Fading MemoryHOWDY FOLKS! A Wild WIP approaches. I'll work on it more this evening once I'm home from le job.
@hour error I'm stealing most of your formatting, so thanks! :)
@hour error I'm stealing most of your formatting, so thanks! :)
Name : Samuel Gilead & Orpheus, The Dane
Age : Sammy is in his late 20s, but he looks...weathered. Orpheus is a smidgen older than the first dreams of men.
Descriptor : Known grifter, town drunk and resident crazed loon & his completely normal dog
Appearance : Sammy Gilead is looking a little worse for wear. Years of sleazy living have given him an appearance like the dead end of a deep canyon, all hard lines and deep shadows. His calloused, sore encrusted skin hangs loosely from thin bones, as if clinging on to his skeleton through sheer force of will. Flat watery eyes the color of fish scales peer from beneath long stringy clumps of unwashed hair. The dirty blonde coils of grease topped by a battered wide brim hat speckled with holes. An alcoholics nose, grown fat to resemble a prickly pear, hangs heavily above a stoutly mustachioed mouth filled with broken teeth, all stained shades of sour yellow and rot brown from years of tobacco and liquor.
Each day he is found lingering about the local saloon, wearing the same tired looking clothes, ratty threads of heavy leather, worn dull and soft from years of use and covered by a thick woven poncho that appears to have been eaten by moths.
Always lurking near his side, is Orpheus, The Dane. A great dane of imposing stature, standing nearly eye to eye with the average man, the dog is the color of a mooncast shadow and impossible-to-miss beside the skeletal visage of Samuel Gilead. While he moseys about town in a distinctly languid manner, the canine is often found statuesque, silently judging the goings on of the town with an unsettling pair of eyes which seem to shimmer oddly in the dark. The beast wears a cord of rope around its neck, with an iron trinket attached.
Biography : Sammy grew up around these parts. His upbringing is rather unremarkable, hard times making hard people in the little hamlet of Ulysses. His father, a widower in childbirth, had been a silver miner in Earlstead a few days ride from Ulysses, before it collapsed taking the best jobs and a handful of good men with it. With a source of income gone, Henry Gilead took to drinking himself to death, and spent the rest of his short years never more than arm’s reach from a bottle.
Left largely unattended, Samuel had a penchant even as a boy for ruffling feathers, often found stealing whiskey and goosing women in the local saloon and brothel, The Leaky Pitcher, beneath their petticoats. The Sheriff did what he could, but in a town like Ulyssess there was plenty else goings-on to keep his attention from raising the boy proper.
A troublesome boy became a troublesome man, growing only bolder with age, he began hustling cards, selling snake oil and occasionally taking what wasn’t his by force in the surrounding towns and settlements around Ulysses. Anything for a quick buck, which he would turn around and spend at The Leaky Pitcher when he returned home.
It is said that every frontier town has a need for a neerdowell drunkard, and Samuel Gilead fit that bill. The sheriff sort of felt sorry for the kid, occasionally tossing him in a cell to dry out, several times assuring an angry mob that Sammy would be staying there for a “long time” only to release him again once things settled down.
However, one can only outrun their reputation for so long. Rumor has it that Samuel ran afoul of another sheriff, one Geoffry Lockehart, one whom allied himself with The Bricktooth Brothers, a nasty gang of banditos that operated as a sort of additional ‘peacekeeping’ force in Quincy.
Word was that Geoffry had Samuel strung up like a cheap whore and thrown in a shallow pit somewhere out in the savage wastes of the texan desert.
But that didn’t stop Samuel from showing up back in Ulyssess a few short weeks later. Looking as if he’d aged a lifetime with a massive black hound treading quietly in his wake.
Age : Sammy is in his late 20s, but he looks...weathered. Orpheus is a smidgen older than the first dreams of men.
Descriptor : Known grifter, town drunk and resident crazed loon & his completely normal dog
Appearance : Sammy Gilead is looking a little worse for wear. Years of sleazy living have given him an appearance like the dead end of a deep canyon, all hard lines and deep shadows. His calloused, sore encrusted skin hangs loosely from thin bones, as if clinging on to his skeleton through sheer force of will. Flat watery eyes the color of fish scales peer from beneath long stringy clumps of unwashed hair. The dirty blonde coils of grease topped by a battered wide brim hat speckled with holes. An alcoholics nose, grown fat to resemble a prickly pear, hangs heavily above a stoutly mustachioed mouth filled with broken teeth, all stained shades of sour yellow and rot brown from years of tobacco and liquor.
Each day he is found lingering about the local saloon, wearing the same tired looking clothes, ratty threads of heavy leather, worn dull and soft from years of use and covered by a thick woven poncho that appears to have been eaten by moths.
Always lurking near his side, is Orpheus, The Dane. A great dane of imposing stature, standing nearly eye to eye with the average man, the dog is the color of a mooncast shadow and impossible-to-miss beside the skeletal visage of Samuel Gilead. While he moseys about town in a distinctly languid manner, the canine is often found statuesque, silently judging the goings on of the town with an unsettling pair of eyes which seem to shimmer oddly in the dark. The beast wears a cord of rope around its neck, with an iron trinket attached.
Biography : Sammy grew up around these parts. His upbringing is rather unremarkable, hard times making hard people in the little hamlet of Ulysses. His father, a widower in childbirth, had been a silver miner in Earlstead a few days ride from Ulysses, before it collapsed taking the best jobs and a handful of good men with it. With a source of income gone, Henry Gilead took to drinking himself to death, and spent the rest of his short years never more than arm’s reach from a bottle.
Left largely unattended, Samuel had a penchant even as a boy for ruffling feathers, often found stealing whiskey and goosing women in the local saloon and brothel, The Leaky Pitcher, beneath their petticoats. The Sheriff did what he could, but in a town like Ulyssess there was plenty else goings-on to keep his attention from raising the boy proper.
A troublesome boy became a troublesome man, growing only bolder with age, he began hustling cards, selling snake oil and occasionally taking what wasn’t his by force in the surrounding towns and settlements around Ulysses. Anything for a quick buck, which he would turn around and spend at The Leaky Pitcher when he returned home.
It is said that every frontier town has a need for a neerdowell drunkard, and Samuel Gilead fit that bill. The sheriff sort of felt sorry for the kid, occasionally tossing him in a cell to dry out, several times assuring an angry mob that Sammy would be staying there for a “long time” only to release him again once things settled down.
However, one can only outrun their reputation for so long. Rumor has it that Samuel ran afoul of another sheriff, one Geoffry Lockehart, one whom allied himself with The Bricktooth Brothers, a nasty gang of banditos that operated as a sort of additional ‘peacekeeping’ force in Quincy.
Word was that Geoffry had Samuel strung up like a cheap whore and thrown in a shallow pit somewhere out in the savage wastes of the texan desert.
But that didn’t stop Samuel from showing up back in Ulyssess a few short weeks later. Looking as if he’d aged a lifetime with a massive black hound treading quietly in his wake.