are offended by any of this, now is your time to turn around.[/SIZE]


It's hot, ungodly so. The blazing sun bakes the desert sands, waves of heat blurring even the sharpest vision. A figure appears on the horizon line. At a distance, it's hard to tell whether the figure is man or beast, but it's moving forward. After 5 minutes, the figure begins to solidify in view, displaying discernible features now. Clearly a man, he appears to be a gunfighter or something, a rifle resting against his right shoulder and two pistols at his sides. His movement is slow, more trudging than walking.

A tan hat rests low on the his head, shading electric blue eyes - the kind of eyes you can't ever forget once you've seen them, no matter how hard you try. Black leather chaps cover his dark blue jeans, and matching boots still hold spurs. A yellow bandanna protects his mouth and nose from inhaling the blowing sand. His shirt is a lighter blue than his pants, but denim, its sleeves buttoned over deerskin gloves. Tufts of black hair protrude from beneath the hat, matted and dirty, coated in the same heavy sand that weighs down his closes but appears absent from his weapons.

His gun belt is black, with dual holsters and bullet loops all around. The holsters each hold Colt Single-Action Armies, and the gun on his shoulder is a '73 Winchester lever action. A knife sheath graces his lower right leg, its designing hinting at a large Bowie knife.

As the man reaches the top of a dune, a smile lifts his stubble-covered cheeks, though it does not reach his eyes. Within sight is a town, its name unknown, but at least it's a town. He stops and pulls two sheets of paper from his front pocket. He unfolds both, one obviously a map.

He stares intently at the map for a few minutes, looking around and glancing back at it, obviously guessing his bearings. Eventually, he folds the map and places it in his pocket, turning his attention to the second piece of paper.

It has his picture, though much cleaner looking. It reads "Wanted. Known To Have Killed At Least 4 Men. REWARD - $5,000". He crumpled the paper and tossed it aside. "They don't know that in Lore." His voice is gruff, hardened, as though his throat has been burned from inhaling too much gunsmoke. And as he walks towards the town, his fingers resting upon his pistols, the smile reaches his eyes.


Welcome to "Beneath the Desert Sky", my first attempt at an RP on OB. "Beneath the Desert Sky" is set in the American Old West, though I'm not looking for 100% historical accuracy. The year is 1878, and the action is focused in what is now Arizona. It's fairly empty, but a growing town called Lore is quickly becoming a pit stop for many heading further west, and some are deciding to stay.

The man above is Clark Winslow. A rough and tumble gunfighter, Clark is wanted for the murder of 4 would-be lawmen in a Colorado town, preferably alive. The killings were in cold blood, with no gunfight, all 4 shot in the back.

Who you are is up to you. Are you a resident of Lore (citizen, lawmaker, or business owner), a gunfighter after the bounty, or maybe an old enemy who wishes to settle their own score with Clark before the law does? Or are you an old affiliate, looking to hook up with Clark for a new round of trouble? Or are you something else, just happening to wander through the area?

I have no intention of this RP being only about capturing Clark Winslow. It just seems a good place to start. Characters of all walks of life and personalities are welcome. Multiple characters are welcome and even encouraged (this is the Old West, some characters will likely die). I'm looking for some real good RPing, so I want a good bio, and here's the outline:

Physical Description: [/B]I'm looking for at least a 5 sentence paragraph here. What does your character look like, what does s/he wear, does s/he have any scars or some noticeable trait like a limp? Make it good folks.
[B]Personality Description: [/B]Again, I'm looking for 4-5 sentences or more here.
[B]Biography: [/B]I'm expecting at least two paragraphs. What you want to focus on is up to you. How was your childhood, what have you done through your adult life, what made you decide to head west, etc? I repeat, AT LEAST two paragraphs.

I will post a bio later (for both a character and Winslow).
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[size=1][b]WOOT! I'm excited for this one, haha. I'm glad to know you've found a good balance. Tell me how it is.[/b]


[b]Name:[/b] Kent "Coyote" Kotsee (Firestone in Plains Apache).

[b]Age:[/b] 22

[b]Physical Description:[/b] Kent stands at a slim, but sturdy 6’1”. He weighs some 159 lbs, naked. Kent’s caramel skin shows his mixed heritage of Native American and white (most say Irish). His sharp, strong jaw is normally covered by a light stubble. His pronounced features are accented by startling green eyes, rare for men of his race. Long black hair is kept combed back, sharply pointing beneath his normally worn telescope crown brown cap. He is usually seen wearing a dirty white shirt, a brown poncho with Apache design patterns across it in white hangs over his shoulders almost always. He is partial to wearing brown denim jeans with dark leather boots, silver five-point spurs hanging off the heels.

Several small scars are scattered across Kent’s body, particularly his face and hands, showing many years of conflict and violence in his life. His hard-worked palms are decorated with many calluses, and his thin body is none the less lean with cut muscles due to these life long labors. Kent wears two holster belts, each one holding a different weapon on each side of his hips. His left holster is home of his legendary wide-hunting knife, on the right, his trusted Smith & Wesson Model 29.

[b]Personality Description:[/b] Years of prejudice and rough and tumble living have turned Kent into an antisocial individual. He has next to no appreciation for social conventions and rarely fails to offend those he meets with his carefree attitude and loose mouth. Without respect for authority figures or those who attempt to place themselves above him socially, Kent will purposely offend such individuals to show his views on them.

He is regularly run out of towns for his notoriety, but has also gained the respect of those who appreciate the outlaw lifestyle. His reputation occasionally precedes him, and often it overshadows his deep personal code of justice. An advocate for those too weak to fight for themselves, for the mistreated and forgotten, Kent will, beyond his better judgment, place himself in the face of great adversity in order to defend those in need.

[b]Biography:[/b] From birth, Kent’s life was filled with bloodshed, violence, and personal loss. Prior to being born, Kent’s white father was lynched for taking an Apache woman for his wife. After being born, Kent’s mother struggled to raise the boy alone amongst her tribe, who looked down on both as tainted by the white man’s touch. Unaccepted by most other members of his tribe, the only figure whom Kent had any attachment to amongst the Apache was his uncle. Becoming the closest thing to a father the boy had, Kent’s uncle would teach him the warrior ways of his people. He was educated in the use of the hunting knife, how to track prey, and also how to fire a gun.

Approaching his manhood, the boy had been sent out across the desert on a lone hunting trip to fend for himself, promised that he would become a man amongst the tribe upon his return. When the journey was finally over, he returned to find that his home had been raided by white outlaws. His family and tribe had all been murdered ruthlessly by the faceless individuals. Filled with rage and sorrow, Kent spent several weeks amongst his tribe grounds, burying the bodies left out to be eaten by carrion beasts by the bandits. After his ordeal was finished, he gathered his things and set out to find the men who had destroyed his only home and family. He would later learn that the men who had done so were members of a group called the “Red Mountain Outlaws” led by a mysterious gunfighter named Clark Winslow.

Kent spent three long years tracking down the members of the Red Mountain Outlaws, and one by one, he located and killed each of them mercilessly, all the while collecting the bounty’s that had accumulated on their heads. Along with the money, Kent had also earned himself a reputation as a dangerous bounty hunter and outlaw. Supported by his bounty money from the lives of the other Red Mountain Outlaws, Kent has finally set out upon the last surviving member of the group. Their leader, Clark Winslow.

Kent is currently on the road to Lore, Arizona.
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This sounds like it could be good. Count me in.

[COLOR="Red"][B]Name:[/B] Jake Warren

[B]Age:[/B] 38

[B]Physical Description:[/B] Jake stands at a little over 5'9 and weights about a 175 lbs. He has a rough outward appearance and has an aged and road weary look in his eyes. Like a man who's too much death. He's a barkeeper by trade and as such can almost always be found wearing his, what was once white, beer stained apron. Underneath he wears a light blue button down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. Usually prefering denim pants and a pair of tan boots as his lower body attire.

His hair is usually a mess and face are usually a mess. His hair is brown with a few graying streks in it. He keeps his face fairly shaven, shaving it maybe once a week or so. His eyes are an emrald green, but despite the vibrant color they seem almost dry to look at. He has a scar on the right side of his chin from where he got caught a broken glass mug in his own bar. Looped through the belt on the left side of his pants can be seen a large bowie knife he keeps for trouble makers. He also has a winchester '73 lever action he keeps tucked under the bar for the most part.

[B]Personality:[/B] Being this small towns only bartender, he is also the town "psychiatrist". He usually plays this role well enough, listening to the troubles of those who stumble into his bar and he knows just about everyone in town, so he knows when someone new crosses his doors. He is both gruff and direct, which usually isn't a good combination when dealing with angry, drunken "clients". He's a strictly no BS person and is not one to hesitate to toss some drunk troublemaker out on his ass for the sherrif to deal with.

Desipte his rough nature and appearance, he is of the just sort. Maybe not always in the eyes of the law, but he has his own form of justice that he follows. He's meet every kind of person conceivable and those who have committed crimes of the most heinous kind. He knows how to spot a man deserving of punishment.

[B]Biography:[/B] Born in Oklahoma, Jake was raised by his grandparents. His father was on run from the law, for what his grandparents wouldn't say and his mother died giving birth to him. His grandfather along with about five ranch hands herded cattle for their living. He spent much of his childhood watching over the herd and mending broken fences. It was a simple and poor life he lived, but Jake found his way well enough.

His grandfather passed away when he was 14. His grandmother passed away about a year later. Instead of staying by the farm and continuing on like his grandparents had wanted, he took up a horse and left. He started to make his way west and wanderd from town to town. He quickly found that he had very few skills that could help him in his journey to wherever it was he though he was going. I guess you could say he followed in his fathers footsteps as he took on a life of crime himself.

He spent 5 years roaming between Colorado and Arizona, hitting lone travelers and anyone else he could along the way to make his living. It was more often then not that he found himself holding a smoking gun. By the time he was 23 he was sick of his life and sick unto death of all he had done. He could feel the weight of the dead on his back. There was many a time when he considerd ending it on his own terms, but he could never pull that trigger. He has lost his purpose, his will to live, and his nerve to keep on living by the gun. He became a vagabond. He spent most days sleeping in the woods, far from any towns or people.

When he was 28 he found himself in Arizona once again. This time he stumbled in to an old saloon. He had maybe 30 cents to his name and felt as though he might die of thirst. He approached the bar and asked the keep for a something to slack his thirst. The keep took his money off the bar and slide him a tin cup filled with water. Jake took the whole thing down in one gulp. He then set both the cup and his head down on the bar. He laid there like that for seemed like hours til the bar keep finally spoke [B]"I've never seen a man that excited and depressed over a cup of water." [/B] He said in a dry and tired voice. Jake turned his head up and looked up to the man. And then something happend that Jake didn't expect. The old barkeep went back washing out the empty glasses at the bar and said [B]"How would you like a job?"[/B]

It's been 10 years since then and Jake has been tending bar ever since. He worked for the old barkeep, a man named Charlie, for 3 years. Then one day, just like when he left his grandparents ranch, he saddled up a horse and left with barely 5 words to remember him by. He bounced around for a bit til he found his way to the little town of Lore about 3 years ago. He opened his own saloon and has worked there ever since.[/COLOR]

Let me know it anything needs changing.
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[SIZE=1]I'm going to try something a little different for this one, as you said you didn't mind multiple characters.

[B]Name: [/B]Franklin "Mack" Mackenzie
[B]Age: [/B]29
[B]Physical Description: [/B]Mack stands at 6 foot nothing, weighing around 130 lbs, with slim, sinewy muscles. His eyes are powder blue and clear, with a small scar over his left eyebrow. He rarely shaves, so there is usually a few days' worth of stubble growth around his chin. All the hair on his head and face is golden-brown, although his head is usually covered by a wide-brimmed black ten gallon hat.

He wears a black jacket buttoned up right over by his left shoulder, the buttons shiny and brass. He is very rarely seen without this jacket and the hat on. His jeans are black and the bottoms of the legs are tucked into charcoal-grey boots with brass spurs. His holsters, each one containing a customised Smith & Wesson .44. He also has a pair of tomahawks, stolen from a Native American he killed, strapped to his belt.

[B]Personality Description: [/B]Mack is a sociopath, pure and simple. He is incredibly sadistic, and takes immense pleasure in torturing and killing others. He has never had a problem with breaking law or entering into criminal activity, even from an early age. He has no honour or integrity, and no qualms about shooting, stabbing, slashing or hitting a man (or woman) in the back. The only thing he likes nearly (but not quite) as much as inflicting pain is the lure of financial gain - although when he has money he usually spends it on alcohol and women - the finer things in life. The only person he seems to respect is his sister Annie.

[B]Biography: [/B]Born to a prostitute and a gunslinger, Franklin and his twin sister Annie were knocked from room to room by their carers, never able to fight back. At the age of five, Franklin's mother smashed his head through a window, resulting in the scar through his eyebrow. He was never sent to school, and the other kids around the town bullied him, beating him viciously and regularly.

If he had never learnt to take care of himself, then he and his sister wouldn't have made it into their teens. He learnt how to use his father's old gun, and by the time he was fifteen, he had killed all but one of the bullies. When his mother found out, she tried to beat him to the floor, but he grabbed her, displaying strength far beyond his years, and broke her neck. And he never had any regrets.

He ventured out onto the road with his sister, and the two of them became the some of the most feared bounty hunters in the country. The Mexicans came to know him as "El Diablo." The Americans simply knew him as a monster, an animal, who once killed and entire tribe of Navajo Indians single-handedly.

When the opportunity came to capture Clark Winslow and hand him over to the authorities, Mack simply couldn't resist, and he and Annie headed to Lore to catch themselves a legendary mercenary.

[B]Name: [/B]Annie Mackenzie
[B]Age: [/B]29
[B]Physical Description: [/B]Annie has the same golden-brown hair as her brother, but she stands at 5'6", a fair few inches shorter than Mack. Her eyes are a similar powder blue, and her lips are full and red. She would be very attractive if it wasn't for the hint of insanity that glimpses through when she smiles.

Her jacket is tan, in a similar stlye to Mack's, and her hat is wide-brimmed and tan as well. Her trousers are black and she wears dark brown chaps over them, leading down to brown leather boots with silver spurs. She doesn't keep holsters on her hips, but the inside of her jacket is lined with single-shot Derringers, almost twenty of them. She also has four Bowie knives of varying sizes in her jacket.

[B]Personality Description: [/B]If anything, Annie is worse than her brother. She prefers to use the Bowie knives close-up than her pistols - she seems to think it "makes killing people that much more personal." She is also happy to mutilate a victim and then let them walk (or crawl) away, often taking a body part as a trophy. While she loves and respects her brother, she does often get irritated with him trying to protect her.

[B]Biography: [/B]Annie was never knocked around as much as her brother, and as such she never had such a reason to toughen up as he did. She grew up strong, yes, but she never had such a fighting spirit as Mack, until her eigth birthday.

The day she turned eight, the man her mother was involved with at the time took her into his bedroom and raped her. He continued this regime for almost a year until Annie finally picked up a lamp and smashed it over his head, knocking him unconscious. She stole his Bowie knife and mutilated him, slicing certain parts of his anatomy right off and showing them to him as he awoke. It was at this time that her mental state can be seen to have cracked.

As a result, she became attached in a strange way to her brother, often despising the time she spends with him, but at the same time being unable to bear spending time without him. She watched as he murdered an entire tribe of Navajo Indians and laughed.

It was Annie, not Mack, who put them on America's most wanted list, by killing the deputy Sheriff in a small town in Arizona when he insulted her dress sense. She was also the one to spot the Wanted poster for Clark Winslow, and set the Mackenzie twins on the hunt for this legendary outlaw.

- There you go, the Mackenzie twins, the most depraved outlaws in the West. Let me know if there's anything I may need to change.
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[COLOR="DarkOrchid"][FONT="Times New Roman"]Name: Ling Lee Kelly

Gender: Female

Age: 22

Physical Description: Dark brown eyes and pitch black hair, her features are classically Chinese. High cheekbones on a relatively flat face, at least compared to the masses of Europeans around her. Her skin is the typical porcelain or it was before she began to tan in the hot sun and her stature is less than impressive, hence her posture is relatively perfect. Several smaller scars on her hands and cheeks from the life she's led and the fights she's gotten into mar otherwise good skin. Built slight, but muscled where it counts, she hides her figure under a heavy leather duster and rusty chaps. Black boots, dark wide brimmed hat, and gloves also serve to obscure her features, if only because as soon as people find out she's a woman, her husband invariably has to leap to her defense.

Her gear is never far from her, in the saddle bags of her horse, slung across her shoulder. She keeps a spare gun in one boot, a knife in the other, and her rifle is virtually omnipresent. Due to the constant danger and threat of death, Ling's eyes are never still. Even as she smiles, she's always watching for any threat, even if her husband is on guard, so is she.

Personality Description: Ling is bright and cheerful, almost always whistling or singing a song while she rides with her man. Of course when they're actually hunting someone or being hunted, she can switch at will to darkly serious and preturnaturally calm. Her ability to change her personality is one of her more useful attributes; in any saloon she can go from sullenly silent to a rampaging demon, backing up her husband in any barroom brawl and holding her own with the best of them.

Biography: Ling was born in Nanjing, China, the daughter of an enterprising merchant and a noblewoman of rather high birth. Her classical education included, dance, music, calligraphy, and self defense. Whether a rebellious streak, or simply an amazing amount of prescient character, Ling surpassed her instructor's expectations and mastered hand to hand combat as well as the softer arts. Once Ling's father had crossed the Pacific to America, Ling followed after with her mother staying behind as the Chinese government mandated. Passing through Angel's Island threw America's culture into sharp relief. Eventually her father settled in Los Angeles, setting up an herbal shop adjacent to another clan member's Laundry.

Guarded carefully, with her father always on the watch for possible suitors for his now teenage daughter, the patriarch of the Lee family was hard pressed to find such a husband. And, in the rare moments in which Ling could escape from under her father and the servant's watchful eyes, she met Connor Kelly. In the livery stable, with a dark Western style hat pulled down over her eyes, Ling tended to her family's horses, quietly currying her own strawberry roan when he'd swaggered up to her and leaned over the stall door on his elbows. He tipped his hat back slightly with one finger to get a better look.

"That hat doesn't fool me. I know a pretty girl when I see her."

"That's nice."

She spoke almost disdainfully, her accent very slight, so slight he blinked a few times just at the surprise of it. At that Ling had pushed back her hat to reveal a smoothly plaited braid, letting him look for just a moment, before taking two small steps forward and slamming her palm into his chest. And they've been together ever since. Showing a remarkable aptitude for the bounty hunting that was her new husband's primary occupation, she joined up with him after purloining the right things from her father's house and sneaking out in the dead of night. No note, no memento. She'd pulled up the stakes and stolen her own horse from her family, and run.[/FONT][/COLOR]
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[SIZE=1][B]Name:[/B] Holt McAnnely (Alias, real name unknown.)

[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]Gender:[/B] Male

[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]Age:[/B] 24

[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]Physical Description:[/B] He isn't a incredibly intimidating man, he is around six feet tall and has somewhat of a well kept shape. He comes off with some of a rough appearance (who doesn't in these times?), often his face is covered in stubble from his latest drunken binge. He has dark hair and dark eyes that have somewhat of a charming appearance. He has a couple scars covering his back where he was shot multiple times by an Apache bow. His most recent injuries include scratches and black eye covering his face from when he was accused of cheating during a card game (which he was) and beaten by three men and taken out and buried up to his neck and left for the buzzards.

[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]He dresses well for someone of his caliber. He is usually wearing what seems like semi-formal attire. He has his trademark bowler cap that has seen too much action in its day and has fallen into disrepair. He has a dark brown suit vest on top of his whitish button down shirt. His trousers are black, just like his boots. He wears a beautifully crafted belt with a few bullets in the loops and his Colt Navy Revolver 51' in a reverse holster on his left hip. He also has a Short Barrel Winchester 66' lever action that he rarely carries with him. A small leather band strapped to his right wrist hides the cards he cheats with during his poker escapades and a small knife that he keeps precariously hidden in his vest.

[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]Personality Description:[/B] Holt is what most would deem as "sidekick" material. He doesn't mean much harm but due to the things he does he ends up in a hellacious amount of trouble. He is a pretty upbeat fellow for someone that seems to come off as jaded to most people. He would like to think of himself as a charmer to the ladies but that sadly isn't the case. Another problem he has is his mouth. Along with card playing he has a knack for saying the perfect thing... to get his ass beat. He has been told he has a wit faster than any man's gun hand. He is an alcoholic and has been since childhood.

[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B]Biography:[/B] Holt never had a hard life, his father adored him seeing how he was the only boy out of their six children. His mother always took his childhood angst in stride and he was never subject to much bloodshed in his life, hell his grandparents are still alive. He was worked as a child though, in between his mother's school lessons and his father's chores on the ranch it is a wonder that he had time to get into any trouble.

[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]His alcoholic tendencies started at the tender age of eleven. He would sneak into town at any chance he would get and loiter in the local saloon with his friend and mentor Jonathan McAnnely an man who has seen some years and first turned Holt onto card playing, and the sauce. Holt snuk out and would go play cards with Jonathan almost everyday, that was until his father caught on. He went to Jonathan and threatened him that is he didn't stay away from his son that he would do a number of unpleasant things. Jonathan skipped town the next day.

[/SIZE] [SIZE=1]Holt never really forgave his father for scaring off his mentor and dreamed of the day he would leave the ranch and set off on his own. When the day finally came he left without hesitation and didn't look back, only regretting leaving his mother and sisters behind. He took the name of Jonathan's son who died of an unknown illness[/SIZE][SIZE=1]. Only a couple days after leaving he accidentally wandered into Apache territory and was attacked and taken back to their tribe where they kept him in captivity until he was finally rescued by white traders who bartered for his freedom.[/SIZE][SIZE=1][SIZE=1] He travelled with the traders working off his freedom until he saw his chance and left them too, heading west and away from larger areas to avoid running into them.

A close encounter in small town saloon almost ended with Holt dead if it wasn't for the intervention of a Clark Winslow. After a certain amount of pleading and begging and the greasing of palms Clark actually helped Holt get out of town unnoticed and relatively unharmed. They went their separate ways and haven't seen each other since. Holt was recently accused of cheating during a card game (which he was) and was pummeled and buried up to his head and left for the buzzards.

[B][SIZE=1]OCC: Just let me know if anything needs changing.[/SIZE][/B]
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[FONT=Verdana][COLOR=Black][LEFT][SIZE="1"][b][Edit][/b] Alright, all finished up.

[b]Name:[/b] Connor Kelly

[b]Gender:[/b] Male

[b]Age:[/b] 28

[b]Physical Description:[/b] The first thing that'll strike people about Connor, aside from his fist if the occasion calls for it, is his thick, vivid red hair, held together in a roughish pony-tail. Coupled with this are a pair of bright green eyes, completing a Hibernian stereotype which he has literally killed men for bringing up in a negative way. Although he can well afford to be clean-shaven, a life spent in a near-constant state of movement has left Connor with a preference to a healthy amount of stubble to mark his face, something which is common among men in his trade.

In terms of build, the bounty-hunter's both broad and tall, standing a hair above six-feet, more than two foot wide at the shoulders, and weighing a solid two-hundred and five pounds, all and all making him a powerfully strong man. His skin is remarkably free from scars and it's naturally pale, somewhat freckled shade of white, has tanned a bit with exposure to American sun, though it still leaves absolutely no doubt as to Kelly's distinct origins.

One of the other most unusual things about Connor is, despite the genuine roughness of the life he leads, he almost always has a wide, some would call it rebellious grin marking his face. Regardless as to whether he's just one a small fortune in a "friendly" saloon game of poker, or killed all the other players in a bloody gun-fight when they fail to pay up afterwards, he's nearly always smiling. Most people would say it's his wife that keeps the smile in it's omnipresent state.

Particular to his lifestyle, Kelly arrays himself in a combination of a beige linen duster, army-blue shirt, navy-blue denim jeans, tan leather chaps, brown and tan leather boots with spurs and a typical tan ten-gallon. In addition to this, he wears a standard set of holsters, containing a pair of custom engraved Colt .45s. Although he's plenty capable of fighting with them, he's more notoriously known for using his '76 Winchester, usually slung over his right shoulder for bringing down bounties.

[b]Personality Description:[/b] As gunslingers go, Connor could be called a pretty peaceable one. He's got no great love for rules and authority, whether they come in the form of a lawman or a preacher, particularly if they happen to be one of them "Anglo-Saxon" types, but at the same time, he's not the sort of man who goes around shooting up an entire town and it's inhabitants for the sake of a single bounty. Ninety percent of the time, he'll walk into a bar in some small town, play cards and drink his sorry ass silly, then Ling will drag him up to their room for a decent night's sleep. Shame is, it's the ten percent of time that something does make him go off always ends up being remembered.

He isn't a gentleman by any stretch of the imagination, cursing, drinking and fighting are as natural to him as breathing and riding, but he's cobbled together a sort of code of honour and it's managed to keep him from doing anything real stupid just yet. He's not an educated man, completely illiterate and as such totally reliant on Ling to do their reading, or ask some passer-by, though developed out of this necessity, Connor's become very adept at judging people, and can tell right away if someone's lying to him.

Finally, being what you'd call an outsider himself, Connor is pretty comfortable around minority groups, especially the Native Americans, though he can't be certain they say the same, him being obviously white and all that. He sympathises with what's happened to them, seeing on the whole, that independence for the Americans just replaced one set of English Protestant leaders with another set of home-grown ones.

[b]Biography:[/b] Kelly's story isn't what you'd call particularly interesting, born in the summer of 1860 about twenty miles or so outside of Cork City in Ireland, he had the distinct pleasure of being part the generation born a decade and a half after the "Great Famine" which halved the Irish population. Hating the English was a national past-time which the boy was quickly inducted into, something which ironically would lead to his eventual flight to the United States when at fifteen Connor got his hands on a rifle and killed two members of the locally stationed British forces as part of a republican attack.

His mother, rightly fearing for her son's life in the face of British reprisals, used what little money she had scraped together with Connor's father to send the boy to the States, needless to say, hearing the news of several local male massacres in the aftermath was enough to overrule any objections he might have had.

Regardless of the circumstances that brought him to America, something about the country really struck a cord with Connor, of course, this was likely brought about from the fact he wasn't running in fear of his life, and working himself three-quarters into a grave for the sake of a meal. Cities weren't exactly his thing, so he stuck to labouring in small towns and farms, moving further and further west, picking up more and more of the skills that have become second nature to him.

His first bounty was practically an accident, a disagreement in a bar over a tab lead to a gunfight, which Connor won. After things had calmed down, the town sheriff, a pudgy bastard who looked like he couldn’t aim straight to save his life managed to find his guts and tell the seventeen year old Irishman that the man he'd killed had had a price on his head, and promptly paid up the handsome sum of $750. Figuring he could make God know’s how many lifetimes of wages picking up bounties, Connor pretty promptly decided a career change was in order.

After another six years, he finally found himself on the Pacific coast with no more land to drift through. Funnily enough, it would in what they called the "city of angels" that Connor would meet his wife. Passing through the Chinese district, looking for something for a cold, or a sick-stomach, he doesn't quite remember which, when he happened to see a slender figure tending to horses. Now, Connor isn't an educated man, but he's sharp as a blade, and knew a female build when he saw one, even one nearly perfectly hidden.

Needless to say, he sauntered over, put on his best charm, and tipped her hat back to get a better look at the pretty gal. Being twenty three at the time, Connor had had his share of women, mostly fun time gals as a form of recuperation, but Ling Lee, as he would later come to know her name as being, really knocked his socks off. Never had he seen a woman like her, not just because she was Chinese, but because for a brief second, he genuinely did think she was an angel... and an angel who turned out to have a pretty mean open palm when he leaned in fishing for a kiss.

Since then, Connor and Ling have never been apart, and have developed something of a name as bounty hunters. Hitting close to thirty, Connor’s been starting to give thought to the idea of settling down and raising a few kids on a farm of his own in the near future, not that he’d say it directly to Ling, seeing as she’d probably kill him for mentioning it, being a “free spirit” and all. Their latest destination is Lore, Arizona, not for the $5,000 on Clark Winslow, but also figuring the Mackenzies will make a showing, and they can collect three bounties without too much travelling.[/LEFT][/COLOR][/SIZE][/FONT]
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[SIZE="1"]Name: Jonas Maxwell

Gender: Male

Age: 44

Physical Description:
When he served the Union in the Civil War, Jonas stood tall, strong and bold. Long days of tilling the soil on a potato farm since then have kept him in shape, but his blue eyes have faded to the color old denim under the constant sun. His skin looks and feels like the leather of a dependable saddle; it is well-worn but never fails. A frock of hair is slowly slipping away from Jonas's scalp, and specks of gray are weeding their way into the blackness. In one glance it is easy to tell that Jonas is and always will be a farmboy at heart, despite the other opportunities life presents. In the civil war he sustained an injury that doesn't effect his walking, but when Jonas tries to run anywhere he limps, and eventually has to stop, as the pain is too great.

Personality Description:
Jonas is a reasonable man, unlike others who have spent most of their life in the sun. While he never intentionally draws attention to himself, from time to time his sarcastic wit causes misunderstandings that the other party believes can only be resolved by breaking chairs over each other's heads. Generally, Jonas is not a fighter, but if someone is so inclined, he is willing to defend himself physically. While he never had any formal schooling, Jonas's intellect is well developed, in a rustic sort of way. He is one of the more respected farmers in town and carries himself as such.

[I]You know, to tell the truth, I don't remember a whole lot 'bout my childhood. I had a Ma and Pa, sure as shit's brown, but he left not long after I was walking and Mom spent a whole lot a time workin' above a saloon. She wasn't the best role model.

But there were a lot of us kids, and I was the youngest, and we managed to work the farm pretty well because when I was ten my brother Jeff was about twenty-five and there were eight 'tween the two of us. Long time ago, that was, and now we're spread all over the west. Those of us who ain't back in the earth, that is. I got a brother Jerry who lives in Colorado, too - he's working his way up as a lawman, and last time he wrote says he met a nice lady who he thinks he might make his second wife.

I'm still happy with my first one. She's a long tall lady named Grace who's red hair still drives me crazy after all these years. Or maybe's it's 'cause she can outdrink me, damn her Irish blood. We raised two boys of our own, Connor and Rufus, and Connor's workin' at college in Boston, wants to be a professor. Rufus stayed home; he's the best damn plowhand money can buy. Still a little cross he convinced me that I need to start payin' him since he's 23 and needs to move into his own place with a lady someday, but them potatoes might not make it out of the ground if it weren't for him.

When I was 'bout his age I was fightin' for the north. Ma said if I was gonna fight, and I didn't have anything else to do since I wouldn't been a college-type, I should fight "for the good men," since they didn't have no slaves. Course, it turns out they did have [/i]some[i] slaves, but in the end I think I picked the right side since we won and all. I haven't really shot a rifle much since then, but back in the day I was a sharpshooter. A good one. Course, I eventually ran into some other good ones, which is why I can't run no good anymore.

These days I'm gettin' a little wary of farmin', since its been my life, and I figure since Rufus is gonna be movin' on soon I might as well get movin' on, too. Haven't figured out what I'm gonna do in my golden years, but I'm sure me and Gracie can cook somethin' up.[/I] [/SIZE]
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Good to see some turnout here. Everyone posted so far is approved. I'm going to keep the sign-ups open until Friday, at which point I will likely post the starting topic (or at least try my best). Of course, it's also to give me time to build up bios for some of the townsfolk (blacksmith, banker, hotel owner, etc.), Clark, and my own character. Anyone who wishes to submit another character is welcome to. New sign-ups are obviously also welcome.
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[SIZE=1][B]Name:[/B] Johnathan Matson (goes by Mat, only close friends call him John or Johnathan.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Gender: [/B]Male[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Age: [/B]22[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Physical Description: [/B]Johnathan, standing at 5'6, isn't a very intimidating man, He has a slim build, weighing in at 156 pounds, but to his favor there isn't a shred of fat on his body. He has close cropped blonde hair, and blue eyes. He sports a scar across the center of his forehead which runs the length of his eyebrows. Very rarely will you see him without his well worn brown hide cowboy hat on. He wears a white t-shirt that's stained sandy brown from years of wear and tear, with three more in the same condition in his saddle bag. He wears brown cotton pants, also well worn and faded, with black leather chaps, ending with snake skin boots equiped with spurs on both feet. Covered by his brown leather duster, is his gun belt. Brown worn leather, yet well kept, it has a holster on each hip, as well as bullet slots all the way around it. In the resting in the holsters are two Colt - 1877 Double Action - Lightning revolvers with scarce long barrels. Wrapped in cloth and carried on his back is a 3.3 Winchester model 1876 with centerfireing rifle cartridges, and a 15 round tube magazine. He rides a black stallion named Shadow.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Personality Description: [/B]Johnathan is a rough and tumble type, easy going, and will help people out as he can. He tends to keep to himself, and has a quiet nature, though he's far from shy. He isn't anti social, he just prefers not talking if there's no real reason to.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]He travels alone, but has nothing against making friends, it's just that most people keep away from bounty hunters, though he considers himself a gunslinger trying to make it by.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Biography: [/B]Johnathan lived in a small no name village for the better part of 18 years with his father, his mother dead since his fifth birthday, though he never could get his father to tell him how she died. His father is a tall lanky fellow, standing at 6'5, and is a common gunslinger, or so Johnathan thought.[/SIZE][SIZE=1]His father had taught him the ways of a gunslinger since his tenth birthday, and he was now 18. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Johnathan was going out to hunt, and already had his horse saddled and his saddle bag full of dried meat, bread, and cheese, as well as three changes of clothes. His 3.3 1876 Winchester slung over his back, revolver at his right side, he was about to walk out the door, but as soon as he opened the door, his father fell in on top of him, bleeding from his side.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Johnathan caught him and drew his revolver in one fluid motion, checked left and right, saw nothing, and drug his father inside, layed him on the floor, then proceded to shut and bolt the door. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]As he knelt beside his father, he laid his revolver down beside his right hand, reached for his shirt to get to the wound, but his father caught his hand, and began to unbuckle his gun belt with the other as he spoke, "The bullet hit my inerds, boy. It's over. Take my guns and get out'a here."[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]As he pushed his gun belt into Johnathan's hand, Johnathan said, "What the hell are you talking about, Pop? You want me to leave you here?! I've already lost mom, and i don't even know how, and now you want me to leave you for dead?!"[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]"Listen to me boy, and don't interupt. Yer mother was killed by a man named Clark Winslow. I haven't -ugh-much time, long story short, i fucked 'im. I used to run with him but i betrayed 'im. Now he's come back fer me, and if ya don't get outa' here you'll die too brat!" His father's sentence ended in a shout, then he said, "Ya can seek revenge if you must, but right now, while she was your mother, remember that she was my wife. 'Till i die this is my fight."[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]The last sentence was spoken with him gripping his son's shirt, and for a moment, Johnathan hesitated, then said, taking his fathers guns and puting his own gun in his father's right hand, "Die well."[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]As Johnathan ran out the back door, a man rounded the corner, and Johnathan dropped, as two resounding bangs ripped through the air. The man then proceded to run through the door, and all hell broke loose.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Johnathan rose from the ground, holding his side, and blood ran into his eyes. He reached up and as he pulled his hand from his forehead, it took him a second to realize through the gun shots and his pain that his hand was covered in blood. Forcing himself to his feet, still clutching his fathers guns and rehoisting his Winchester over his shoulder, he mounted his black stallion, Shadow. As he spurred him forward, the gun shot's ceased. He turned to look and saw the man standing in the doorway facing the other direction. As he turned and saw Johnathan, he also saw a 3.3 1876 Winchester taking aim.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Johnathan fired. Had this been any normal day, he would have made his mark, but having been shot in the side, and blood blurring his vision, he saw little and was firing on instinct, and a split second after he fired, the man cluctched his shoulder. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]If he had been riding any other horse besides his massive stallion, it wouldn't have endured the one hour gallop at break neck speed. Finally Johnathan brought him to a slow trot as he started feeling dizzy, another twenty minutes passed like this and he fell out of the sadle, to lighted headed from blood loss to stay upright any longer. Shadow, being a well trained horse and his faithful companion of 10 years, laid down beside him to keep him warm.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]He was passing in and out of consciousness for about ten minutes, and then all he remembered was the blurred movements of another humanbeing, he couldn't discern age, gender, or how many...[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1]OOC: Wingman dropped out, if anyone wants an opening for a second character it's back.[/SIZE]
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Edit: it is alright if I take the blacksmith role off your hands correct? I am a blacksmith in reality, and am known to provide a lot of detail in my scenes that include the trade

[B]Name: Odin Yggdrasil AKA Stone Mountain Shaman
Gender: M
Age: 21
Physical Description: [/B]An out-of timeline nerd like build, in a sense a forerunner of what is to come among intellectuals. Though he does have more muscle than a modern tinkerer would have, given the amount of manual labor required to live. 5'6", 150 lbs. Blonde Hair Blue Eyes. His left arm is somewhat more muscular than his right, due to his being a blacksmith and always forging parts for his inventions in addition to supplying the town.

[B]Personality Description: [/B] He appears to be a sane and business-minded person most of the time, but in reality has a dynamic personality that will suit whatever is around him or what is happening in his life. He likes to gossip a bit with people he knows well, and is usually either spreading the good word or talking about one of his ideas that some people think are just plain crazy, while others find them rather entertaining.

[B]Biography: [/B]

Born to a pair of peasant farmers who immigrated to the US and then made their way westward in a wagon train while Odin was but a sapling, his first exposure to blacksmithing was when the wagon broke it's axle on a steep hill and the smith among the group had Odin gather fuel and man the makeshift blower while he performed repairs. On arrival, Odin could never be kept on the farm, he was always at the blacksmith's shop helping out, and eventually became an apprentice.

Following the retirement of his master smith, he bought the rights to the shop and operates it as his own, his parents having been killed by natives shortly after he completed his apprenticeship. He remembers a fair bit of the journey to the town despite being so young, but rarely will speak of it as so many people in their group died, including a girl he had shared affection with.

In addition to the normal blacksmith front of making and repairing tools and ironwork, he also had a back-end workshop involving his studies and dreams. Despite being limited to steam and wind as his only power source, he has been able to produce a number of experimental devices that foreshadow what we know would become the industrial revolution.

The notable ones are a portable engine in the form of a traction engine, however it cannot be used outside the town due to not enough power for climbing hills. There is also an early steam hammer, which he uses to speed up his work on heavy pieces lacking an apprentice of his own; and has a small electric lighting experiment sharing the boiler that warms his shop and provides steam for his stationary experiments. Though so far he doesn't have any working lights aside from the arc lamp in his experiment room.

His shop is located across from the saloon and is set slightly away from the rest of the town main street, so that if it catches fire it won't be as likely to take the whole town with it. His cabin is nearby, it stands on a hill a short distance from the town where his parents chose to settle.

(Ok, Female bio up. I like to run my characters in pairs)
[B]Name: [/b]Martel Eisenhower AKA Goddess of Cookies
[b]Physical Description: [/B][url=http://tn3-2.deviantart.com/fs30/300W/i/2008/103/5/c/Western_Martel_by_sheenarocks87.png]
Not exactly the most slender thing at 5'7" and 180 lbs, she's actually somewhat heavy-set for a lady. It's all the whiskey she drinks mostly, and is a regular at the bar. Her body is voluptuous and soft, and coupled with her soft brown eyes and chest-length brown hair, is reasonably popular among the menfolk.

Normally she is seen wearing men's pants, the thick cloth and durable material suits her well. Coupled with a *slightly* non-chaste shirt that is too small and does not button enough to cover her well-endowed chest without leaving a good amount of cleavage showing, people either think of her as a total waste of time, or an amazing woman to be able to pull off such an outfit and do so well.

Fitted with a brass belt buckle of the likes the sheriff might be seen wearing, and a hand-styled colt .45 on her belt, she will often take people by surprise with the speed in which she moves, and the force that she can muster when angered. [/url]
[B]Personality Description: [/B]
Drunk: Lusty. She'll flaunt herself at the men, as if asking for them to take her in back, but the moment one tries to she will either put holes in their hat or break their nose for taking advantage of her, having such a tolerance to the drink that she can snap out of all but the worst drunken stupors in a matter of moments. Often a few more off the buttons on her shirt will be undone, as they are stretched by her bosoms and tend to slip out when she isn't really paying attention to them. Usually just one more below the number in the image.

Sober: Shy and sweet, she will usually be seen fussing with her shirt to keep the buttons from releasing- a cause for much embarrassment when someone asks her why she is fussing with her clothes. She will usually be off in a corner of the room when like this, somewhat ashamed to be drunk so much and have gotten so big since her arrival in town two years after Odin did.

She still gets business done though, and as a single girl still living with her parents, she is often seen retrieving food or tools for her absent-minded mother and rough father.

[B]Biography: [/B]She was but a twig of a thing when she arrived in town at the age of 14, underfed because of the food shortages on their journey and underdeveloped as a result. Living with her parents as they established their home, she was at first shy because of all the strange and rough people about, and her being so thin she was once teased about being mistaken for a hitching post.

Once they got established though, her family was quite prosperous with their homestead, and are among the most successful farming establishments in the town. She had soon regained an average body type, and made her first rounds with the boys at the time including a bewildered Odin, who wanted no part of women after losing his childhood friend along the trail and was fully occupied by his apprenticeship and working his family's farm, which was not as rich as hers.

Three years later, her body developed into a stunning beauty that rivals the girls seen in most modern-day western movies, but she was not happy. Upset that now the guys were talking to her only to feel her up and exploit her body, she at first would sit in Odin's workshop making idle talk with him and admiring his crafts, but soon grew bored of this and took to sitting in the bar. Having acquired a gun through her charm with the merchants after the loss of her innocence to a gang one night, she was soon downing quantities of alcohol, which did her appearances no justice. Soon outgrowing her clothes and the ones she had made to replace them, she realized she wouldn't be able to fit any dresses available and switched to men's clothes since they were available larger.

Recently though, she hasn't been drinking quite as much, and has visited Odin once a week since her family's tools that were made by Odin's master have begun to wear out, and he has to repair them often. They are making conversation once again, although a lot of people believe Martel to have died, they don't recognize her anymore because she changed so much.

Though if you do talk to her, you soon realize she is still an innocent and charming young lady at heart.
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[B]Name[/B] ~ Belma LeBoeuf, the madam of the Seven Sisters brothel
[B]Gender[/B] ~ Female
[B]Age[/B] ~ 27 years

[B]Appearance[/B] ~ Belma is otherwise a typical southern belle from Lousiana except that she is black. Her skin is light chocolate brown and her eyes are golden hazel. She has straightened her dark curly hair and usually wears it up in a bundle. She decorates herself with excessive jewelry she has gotten from her clients, and dresses in elaborate ways. She has dresses from every color of the rainbow, each of them with an ample cleavage. She does her best to avoid looking cheap, a philosophy she tries to spread to the six girls working for her as well.

[B]Personality[/B] ~ To the casual clients Belma seems distant, proud and calculative, but to those who have gotten to know her better she shows her warm side. She expects a lot from the girls in her brothel, but also protects them like a mother lioness if they are threatened. Her childhood in slavery has caused deep scars to her heart, but she has learned to enjoy the freedom she has in Lore.

[B]Biography[/B] ~ Belma was born to a couple of slaves in Lousiana, both of which died to a disease when she was still a child, but when the Civil War was over, she moved north to Colorado to start a new life. But a young black girl was a strange sight in Lore, the town she ended up in. She tried to find a job, but nobody would have her. In the first night she spent in the town, she was raped, beaten and robbed by three drunken men who found her sleeping in a stable.

Bruised and bleeding, she ran to the nearest house with lights on, and an older woman took her in with open arms. She would soon realize that she had arrived to a brothel, but the kindness of the madam and the other girls overwhelmed her. She finally felt like she belonged somewhere. It would be a while until she was ready to take clients, but when she did, she found satisfaction in being the dominant one in the intercourse. No man would ever treat her like those three had ever again.

The years passed by, and the old madam retired, leaving the brothel to Belma. There were six other prostitutes working in the house at the time, so Belma renamed it to "Seven Sisters". To this day, the brothel and it's seven women satisfy the needs of the lustful men visiting or living in Lore.

[I]Belma and her girls: the bubbly Candace (pink), the sensuel Gabriela (fuschia), the fierce Ruth (dark red), the spiteful Moira Jean (green), the gullible Juliette (blue) and the vain Susannah (purple).[/I][/CENTER]
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[B]Name:[/B] Carmine Grey
[B]Gender:[/B] Female
[B]Age:[/B] 21

[B]Appearance:[/B] Carmine stands at about 5'-5", weighing at 130 pounds, she is slim but muscular, with a well proportioned body, and has dark crimson hair that runs down to her shoulder blades. She has light blue eyes, the type that you can get lost in if you stare into them for long periods of time. When she is outside she always has a bandana over her head, with a pony tail hanging out of the back, but when she is inside, away from the heat, she lets her hair hang down. She wears normal traveling attire, brown jeans, brown leather chaps, a brown jacket that stops at her waist, and a well washed white t-shirt. For shoes, she wears black hide boots, with spurs on them for her mare, Alicia. Her clothes are only slightly worn, showing that she is still "wet behind the ears", for she hasn't been on the rode for very long. She longs for adventure, anything to keep her from home. Though she does have a scar above her left breast from a fight just a few years ago that ended in her getting stabbed with a broken bottle above her breast.

[B]Personality:[/B] Carmine can sometimes be hot headed from lack of experience on the road, but she always tries to remember the teachings of a certain young man, whom goes by the name of Mat, known to her as Johnathan. She likes a good brawl as much as any man does, in fact she can distinctly remember backing Mat in a few, one of which resulted in a scar above her left breast, and her assailent bleeding from his ears, mouth, and nose, and over a game of dice at that. While she seems care free, hot headed, and over all energetic, around the right person or people, she can be very gentle and loving.

[B]Biography:[/B] Carmine was working in the bedrooms of the inn her family ran, as she always had for as long as she could remember. It was early in the morning, the sun just coming up, when she heard a gun shot from the village. Though this is common place in her small village, she couldn't help but wander if it was her father that was shooting or being shot. He'd always been the rough and tumble type, a no name gunslinger, better in a bar fight than a gun fight. As a result of his brawling habits, Carmine picked up how to fight, and now the village's young men are scared to approach her for fear of a black eye.
It was about thirty minutes later when the doctor came to the Inn, it's name being The Stumble Inn, to tell her and her mother that her father was dead, shot down by a man whose name they did not know, only a physical discription, which was now burnt into her memory.She had been 16 years old then.
After that incident her mother became increasingly difficult to deal with, violent tendencies emerging, leaving her with bruises at night, and as a result, on her 17th birthday, she decided to leave home and see the different lands. Early on the morning of her birthday, the sun yet to rise, her mother still asleep, she gathered up the supplies she had bought from the market, dried meat and the like, a sewing kit, a few changes of clothing, and packed them into her saddle bag. Alicia, her mare, saddled and ready, stood there waiting, then she had a thought, and went to get her dead father's guns, two Colt - 1877 DA Lightning's - Sheriff's or Storekeepers Model, and his Winchester Model 1873, Carbine edition, with a 15 round capibility.
With one last look at her old home, she set out. She wasn't in any real hurry, but she galloped her mare for a few minutes, until the town was well out of sight, hopped off, and walked her. She had walked Alicia for about ten minutes before she was back in the saddle, huffing and puffing.
"Damn, this is a lot harder to do than the stories in the pub claim." She said to herself.
By the look of the sun in the sky, she estimated it was an hour or two before noon. Making a note to herself to walk every few minutes to get used to it, she decided to stop at noon for lunch. A few hours passed and the sun reached it's zenith, and as she was about to stop for food, she noticed a great black stallion laying on the ground, but a closer look told her that he was supporting a man around her age, whom was leaning against the stallion.
She walked her mare over to them, and gasped at what she saw. The man was laying there unconcsious, his hat laying beside him on the ground, revealing close cropped blonde hair. Across his forhead was what looked like a burn, dried blood covering his face. His white t-shirt, now red from his own blood which was slowly oozing from his side, was matted to his torso, and his brown cotton pants were soaked in sweat. She was surprised his snake skin boots remained untouched. Imidiately she went for the sewing kit in her saddle bags, she rushed to kneel beside him, but when she reached out to rip his shirt open the stallion snapped at her, barely missing her fingers.
She looked at the stallion and said, "I know you probably dont understand me, but I'm trying to help, please let me near him."
The stallion stared at her for a few seconds, full in the eyes, then lowered it's head onto it's forlegs. Taking this as a sign of resignition, she proceded to stich the man. Both wounds were made from a bullet, she could tell that much, the one upon his forhead a graze, the one on his side a solid hit, with an exit wound just above his hip on his back.
As she was stiching him, she said to herself, "At least i dont have to dig a bullet out of him."
At the sound of a human voice so close to him, the man stired, and from his lips came a strangled groan. Carmine, in the middle of stiching him, lowered her head and said, "What's your name?" and thought to herself, [I]I have to keep him concsious, if he passes out again he may die, but there's nothing i can do...[/I]A voice in the back her head, calm and soothing, said [I]Keep him talking, and get him some water.[/I]
Reaching for the water skin on his stallions saddle, she was surprised to here him say, in a cracked, weezing voice, "My name's...Mat."
Holding the water skin to his lips, she pondered his hesitation in telling her his name, then said as she resumed stiching him, "Is that your real name?"
Mat looked at her with glazed eyes and said, somewhat slugishly, "No." but gave no more.
By the time all this had transpired, she had finished stiching his side, and proceded to clean his face with water and one of her spare shirts, then used the shirt to make a make shift bandage for his forhead.
When she had finished, she looked at his eyes, and realized they were closed.
[I]Probably dead. Guess i'll wait till morning to see if he wakes.[/I]
As the sun rose above the hills, hitting Carmine's face, she woke and was surprised to see the man atop the hill they were on, leaning on his stallion. When he looked back he noticed she was awake and slowly made his way to her. When he was seeted beside her, he said, in a tired, pained voice, "I presume you were the one that saved my life?"
Carmine looked into his startling blue eyes and replied, "Yes, i am. Last night you said that your name was Mat. I'm Carmine Grey."
The man hesitated for a moment, then said, in the same tired voice, "It's Johnathan Matson. But i'm going by Mat now, helps keep me hidden for the moment."
After a little digging, Johnathan told her his story, and she was surprised to learn that the man he described and the man that had killed her father were one in the same. After hearing her story, he sat there for a few minutes, then said, "Do you want revenge?"
Her reply was plain and simple, and without hesitation, "Yes."
"Then travel with me. I mean to hunt him down like the dog he is, i could someone to watch my back, so i'll teach ya how to use those guns of yers."
From that day forward they traveled together, pulling each in and out of trouble, and eventually their relationship became intimate. However, their happiness was short lived, because they finally crossed paths with Clark. All they managed to do in this encounter was get injured and split up, but they had been on their way to a growing town called Lore. This had been four months ago, and now she stood atopa hill, looking down upon the town, hoping to be reunited with Johnathan once again.

*edit done*
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[SIZE=1]Ok, here goes.

hugoxx, Odin, and Sandy, you're in.
Wingman, you're in, but there's a couple of things I need to say first. Your bio seems a little too run-on and hard to read. Posts are going to need to be clearer than that, or I'm going to have to pull you. Also, you said your character's weapons were her father's. However, her father died 5 years ago, in 1873. The pistols are 1877 DA Lightnings, which didn't exist at that point. Something doesn't match up, and will need to be fixed.

Now, onto a few additional characters (more will likely come as I realize I need parts filled)

[/SIZE] [SIZE=1][B][U]Characters within Lore, [/U][/B][B][U]Arizona[/U][/B][/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B] Name: [/B]Celes Drianne (Real Name – Celes Brayden)[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B] Age: [/B]30[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B] Gender: [/B]Female[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Personality: [/B]Celes is incredibly personable when treated kindly. Always cheerful, Celes is willing to lend an ear to anyone who needs one. While most people can’t help but like her and often trust her with their deepest secrets, Celes is not so very trusting in return, and prefers to keep her past in the past.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Unlike many of the more hardened folks in Lore, Celes very rarely swears, and carries herself in a rather dignified and proper manner, though she is careful to make sure this doesn’t come off as snobbish. Celes has not been known to touch alcohol since she arrived in Lore. When approached on the subject of why, the response is simply, ‘It does not agree with me,’ with no further explanation.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Celes is, for the most part, very even-tempered. Very few things make her angry, and she is careful to NEVER lose her cool with a customer.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Physical Description:[/B] Celes is, simply put, stunning to look upon, at least if you like blondes. She is fairly tall for a woman, 5’10” with a nicely-sized chest and otherwise slim figure. Her hair is long straight, and practically yellow, and her ice blue eyes give away her every emotion.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Celes has never been seen in Lore without long sleeves, a habit many find rather strange, considering the often scorching heat. Indoors more often than not, her unblemished skin is fairly pale, something she is rather happy about.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Celes always seems to stick out in Lore. Usually clothed in fine dresses with matching boots and parasols, Celes looks like she belongs on the East Coast somewhere, perhaps in Atlanta. Her clothing hints at the money she possesses, even if no one ever sees it.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Biography: [/B]Celes was born Friday, January 14, 1848, just after midnight. The daughter of a plantation owner in North Carolina, she grew up incredibly spoiled, though exceedingly well-educated. She had kind parents who raised her softly, not even once raising their voices in anger. They were firm but gentle, and while Celes never felt the last, she nonetheless had the utmost respect for her parents, and was obedient nearly to the point of robotic.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Celes was raised with an older brother, Jeremy, two years her senior. When war broke out in ’62, Celes began to worry that her brother would be forced off to war, never to return. Her father convinced her there was nothing to worry about, certain the war would be won by the South well before her brother would be old enough to join. Her father had a permanent limp (a reminder of a poorly healed childhood injury), and was exempt from service, and Celes’ fears of losing family members to the war were temporarily calmed.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]As the war drug on, however, her fears began to resurface. Extremely close to her brother, who she spent nearly every waking moment with, she became quite anxious as his 18th birthday grew near. She pleaded with him as the day came closer, doing all she could to convince him to stay at home. It was during this time she realized just how much she cared for him. On his 18th birthday, he left for war. Celes cried for a week.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]After that week, Celes got alcohol through any means she could think of, and spent much of the time drunk. For the rest of the war, she fought with her parents over her drunkenness, every day waiting for news of her brother’s death. The news never came. Then news of the surrender came. It was nearly a year before her brother finally made it home.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Her brother was appalled with her drunkenness, and his disapproval is what led her to break from the substance she had become quite addicted to. The process was difficult and painful, and she almost couldn’t bear it. She attempted suicide one night, just to try and stop the pain. Thanks to her constant shaking, she could not manage to slice deep enough, though she has horribly scarred her arms (the reason for the shirts). Her brother walked in on this, stopped her and controlling the bleeding.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]From that point on, they were inseparable. He helped her through the withdrawals and dealing with her family. He even slept on the floor in her bedroom, just to make sure she was OK. This went on for a while, until Celes’s 18th birthday. At this point, her parents would not allow it to continue, claiming that it was not right for a boy to sleep in an adult girl’s room unless married. The siblings listened to their parents, spending all their time together during the day, but sleeping separately at night. For 6 months, they did as they were asked. Then one night, when Celes was feeling particularly down, Jeremy snuck into her room to comfort her. Though she does not know just what made her do it, even today, Celes kissed him that night, and instead of being appalled or anything like that, he returned the kiss.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]It went slowly from there, the siblings continuing their forbidden affair behind their parents’ back. Their father died from pneumonia in ‘69, and Jeremy came into possession of the plantation. He sold it and the two left, Jeremy taking a different last name so that their relation would not be known. They got married in Louisiana in ’72, and ended up in Lore in ’74. They’ve been here ever since.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Name:[/B] Jeremy Drianne (Real Name – Jeremy Brayden)[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Age:[/B] 32[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Gender:[/B] Male[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Personality:[/B] Jeremy is a man full of energy, always looking for something to do. The problem with that is, he doesn’t like people too much. That’s more because he’s always worried about his and Celes’ secret getting out, but all the same, he tends to avoid people. This makes him rather restless much of the time. Celes has tried to get him to interact, but she’s been relatively unsuccessful so far.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Jeremy tends to be very blunt when dealing with customers, his responses generally short and to-the-point. While Celes often warns him that this is rude, he just wants to get the money and continue on with his day. Needless to say, he doesn’t often deal with the customers.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Jeremy likes to spend one night a week drinking, usually Friday or Saturday. He tends to stick mostly to whiskey, though he’s known to change it up every now and again.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]When loosened up, Jeremy likes a good card game, and he never shows up at the bar with more than he can afford to lose. This is the only time he’s known to interact happily with the other townsfolk. He is an honest player with a good poker face, and he does not carry a weapon to the table (as a matter of fact, the Driannes only own one weapon – the shotgun kept beneath the counter at the store as a just in case).[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Physical Description:[/B] Jeremy is of just above average height, standing at about 6’ even. His face is long and thin, and he keeps his dark brown hair short. Unlike many of the men in the area, he keeps himself remarkably clean-shaven. His dark green eyes are the biggest secret to his poker face. He long ago learned to keep his emotions hidden, a trick he learned on the battlefield. In his early battles, he realized that the more his allies realized he was afraid, the more afraid they would become. So he learned to hide his fear, deadening his eyes to any emotion.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Jeremy generally sticks to wearing tan cowboy boots, a faded pair of blue jeans, and a button-down denim shirt, its sleeves rolled up. He finds them practical and tough, making them exceedingly convenient in this harsh atmosphere.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Bio:[/B] See Celes Drianne. While he did see his fair share of action, Jeremy has not participated in any of the major battles of the Civil War.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B] Name: [/B]Wayne Drinlo[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B] Age: [/B]24[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B] Gender: [/B]Male[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Personality:[/B] Wayne is a relatively quiet man, prone to quiet introspection and long hours thinking. Well-trained in the use of a gun and his fists, he prefers to avoid conflict at all costs. Hard-working and intelligent, he is likely the youngest banker this area has seen. He is honest to a fault, and while many people assume the only way he could’ve gotten the gold he has at such a young age is through dishonest measures, the fact is simply that he got lucky at a mine claim out in Bodie, California.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Wayne is not above having a good time, and he’s seen at the saloon at least once a month, though he paces his drinking to ensure he never has more than a buzz. He is mildly paranoid, and is known to jump at the slightest loud noise, a side effect of the amount of trouble he dealt with in Bodie (such as the gunfight that claimed his father’s life).[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Physical Description:[/B] Wayne stands at only 5’6, but weighs around 160 lbs, his stocky and muscled frame giving him a bit more mass than might be expected. His hair is a sun-bleached blonde, as he spends almost all of his time not in the bank outside. His dark brown eyes miss nothing, and his constant time outdoors means he has a perpetual tan. Unlike most bankers, Wayne is not known for formal attire. Often in jeans and boots, Wayne’s shirt is more likely to be tucked in his waistband being used as a sweatrag than it is to be on his body.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Bio:[/B] Wayne did not grow up with a lot of money. A New Yorker by birth, his father often worked multiple small jobs to keep the family afloat. While never truly lacking thanks to his father’s hard work, things weren’t necessarily easy for them. Even so, the hard work took its toll on his father, who often suffered from bouts of depression.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Wayne’s father would not allow him to search for work until he was 16, believing strongly in a child being allowed a childhood. As soon as he was allowed, he found himself a job as an assistant for an accountant. While his jobs were originally menial tasks (cleaning the office, etc), the accountant realized that Wayne had a good head for numbers, and taught him the trade.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]When whispers that gold had been found in Brodie, CA reached his ears, his father decided it was time to take a risk at a better shot in life. He brought Wayne with him, leaving his mother in the care of relatives. His mother was relatively frail, and his father worried she wouldn’t survive the trip (later events would show this was likely true).[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]With just two of them, the trip was much shorter than it may’ve been otherwise, and they were lucky enough to make it pretty much without incident. They staked a claim the very first day they arrived, thankfully having beaten the current rush by a full year. As luck would have it, they found a small amount of gold (his father had staked the claim on a hunch and nothing more) in a short period of time, and they start to mine rather enthusiastically after that.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Both were ecstatic to find they’d hit a rather rich vein, easily finding more in gold than they’d likely made in the years past. Of course, a rich vein came with serious troubles, and the two very quickly found themselves engaging in regular fights for their land. While they didn’t necessarily survive unscathed, they held their own for a good six months, getting gold as they could, even eventually hiring on another man.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]This other man proved their downfall. Around 8 months after they arrived, the man got in a drunken brawl with another miner, and guns were pulled. Wayne’s father tried to stop the gunfight, but the other miner paid no heed and fired. Drunk as he was, he missed his target, but the bullet lodged itself in Wayne’s father’s heart, and there was no saving him.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Wayne pulled a gun at that point, unloading into the drunk, then reloading. The man they hired, who they’d warned about getting drunk and starting fights, stared at him and pointed out that the other guy was dead. When Wayne told him the rounds he’d just loaded weren’t for the other drunk, the hired man turned to run. Wayne grabbed his shirt, spun him around, and pistol-whipped him. [/SIZE][SIZE=1]He told the other man that he’d take this quickly and like a man, or Wayne was going to make it really hurt.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Realizing he was dead either way, the man took two steps back, crazy enough to fumble for his gun. Wayne had pulled the trigger before the man’s gun cleared his holster. That was the last incident he dealt with in Brodie. He packed what gold they had gotten (which was plenty), and left. After a few weeks, he’d arrived in Lore, and sent off a message to his mother about his father’s death. A return letter informed him that the shock of the news had killed her.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Wayne did not take his parents’ deaths hard. He’d avenged his father’s death, and he was honestly surprised his mother’s health had not failed her earlier, and was already expecting the news, making it easier to take. While having no original intentions to stay in Lore for more than a month or so, he realized he could do well to set up the bank they were lacking, and so decided to make his home there.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]The bank is relatively new, but Wayne has already proven to be fair and honest in his dealings, though brutal in collecting debts, at least when necessary. Wayne does various carpentry jobs as needed, and the folks in Lore know to look for him around town if he’s not at the bank (he will take a break mid-job to handle banking business if needed). His big job right now is constructing a rather large stable near the general store, as Jeremy is looking to expand the business into caring for the animals of any visitors to Lore.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1][B]Name: [/B]Marion Michael Morrison (kudos and a cookie to anyone who gets this reference WITHOUT looking it up)[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Age:[/B] 32[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Gender:[/B] Male[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Personality:[/B] Marion is about as rough-and-tumble as they come. He does not put up with anything from anyone, and is as quick with his fists as with his guns. That said, Marion is a polite man when not angry, and is something of a charmer with the ladies. He is methodical in what he does, and even his voice is low and slow, when he chooses to speak.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Marion is a drinker and a smoker, though he does not drink when on the job. He’s not known for gambling, but many a would-be cheat has found himself tossed from the saloon when Marion found out.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Physical Description:[/B] At 6’4” and 240 lbs, Marion is likely the single largest man in Lore. His dark blue eyes are kept shaded by a white hat, resting atop short brown hair. Tanned from years in the West, Marion is well-built, with large, rough hands that have seen far too much fighting. He wears a dark blue denim shirt at all times, a white bandanna tied around his neck. Black jeans fit snugly to his lower half, flared just enough to fit over his tan boots.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Marion's tan gunbelt is a permanent fixture on his body, a single Colt .45 Peacemaker sitting in a custom holster on his right hip. He keeps his own Winchester ’73 Lever Action, as popular with him as with anyone else, in his office.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Biography:[/B] Marion did not start off in any way that might’ve led one to believe he’d end up like he did. Born to a New York lawyer in the winter of 1845, Marion was raised with money. He was an only child, as his mother died in childbirth and his father never remarried. Educated and well-groomed, he spent much of his youth catered on by his family’s various paid servants, all of them colored. Marion’s father, Robert, was surprisingly open minded, and not only did he ensure the children of his servants were educated, he encouraged Marion to interact with them.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Being a young boy, many of these interactions were of a rough nature, the children brawling in the backyard and engaging in any number of physical activities. Robert, an asthmatic, was glad to see his son enjoying the beauty of the outdoors. The summer after Marion turned 12, a gunfighter turned showman came to visit New York. Marion became quite taken with the skill the man displayed, wondering if he too could perhaps display that level of skill with a firearm.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Robert, of course, submitted to Marion’s request to find someone who could teach him, and the showman actually agreed to take Marion with him for a time (for a rather pretty sum of money). Over the next year, Marion was taught to use a handgun and a rifle, learning quickly and showing some natural talent with both. The next summer, Marion returned home, and the gunman went on to continue shows in other places. Marion would not see him for a very long time. Now that Marion had entered his teenage years, Robert decided it was time to introduce him to the family business. Marion quickly decided that lawyering wasn’t for him, though he did develop a sense of justice to match his father’s.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]To Marion, the Civil War started as some far away story that wouldn’t much affect him. However, as older cousins left, some coming back in boxes, others not coming back at all, and some just not coming back in one piece, he began to realize that it was far more serious than he had first thought. Upon his 18th birthday, he signed up to go to war.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]As late as he joined, Marion didn’t get to see much combat. But he saw enough to harden him. When he returned home, he was a very different man than when he’d left. He was no longer content to sit at his birthplace and watch the world go by, but he had no clue what to do with his life. Nearing his 20th birthday, he decided to go to school to become a lawyer, for no other reason than to pass the time. He got through school with some difficulty, though he did pass a bar exam. He actually worked with his father until he was 26, helping put many a criminal behind bars. But he wasn’t satisfied.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Finally, a friend of his had the idea to head west and see what they could find there. Marion could see no real reason not to, as he was rather bored in New York. Until he was about 30, Marion and his friend were bounty hunters, traveling throughout the west looking for criminals they could make some money on. For the most part, things went well. They never had a bounty outshoot them, though a few did manage to escape. Marion’s friend ended up dying when his horse broke his leg in a concealed hole, throwing his friend and breaking his neck. The loss of his partner is what made Marion decide to settle somewhere on his own. He traveled for a few months before stumbling upon Lore. The town had just lost its sheriff (natural causes), and Marion decided to step in. He’s been there ever since.[/SIZE]

[B][U][SIZE=1]Outside of Lore[/SIZE][/U][/B]
[SIZE=1][B] Name: [/B]Clark Winslow[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B] Gender: [/B]Male[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B] Age:[/B] 47[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Personality:[/B] Clark is a killer, plain and simple. He takes pleasure in taking lives, and isn’t necessarily prone to making it quick. :place>Clark:place> gambles, drinks, smokes, and takes his share of women, often whether they like it or not. He pays no heed to anyone, and is not known to work well with others, although he’s had his share of partners in crime.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Of course, this is only when Clark is being, well, Clark. A rather accomplished actor of sorts, Clark [/SIZE][SIZE=1]can put on nearly any personality he wants. [/SIZE][SIZE=1] He will often play the part of the well-mannered gentlemen fallen upon unfortunate circumstances to gain the trust of those around him before trying anything at all.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1]Clark is very, very patient when he wants something. Shrewd and tactical, he very rarely moves to soon, or messes up plans. However, when not planning something, his temper is something for legends. Most of his trouble comes from people that insulted him in some way, real or perceived. He’s killed more than one man on the spot for saying something just a little bit wrong. He never stays around long afterward.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Description:[/B] Clark’s description can be found, for the most part, in the Auditions topic. He stands around 5’10”, with a well-toned medium frame. He does not look as old as he is.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=1][B]Bio:[/B] Clark’s past is something of a mystery. Even he cannot always keep track of where he’s been and who he killed there and when. He does not ever seem to forget a comrade’s face, however. His last known location was a town called Dreary, Colorado. He left after killing a sheriff and three deputies who were after him for the rape of one of the saloon girls.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=1]I think that's it for now. I'm going to leave sign-ups open for people who want to make additional characters, but any new users who may want in should PM me first. Note that the above characters are open for having control handed over, so if you want to run one, PM me about it.
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