[center]Rootin’, tootin’, toil n’ shootin’

Fire burn and cowboy bootin’

Eye of newt and spicy beans,

Toe of frog and denim jeans,

Whiskey, grits, n’ demon spittle

Tossed into my iron griddle

With the tannin’ of our hides,

[b][i]Somethin’ wicked this way rides[/i][/b][/center]
[CENTER][COLOR=SLATEGRAY][B]C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T   P R O P O S A L[/B][/COLOR][h1][b]T H E  B O U N T Y  H U N T E R[/b][/h1][hr]
[img]https://imgix.bustle.com/inverse/98/8b/b4/cc/cc11/4f95/93c2/5a857652c31c/jonah-hexjpg.jpeg?w=2000&h=640&auto=format%2Ccompress&cs=srgb&q=70&fit=crop&crop=faces&blend=1f1f1f&blendAlpha=45&blendMode=normal[/img][h3][sup][sub]J O N A T H A N  W O O D S O N  H E X  ♦   B O U N T Y  H U N T E R  ♦  T U S C O N ,  A R I Z O N A  ♦   T H E  W I L D  W E S T[/sub][/sup][/h3][img]IMAGE/BANNER[/img]
[/CENTER][INDENT][B][SUP][SUB][H3]C H A R A C T E R   C O N C E P T:[/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr]
[CENTER][sup]"Ya last gunfight ain’t always the one that kills ya. Sometimes it’s the one that don’t."[/sup][/CENTER]
[INDENT][INDENT][i]What makes a man an outlaw? 

What drives a man away from civilisation, and turns him to seek the harsh solitude of the desert? To seek such a barren place, so scornful of humanity that he spurns it entirely, and walks out into a wasteland devoid of life? 

What makes a man turn against his nature? What takes a good heart and noble soul, and twists both until they are unrecognisable, even to a mother, even to the very individual himself?

For Jonah Hex, the answer was Love. 

Born November 1820. Died August 1863. And now, some 200 years after his first arrival, Jonah Hex rises again from beneath the sands of the Sonoran Desert and walks back into the world of man. His head swims with figments and memories, his brain frantically seizing any thread of reality it can find, past or present. Family. Slavery. Freedom. Betrayal. Names and faces fade in and out, but nothing feels as real as the sand in his boots or cold steel in his hands. But for Jonah, newly alive and lost in the modern world, merely one question remains. 

What makes a man come back?[/i][/indent][/indent]
[INDENT][B][SUP][SUB][H3]C H A R A C T E R   M O T I V A T I O N S   &   G O A L S:[/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr][INDENT][INDENT][i]"Now Roman", you say, confusion in your voice, "are you sure you have not made a mistake? I appreciate Daredevil is defunct, this being a DC game and all, but this 'Jonah Hex' fellow hardly looks ANYTHING like Constantine. Are you feeling well, my good man? Perhaps you are an impostor. Yes, that's it, a charleton, masquerading as our dear Roman. WHO ARE YOU? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR ASSOCIATE??!"

"Now Now," I reply, the faintest hint of amusement tinging my response, "I heard of this wonderful new technique from some respected colleagues of mine known as 'trying something new'. Now I know this is shocking - originality has not always been looked well upon in our line of work - but I must admit some fancy took to my mind that night and I resolved to experiment. So behold, gentlemen! The fruits of my labour!"

I also love cowboys and westerns and love mixing the genre with spooky supernatural goings-on. I don't know much about Jonah but I know a little about surly, miserable men with guns. This will be a Jonah out-of-time, reconciling having to rediscover his own history through fragmented memories with having to learn this strange new modern world and how to live in it, as well as trying to figure out why he's even alive 100-and-something years after his death deep in the desert. There will be heartache, mystery, bad guys and gunslinging, and hopefully three or four iterations of this game from now I'll be the 'Jonah Hex' guy and a Constantine sheet will seem just as bold and mold-breaking.[/i][/indent][/indent]
[INDENT][B][SUP][SUB][H3]C H A R A C T E R   N O T E S:[/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr][INDENT][INDENT][i][hider=Revenant]"Revenent, [ˈrɛv(ə)nənt], Noun. A person who has returned, especially supposedly from the dead." Jonah has returned from the grave, and he's picked up some peculiarities with it: resistance to pain; extraordinary stamina; no need to eat, drink, or rest. He has also lost his memory and has no idea why he's suddenly alive again, but has a burning purpose to uncover his mystery.[/hider][/i][/indent][/indent]
[INDENT][B][SUP][SUB][H3]S A M P L E   P O S T:[/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr][INDENT][INDENT][hider=][i]Bevis Neadle picks up his phone and checks the local public alerts. The main one today is an excessive heat warning, cautioning temperatures in excess of 108 Fahrenheit, worse deeper into the desert with no cloud coverage and minimal winds to carry the heat away. The alert has been active for two days, and warns of a further four to come before some kind of relief; those who can are advised to remain sheltered from the sun, and hydrate with a steady of supply of water, avoiding salty foods. Bevis’ AC is running full kilter, and still when he sits he can feel drops of sweat beading down his face. The water from his taps comes out lukewarm at best, and is unpleasant and un-refreshing to drink, but he drinks anyway, sometimes filling up a few glasses and setting them in his fridge for an hour or two just to have some cool water in the house. His dog has not moved from in front of the unit, and Bevis had had to move the food and water bowl closer to his spot so that he would eat and drink. The curtains are all drawn to block sunlight from entering the house, and he moved his pillow downstairs two nights previous to sleep on the cooler wooden floor of the living room, no blanket required. 

With all this in mind, Bevis picks up his binoculars and looks out of the back window to watch the lone figure currently walking at a steady pace out of the desert towards his house. He has no idea who the man is, dressed in slacks, boots, shirt, vest, and a ragged but impressive hat, and Bevis can see from here the distinct shape of a pistol hanging on the figure’s hip, but he is sure the man should be dead. Bevis noticed him this morning, waking up as the heat began to rise and made sleep too uncomfortable to be possible, but he had been a distant blur dismissed as mirage then. Over the course of the day Bevis had kept checking though, and when the blur gained a solid outline, he knew it was no mirage. Someone was walking out of the desert in near-120 degree heat. 

Bevis went out to greet him at 8PM, some 100-odd metres from his property line. This close he didn’t need the binoculars, and he could see the man was covered in dirt and sand, sweat staining his clothes and his boots covered in dust kicked up by the desert winds and his own feet. He looked old - not age wise, just not of the modern era - his garments battered and worn and not like any contemporary fashion Bevis knew about, simple but sturdy in their construction. He looked like a cowboy from the old stories. His face was...his face was a mess. Bevis averted his eyes as he called out to the man. He was nervous, knowing something unnatural was at play but not wanting to acknowledge or address it. The cowboy had long since spotted him, and came to a halt at Bevis’ fence, resting a single hand on the gate. Bevis allowed himself to be reassured by his rifle, leaning against the wall of his house just behind him. 

“H-hello there, stranger!” Bevis began. The cowboy regarded him through his one good eye. “Been watchin’ you most the day. You come a long way there.”
The cowboy snorted and spat at the ground, Bevis glancing at how the horrific disfigurement stretched up and beyond his mangled ear as he turned his head. 
“Might I ask where you’ve come from?”
The question hung in the air. 
“The grave.” The cowboy’s voice was deep, gravelly. He spoke with a survivor’s grit. Bevis processed the answer and decided to discard it. 
“Then you’re lookin’ pretty fine all considered. You need water?”
“I ain’t thirsty.”
Bevis swallowed, his throat dry. The whole situation was wrong, but his mind rebelled against the knowledge. 
“Bread? Beef?”
“Ain’t hungry neither.” 
“Where you headed?”
“To find some answers.”
Bevis was close to officially checking out of the entire circumstance. He eyed the pistol on the cowboy’s hip. The cowboy noticed. 
“Ain’t got no reason to draw ‘less you give me one.”
“I ain’t lookin’ to give you one.”
“Then I reckon we gon’ be just swell.”

The cowboy lingered at the gate, surveying the landscape ahead of him beyond Bevis’ small house. 
“We in Arizona?” He asked. Bevis stuttered, befuddled by the question. 
“Y-yeah.”
“Then if you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of Armadilla, I would tip my hat in gratitude and be on my way.”
“A-Armadilla?”
“We are in Arizona?”
“Y-yes, but there ain’t no Armadilla ‘round here.”
“Arizona [b]America[/B]?”
Bevis just nodded. The cowboy sighed. 
“Then if you just point me toward the closest drinkin’ town, I’ll make do.” 
“D-drinkin’ town?”
“Just tell me where in the goddamn hell I can get some liquor, boy!”
Bevis jumped at the cowboy’s sudden shouting, and took a step back towards his rifle. The cowboy slowly laid a hand on his holster.  
“A-Ajo town’s 30 miles. T-Tucson’s another hundred after that.” He finally spat out, his voice shaking. 
The cowboy nodded, removing his hand from his gun to tip his hat. “Then I hope Ajo’s got a reputable whiskey-slinging establishment.” He said, letting go of the fence and beginning to walk again. 

Bevis watched him go, not moving from his porch as the cowboy slowly and steadily disappeared from view over the horizon, never wavering in his gait. When the sun had finally gone down, and the cowboy was completely lost from view, Bevis went back inside, drunk directly from the tap, wiped himself down, then fainted. [/i][/hider][/indent][/indent]
[INDENT][B][SUP][SUB][H3]P O S T   C A T A L O G:[/H3][/SUB][/SUP][/B][/INDENT][hr][INDENT][INDENT][i]TBC, partner.[/i][/indent][/indent]