Utterly Mad

I'd like to get in on this if possible later. I'll be upfront, I've never RP'd anything and kinda have a habit of getting drunk and forgetting about this sort of stuff. But I'm pretty familiar with the era in question and this is a cool idea!

Edit edit: As an example of kinda drunk, I am so right now and apparently missed the character sheet -copy and pasted someone else's character and edited that. Oops. Will rewrite tomorrow.

Name: Franklin Redarrow
Age: 27
Gender: "What the hell kinda question is that?"
Appearance: Frank is 6" and about 180 LBS - tall and lanky to the point of stereo-typism. Brown hair, green eyes. When he's clean, he looks like he's got a great tan going on. He ain't never clean.

Wearing: Sombrero, Pancho, Old Vest, Worn Pants, Really Worn Boots
Holster: {Horse Scabbard For Rifle}{Hip Pistol}
Weapon: {1848 Walker Revolver} {1876 Winchester Repeating Rifle}
Ammo: {24 .44 cal balls, plus powder, lube, and percussion caps for 24 shots} {15 rounds .45-75}
Inventory: {.44 cal bullet mold}{Flint and Tinder}{Knife}{Powder Horn}{World's Most Ornery Horse}{Enough dough for either another drink or a room for the night}{Acme Brand Grade A Cure All Super Tonic, Now With 10% More Cocaine!}

Skills: {Shootin'}{Smithin'}{Scalpin'}{Ballroom Dancing}
Traits: {Tough}{Mean}{Mercenary}{Mixed Race}{Drinking "Problem" (Old West PTSD)}{Theoretical Knowledge of High Society Manners}{Jaded}{Not A Great Horseman}{Hooked On Tonics!}

Childhood: Grew up in a Cherokee camp till the U.S. cavalry showed up and killed everyone. Killed my pa for bein' a white man with a red wife, killed my ma for bein' red. Took me to the city to live at the orphanage 'cause it weren't my fault I was a bit'a both. Learned some fancy society-type skills till I were old enough to work, then got apprenticed out to the local smithy. Didn't last long, didn't like the rules, an' sure as hell didn't like breakin' my back for no pay. Joined up with Sam Houston's Dragoons, fought the Meskins for a spell durin' that dustup. Been runnin' bounties both white and red since then, till I heard about the gold further out west. I ain't one for scrabblin' in the dirt, but there's gotta be a buck to be made out there for a feller like me.

Personality: While he wouldn't kill you on a whim, he probably would for a silver dollar. Not for lack of morals, but more because he's apathetic to them and more than a little bitter about life, not to mention that a silver dollar ain't no plug nickle. Capable of being polite as an east coast dandy when the situation calls for it. The situation, however, is usually quite a bit simpler to resolve with a little violence. Goes by Redarrow because Franklin is (to him) a sissy's name.

What will your posts be like?: Caught up to the Dennings boys right after the noon sun. I watched them fellers rip up the wagon train for a couple'a hours, killin' anyone fool enough to try and make a break outside the circle. Doin' them a favor, really - all the horses looked long dead, and the desert can kill a man much more slow an' ugly than a .44 ever will. Once the men were all dead, least the ones that weren't too sick to fight, them bastards moved in like a buncha buzzards. Haulin' the womenfolk back to camp, I figured - weren't nothing else worth takin' from these end of the line folks. All the better, they wouldn't be keen to me coming up on them in the dark.

Once they hightailed it, I tracked them back to the river they were set up near. Guess all the killin' musta satisfied their primal needs - didn't have no time for the women, and 'stead got set about getting rip-roarin' drunk. Was only 'bout an hour after dark that the last of them sacked out, most of 'em didn't even bother to make it back to the tents 'for they fell over - guess all that hollerin' and shootin' tires a feller out. Easy pickens. I loaded up my ol' '76, and took up a point on a little ridge 'bout 100 yards back - little risky, but I didn' see no rifles while they were knockin' over the wagons, and it'll be a cold day in hell before some drunk bandito can make that kinda shot with a wheelgun. Got all settled in, then drew a bead on the feller I figured to be the night guard - knackered as the rest, but by my count, he seemed like the only one who'd had the sense of mind to pass out before emptyin' his pistol in the dirt in celebration of the victory 'gainst a bunch of poor, sick pilgrims. Front sight on the center mass - the shot rang around like a thunderclap, and that big ol' .45 slug put him outta service real quick. Followed it up with two more slugs in two more guts right quick, addin' a little lightinin' to the thunder, got myself rewarded with two more dead boys. Musta taken 'bout five minutes for the other three to sober up and get outta their tents, and far less time by my reckonin' to put them back to sleep. Shit, I didn' even have to reload.

Slung the rifle up on Eris*, who fer once stayed put for the whole fight, and pulled my pistol - pistol's only good for when you get foolish and set yer rifle down, but it does swing a little easier in a tight space. After checkin' the caps, I edged my way real slow down to the tents 'less one of these bumpkins managed to smarten up enough to stay inside while the "fight" was happenin'. After pokin' through the first two, I let my guard get easy and straight on walked into the third tent. Got greeted by something real dirty an' hairy comin' at me with a little toothpick of a blade - front sight, center mass put an end to that something fast. Seven for seven, if only I could hold that luck at the poker table. Once I gotta good look at it, I realized it were one of the women - dunno if she was their cooky, or if she'd just been stuck there a while and figured me for a Denning. Well, ain't no time to feel bad - she shoulda known better than to try anything with that little blade anyway, and I was a might kinder to her than these bandit boys woulda been.

Freed up the other women after havin' a drink of cheap liquor - guess them bastards didn't manage to get through it all.

"Thank you kind sir! I don't know what we would have done had you not come along! It seems..."

I cut her short. "Hell, lady, don't thank me. Thank these dead fellers here for pissing someone off enough to put a $100 bounty on their heads, or I'd be back at the saloon." With that, I turned away from them women, and went to work cuttin' hair.


*Frank's horse


Just as a note, I realize that an 1876 rifle was made well after the gold rush era. The logic behind giving this fella a fancy, powerful, anachronistic shooting iron with a somewhat absurd (in RL) magazine capacity for it's time is twofold: ya'll are running pistols that (based on the fact they take cartridges) were also made well after the gold rush era, and the pistol he is equipped with, while powerful, is a relatively period correct cap-and-ball gun that takes about six minutes to load, occasionally jams under recoil, and doesn't always go "bang" when intended if it gets too dirty or rains - kind of a disadvantage should the rifle get away from him, not to mention that being addicted to a bunch of drug-based tonics probably makes it hard to him to aim a pistol anyway. Also, if you haven't ever picked up a walker before, they are about six pounds and about a foot and a half long - I personally can't run with one on my belt, and doubt I could swim either. If this is an issue (or having two guns is against some rule I missed), I can change the armament up to the norm.

I voted "2" for pretty much the above reason^ Period correct everything doesn't seem as fun as general "Wild West" type stuff, though I'd go for one in the case of social issues and setting. Not really offended by slavery and racism taking place in a fictional story set during the times when slavery was taking place and racism was everywhere. To me it would seem a little more immoral to ignore it and pretend it never happened.

edit: Added bold because wall of text. Actual posts will be shorter.

Name: Aaron Dallas
Age 23
Gender: Male
Appearance: He is a 8'4 man with blue almost grey eyes. He has a stout build, he has rough looking hands.

---

Wearing: A pair of black jeans, a white button-up shirt with sleeves rolled up, a black waist-coat, a sandy tan duster, a pair of socks, and a pair of tan leather boots.
Holster: {Shoulder strap}
Weapon: {Tomssen, Sons & Co. Coach gun with strap} {An ornate cane}
Ammo: {18 shot shells}
Inventory: {A locket, Contains a photo of mum} {A leatherbound Journal} {A set of writing utensils} {A wallet with some cash}

---

Skills: {Hunting} {Reading} {Brawling} {Skinning} [Anything goes, even whistling can be a skill.]
Traits: {Steady hands}{Eagle eye}{Walks with a limp}{An ugly looking scar on his leg}
Childhood: He had a normal childhood, he went hunting with his father during the summer. But then, during a hunting trip, a bear came and attacked him and his father, He... didn't make it, and it roughed up his leg pretty badly. He came back with his coach gun, they mostly hunted birds, he worked when he was 17. He worked at a bank, his mother has plenty of cash at home, he went to go travel on trains, stage coaches, or just walking the roads.
Personality: Rather sophisticated, A city boy you may say.

What will your posts be like?: "Bartender! Scotch please." Aaron requests the bartender, "'ey city-boy, far from home are ya'?" a large man says, he ignores him, "Hey! Answer me!" Aaron refuses to give him an answer. Aaron revives his drink, The hulking mass readies a punch, He notices it, he smashes his cane against the man's knee. he crumples to the floor, "Are you going to think about what you were about to do? Now let me have my drink and I'll won't break you kneecap." He says, he takes a drink from his scotch.