[hider=Cullen Smith][center][h2][color=9966CC]
Cullen Smith
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[center][img]http://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/273e723a-a15d-4a99-a40e-14a380b67e10.png[/img][/center]

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Age:[/color]
25

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Appearance: [/color]
Smith is thin, long-faced and slightly gaunt, with tousled black hair, the eyes of a chronic insomniac and a near-permanent expression of unimpressed indifference.  He wears black, apparently owning only one set of garments: a once-expensive pair of pants and suit jacket that have turned dusty and rumpled with neglect.  That, along with the fact that he never seems to button his shirt all the way, gives him the appearance of having slept in most of his clothes and never quite having bothered to get properly dressed.

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Occupation:[/color]
Gravedigger

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Personality:[/color]
Furtive, solitary, unsociable and sometimes downright rude, Smith slouches his way through life with a morose air of apathy and resignation.  He doesn’t care about news from across the pond, he doesn’t care about the comings and goings of his new home, and outside of a few scandalous (and obvious) dalliances with one or two of the younger and more attractive widows that have come a-calling, he doesn’t seem to care about chasing women.  At the end of the day, all he seems to care about is putting dead folk into the ground.  

And making sure they stay there.

[color=9966CC]History: [/color]
Smith was born in Scotland, finding work in his sixteenth year as a groundskeeper for a wealthy English family.  Though the work was less than glamorous, he was a hard worker, and he managed to scrape together some meager savings.  

The estate was thrown into turmoil as a romance blossomed between himself and his employer’s daughter.  Her father adamantly forbid the relation, and the two, hopelessly in love, conspired to soon escape together and elope to the shores of the new world.

Alas, it was all for nothing, for the Lady expired.  She had been a pale and sickly thing, and her constitution, all knew, had always been frail.  With nothing left to hope for or care about, Cullen sailed to California alone, a dark stranger waving at him from the dock as the ship hoved away over the unquiet sea.

At this point, he’s been in Job some three years and change, keeping himself to himself by that fenced-up cemetery -- to keep out scavengers, he claims, coyotes and wolves in those parts have been known to do stranger things than try to dig up a meal when they’re hungry, after all -- and he takes the quirks and weirdnesses of Job with the same lazy, unfazed indifference he takes buying flour at the local store.  He lives there alone in a modest, poorly-cared-for shack at the edge of the grounds, his only regular company a bookish young penny-counter (with the unfortunate name of Scrooge) who helps with the grounds for some extra spending money, and a dark, well-dressed stranger who stops by to visit once a year, regular as clockwork, on Samhain night.  

A candle burns behind his threadbare drapes long into the quiet hours of the morning, and folk have long since gotten used to hearing the nocturnal report of gunshots crack across the desert from the direction of the graves.

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Personal cards:
Hand: The Five of Cups, The Page of Wands.
Mysteries:  Case of the miserable bloody day where that thing happened with the cow.
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