Tybalt Capulet

Original Story: Three Bullets Of One's Love { Tybalt & Angel }

Gotcha! I can put both those bits in easily. Also, if you like, I can totally do some editing on characteristics, make Owen lean a little more oblivious. They've survived some tough stuff, though, thus the more cynical mannerisms. Though, to be fair, I like the idea of them growing softer around her.

Original Story: Three Bullets Of One's Love { Tybalt & Angel }

Fawn

Full Name: Awinita Farrow
Alias(es): Fawn

Age: 19

Occupation(s): Traveling laborer, occasional hired gun, her brother's keeper.

Race: Half-Cherokee
Sexuality: Lesbian/ Homosexual
Gender: Female
Height: 5'3"
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Brown/gold

Immediate Relatives: Owen Farrow, half-brother.

Weapon(s): Volcanic semi-auto pistol, skinning knife.

Summarized Biography:
Fawn and her brother were born two years apart, though they didn't meet until they were twelve and fourteen, respectively. While Owen grew up in a moderately-sized town, with a solid education and the luxuries that their father, a banker, could afford him, Fawn, as a bastard daughter,
was left to live with her mother's family among the Cherokee people. While Owen learned to read, write,
and manipulate, Fawn learned to hunt, track, and hold her own against any who would try to deny her what was hers.
Upon the death of Fawn's mother, her father brought her to town to live with him and Owen, the brother she had only ever heard of. For three years she lived in town, miserable as she had to give up all vestiges of her native heritage. She learned to read and write, albeit poorly, and built within her an immense dislike for the white side of herself.
Eventually, everything went sideways, and after an accusation of fraud, Theodore Farrow, their father, was hanged for corruption. Owen, rather than sticking around town, headed out, sister in tow, in hopes of making something of themselves outside of their father's overbearing shadow. Fawn went back to wearing earrings and leathers, and took advantage of the skills she still held from her childhood to help to protect the only family she had left. While Owen used his clever words and quick hands to earn them their path to fortune, Fawn acted as a backup, her pistol and knife a useful solution to any problem that couldn't be solved with smooth talking.

Personality: Fawn has no time for niceties and pretty words. Where her brother is roundabout and circumspect, she is direct, straightforward, and often painfully blunt. She usually sees force as the best solution to any problem, and treats her Volcanic as a hammer in a world full of nails. This isn't to say that she doesn't have a soft side, but compared to her brother, she seems much more typical of the western wastes. While she keeps her emotions fairly bottled up, she is quite overt in her sexuality, and doesn't hesitate to engage in week-long flings with anything in a skirt that catches her fancy.

Portrayer: Aimee Carrero

Owen

Full Name: Owen Farrow
Alias(es): Miles Terris, William Hawman, many others

Age: 21

Occupation(s): Traveling laborer, musician, gambler.

Race: Scottish-American
Sexuality: Straight/Heterosexual
Gender: Male
Height: 5'9"
Hair Color: Blond/Brown
Eye Color: Hazel

Immediate Relatives: Fawn Farrow, Half-sister

Weapon(s): Derringer two-shot pistol, metal-capped walking stick

Summarized Biography:
Owen lived a life of plenty for the early years of his life, and the addition of his sister to his dysfunctional little family did nothing to lessen that. Upon the death of his father, he headed West, taking only what he needed: some food, some clothes, and his sister. The early years were difficult, palm-callusing times, but they strengthened both of the siblings, showing them both how beautiful and how cruel the world can be to wanderers in the wild.

Personality: It takes a hard man to survive in the West. Owen Farrow is not one of those men. Where his sister relies upon her skill with a pistol or knife, Owen plays to his own strengths, talking his way into or out of almost any situation. He can appear confident, jovial, or timid, in a minute's notice. While he tends to seem friendly and open, at least compared to his sister, in reality he can be both petulant and constantly worried beneath the surface. Far less promiscuous than Fawn, he rarely dallies with the women they come across, instead playing wingman to his libidinous sister. This isn't to say that he could not be convinced, though...

Portrayer:Louis Ball

Alrighty! I wasn't sure what "Portrayer" was, but here they are! Let me know if anything needs fixin'!

Retribution [The Legend of Colt Clementine]

Awesome! I'm glad he's compelling! It's weird, this is evening here in Oregon. Anyway, no hurry, but I am excited!

Retribution [The Legend of Colt Clementine]

The sound of the ruckus downstairs didn't mean much to Reuben. Hell, nothing meant much to him anymore. As he tugged up his trousers, he found himself swaying a bit, almost as though the wooden floorboards were those of a ship.

"Going so soon?" The aging whore looked over her shoulder at him as he dressed, apparently both eager for him to leave, and skeptical about when shed be getting her payment.

"Hmph. Nothing of the sort. I'm just going t' get myself another drink. I'll be back in just a bit, and we'll see if you have any holes tighter than that sad gash you're tryin' t' sell me."

"That costs--"

"I know it costs extra. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, woman. I hired you as a whore, not as a wife. Quit your nagging and fix your face. You've dropped an eyelash." He buckled his gunbelt low on his waist, where it would be easy to draw from, and stumbled out into the hallway. He just had to get to the bar, then remember his room. Second on the right. That was easy enough. He gripped the wooden railing tightly as he strode, heavy-footed, down the stairs, scuffing his boots against the steps to force them on more solidly.

The gathering-room downstairs was quite a sight. Something had clearly gone down, but whatever it was, he didn't much care. He somehow managed to land himself in a seat along the bar, where he raised a finger to catch the barkeep's attention. He placed an order for bourbon, by the bottle, and rolled a heavy coin idly along the scratched wooden bar as he waited.

A heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he went for his gun instinctively.

"Whoa, there. No need for that, Luckshot! I'm not lookin' for any trouble." The speaker was a thick-gutted man, with soft features and often-patched clothing.

"Tarson." Reuben looked at the portly man distastefully. "I told you the last time I saw you, I'm not going to be your hired gun. I'm over all that shit." His drink arrived, a stout bottle, and he forced the cork free with a slight grunt of exertion. He took a long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt the slowly greying bristles of stubble, and realized it'd been a couple of days since he'd bothered to shave. Damn, but time passed quickly when you were waiting around to die.

Tarson waved his hands before him, as though trying to physically dispel the notion. "No, no, nothing of that sort. I won't keep you for long. I'm sure you have... other things to occupy yourself with." He looked Reuben up and down, taking in the taller man's unkempt appearance and crookedly-buttoned shirt. Given the reputation of the saloon, there was little doubt what Reuben had been up to.

"The fact is, Mister Luckshot, that there might finally be a job to keep your interest." He smiled, a rather oily, untrustworthy look. "You see, there is a proposition that appeals to all of your interests. A chance at wealth, lovely company, a spot of vengeance, and even--"

He was cut off by the thump of the bottle against the table. "Say your damn piece, man. I've a middle-aged woman who says she's twenty to get back to." He started to rise from his stool, gripping the neck of the quickly-emptying bottle.

"Alright, I'll be brief! I'm sorry, mister Luckshot, sir. There's a girl who was in here, real young-lookin' thing, right pretty if I do say so myself. She were lookin' for someone like you to help her get vengeance or something. Said she could pay handsomely..." He trailed off as the other man stepped back toward the stairs.

"I'm not interested, Tarson. I'm no Luckshot anymore. I'm just Reuben Caerwynn now. And fact is, I'm not interested in any get-rich-quick plan of yours. I'm sure you mean well... no, actually, I doubt that, but either way, I have a cheap whore who wants to be paid. Let me know if you want to share a drink some time, but don't waste my time with rescue or revenge." He turned away from the sputtering man, stumbling more and more as the bourbon, his third bottle that day, started hitting. He elbowed roughly past a couple of upstarts crowding the way, growling under his breath at them. They were the sort to start wearing a gun once they left home, wispy mustaches and like-new boots telling more about them than their likely-to-crack voices could.

Back up the stairs he went, relying more and more on the handrail as his boots nearly slipped. First door on the... no, that wasn't right. Second door. Which side? Left. No, that couldn't be. Right? He thought back to coming down the stairs. No, it had to be on the left. He passed the first door, then at the second on the left, he threw the door open, hands on his belt buckle to begin undoing it as he did.

"I'm back, you worn-out piece of meat--" He stopped, seeing a young woman resting, fully clothed on a bed that was not the one he had been in. "Who the hell are you?"

Retribution [The Legend of Colt Clementine]

THIS IS SO GOOD! I've started working on my post, too, but my gosh! You really write so that I can picture everything as it happens. Abigail Kate is already so compelling, and you've given me a lot of space to act within!

Retribution [The Legend of Colt Clementine]

Reuben "Luckshot" Caerwynn

Name: Reuben "Luckshot" Caerwynn

Age: 35

Gender: Male

Appearance: Reuben has the appearance of a man who has aged faster than is rightfully fair. Though not an old man, the harsh environment of the untamed west has weathered his skin and his temperament quicker than a softer live would have. His brown hair has begun to silver at the temples, and his short-trimmed stubble has a bit of a salt-and-pepper look to it. Overall, he could easily pass as ten years older than her really is, if not more. Despite this, no one would mistake him as a weak man, if only based on his well-muscled frame and confidence around a firearm.

His clothing matches his demeanor: rough, weathered, but practical and nondescript. He wears primarily well-worn leathers, with a wide-brimmed hat and low-hanging gunbelt, both beaded slightly, hinting at his Comanche heritage.

Personality Strengths: Reuben considers himself an excellent judge of character, and he's mostly right. He is also quite practical and capable, and acts accordingly, choosing the path of least resistance when he can. Despite his appearance, he is a genuinely compassionate man, and hates to cause unneeded harm when it can be avoided. Unfortunately, in the West, it rarely can.

Personality Flaws: For all his competence and strength, Reuben is also a gruff, abrasive bastard. He has difficulty opening up, and his default emotion is guarded discontent. He relies on strong drink and mindless activity (from whittling, to cleaning his guns, to the hiring of "soiled doves" at local brothels) to keep himself occupied, preferring it to anything requiring emotional investment.

Skills:
-Survival. The west is, indeed, wild. It takes a strong man to survive in the worst of it, and in his youth, Reuben sought out the worst that the wild had to offer, and made it out alive. While he's perhaps passed his prime, he holds this talent still. Everything form woodsmanship to hunting fall under this.
-

Weapons:
-Bowie knife (The cowboy's sword. Nearly a foot long, sharp enough to shave with.)
-Shotgun (Slugs or shot) in leg or saddle holster
-Schofield 6-shot revolver
-Breast pocket Derringer (2-shot, low caliber. More for emergencies than function.)

History:

Believe it or not, in his youth, Reuben was an idealistic man, almost to a fault. He spent his life as a benevolent bounty hunter, bringing in criminals in aid of the law. He lived this way for years, hunting the scum of the earth with a silver star on his chest. He even made a name for himself, his impressive marksmanship and good fortune earning him the epithet "Luckshot." Eventually, that stopped being enough. The law, which had motivated him for so many years, stopped being enough. He began seeing lawful men act despicably, and men he was contracted to bring in act honorably. Confronted again and again with this knowledge, Reuben eventually turned in his badge, choosing instead to make use of his knowledge and experience to better the lives of those he deemed to be noble people, not just those whom he was told were good.

'Save the world' fantasy adventure. ( Not typical RP)

Firstly, love the Shallan profile! I'm definitely interested in this!

✧ Talrae ✧ (LOOKING FOR CO-GM)

Aster

Health: 1,500/1,500
Mana: 300/300
Renn: 762

To all outward appearances, the vaporous wolves were something like intangible. Their misty appearance was so unusual, so out-of-the-ordinary, it would give pause to any rational player, reminding them that this was not reality, and that the rules of this game were unknown and fickle.

Aster charged straight at Wolf 1.

Her hair streamed out behind her like a flag in the breeze, and she felt the familiar scratching feeling in her throat as she let out a whooping screech of excitement at the thrill of combat. Her soft-shoed feet padded softly against the stones as she raced towards the vaporous foe. Her Katana cleared its sheath in a smooth motion, glowing slightly as she activated her triple-strike ability against the enemy, even as she drew forth her blade.

Summary:

Aster is a wonderful character, but dumb as rocks sometimes.
Attacks wolf 1 (recklessly) with triple strike.

Walking Dead: Europe Interest Check

@PoiSounds great!

Somewhere Over The Mountains

This was starting to look like a real quest. The sort of thing that legends were made of. Elodan rubbed his hands together eagerly, knuckles bumping uncomfortably against each other. He ran a quick self-check, running over the equipment he had available. It looked like they'd be heading out soon, so by his estimate, he'd be stuck with the gear he had now.

Let's see here... Stiletto, though it could do with sharpening. Merlin, though it could use a tuning. Flute, a bit dented. Food, only two dozen scones. Hmm. I could do with more variety, but then,
scones taste so damn good. Aha! A bit of booze, too. Looks like I'm all set.

For all his brazen confidence, Elodan was far from sure as to what his next course of action should be. Most of the other travelers seemed... hmm. What was the word for it? Competent, perhaps? Yes, that was part of it. He had plenty of faith in himself, so long as he wasn't expected to fight, but then, fighting seemed a rather important aspect of the upcoming trip. Well. No matter. He had other skills.

Striding confidently forward, Elodan closed most of the distance between himself and the King, such that he was perhaps two paces away from the imposing man. With a smile that showed none of his brilliant teeth, he bowed flamboyantly, then stood straight once more, with an air of gravity quite out of place with his flashy clothing.

"My lord king. Er, Emperor. Either way! I will do you the honor of joining your merry contingent. No, no, do not protest. It is no trouble. I recognize my worth, and will nonetheless lend my aid to your party." He stepped closer.

"Imagine, if you will, sire, the ballads that I will compose. Not crude, vagrant's ballads like some--" He spared a glance for the other bard, whose presence unnerved him more and more. "No, nothing like that. Glorious odes to your might and majesty which will be sung for generations! Songs and tales of your swashing blows against beasts such as you have described, of your bravery in the face of danger! Why, with me composing your history, the history of this adventure, even a coward should seem heroic. Thing how much greater you shall appear, a man so far from cowardice in nature!"

He was now practically nose-to-nose with the Emperor, his eyes shining with a hint of madness. He hurriedly scurried a pace back, then waited patiently for a response to his offer of aid.