Outlaw (Nivel 1) mail warning

𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓:

A medium sized creature, prone to great ambition.

𝕿he Gunslinger's gait was unsettling, walking with a practiced hitch in his step, the thudding of his boots, the jingling of his spurs, and the trail of dust left from the undersides of his boots always seemed to herald his arrival, or in the case of the dust; his departure. His visage was brooding, and atop his head was a mane of silvery white hair, white as the driven snow. It was straight and long, reaching down to the back of his neck, and the sheer pallor of it caught the light, making it look as if it was glowing; be it the light of the moon or the sun.

𝕬midst the savage and brutish outlaws of the West, this soul stood as a stark contrast, almost the spitting image of the "gentleman bandit" archetype. His face was aristocratically pale and free from ALMOST any blemishes, reminiscent of a sheet of paper in both texture and appearance. The few marks his face had were obvious scars, pocks and gashes here and there, made more evident by the chilling paleness of his face.

𝕳is lips, lean and almost cruel in their thinness, frequently curled into a taunting smirk, revealing an unnaturally white set of teeth that gleamed ominously against his spectral complexion. Yet, this was not the most intimidating feature of his face, it was his eyes that ensnared and refused to let go. They were the hue of frozen tundra, a piercing ice-blue that seemed to penetrate one's very soul. These windows bore a profound melancholy, the weight of countless tragedies and unspoken horrors. Such sorrow stood in sharp contrast to his mocking smirk, painting the portrait of a man eternally trapped between the cold indifference of the dead and the haunting memories of a life once lived. They have seen too much, yet bear the unmistakable longing; a hunger for more.

𝕰nveloping his emaciated yet surprisingly robust frame was a meticulously tailored black vest, accentuating the paradox of his form—starved and skeletal, yet with an unyielding resilience that spoke of unimaginable endurance. This vest, a relic from an era long past, bore an array of gleaming silver buttons, each meticulously polished and set with precision. They caught the relentless rays of the sun, reflecting them with an intensity that belied the desolation surrounding him. The play of light on these buttons added an element of deceptive opulence to his otherwise somber attire. Hidden beneath the vest, a pristine white shirt whispered tales of bygone elegance. It rustled subtly with every move, every gesture, hinting at the restrained power that lay dormant within his frail form. Draped over this archaic fit; a long, billowing black trenchcoat danced with the winds of the wild west... if he was even wearing it.

𝕳is arms, though covered by the long sleeves of his shirt, hinted at sinewy strength. Every movement, every gesture, was deliberate, echoing the precision of a cobra poised to strike. On his right forearm, partially visible when he rolled up his sleeve, was a tattoo of a coiled snake, its alabaster scales matching his own skin tone, with sapphire eyes that mirrored his own.
Veiled in an ghostly white reminiscent of moonlight's gentle embrace, his hands told tales far more haunting than any spoken word. They glided effortlessly, with an elegance and poise that seemed almost out of place in a world defiled by chaos. Those fingers, elongated and finely sculpted, possessed the fluidity and finesse one might associate with the hands of a maestro commanding a grand piano.

𝖄et, the melodies they conjured were not born from ivory keys but from cold steel. As effortlessly as they might have danced upon a piano's keyboard, they instead found their rhythm in the weighty handles of revolvers and the sensitive triggers of long-barreled firearms. These hands, with their noble appearance, were paradoxes: both instruments of art and harbingers of death. They resonated with an aristocratic air.

𝕳is legs were usually clad in rugged black denim, black seeming to be the color of choice for this rather Gothic cowboy. the Outlaw's legs had carried him across the vast expanses of the West, from the dusty plains to the towering mountain ranges. The pants were tucked into knee-high leather boots. Those boots were well treaded... or maybe they were at one point, as years of constant use has left the soles of the boot worn down and faded. Someone could easily slip wearing those.

𝖎𝖓𝖋𝖔

† Birth ﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Birthname ⋆ Rick MacReady
Handle ⋆ Gunfighter, Gunslinger, Albino
Birthday ⋆ 7/3, Pisces
Age ⋆ 33
Gender ⋆ Male (♂)
Heritage ⋆ Caucasian - Albino

† Physicality ﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

Apparent age ⋆ ~20
Height & Weight ⋆ 6ft 0in & 120lbs.
Ethnicity ⋆ Caucasian
Physical condition ⋆ Mesomorph. Pale, thin, ghostly.
Distinguishing features ⋆ Albanism, straight white teeth, straight white hair.

† G.U.R.P.S ﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍﹍

ST (Strength): 9 (-10 points) – Given his sickly nature, Stanton isn't as strong in physical terms.
DX (Dexterity): 13 (60 points) – Quick with his guns.
IQ (Intelligence): 11 (20 points) – Cunning and wise from his years on the run.
HT (Health): 10 (0 points) – Not so close to death, Stanton remains average in endurance.

HP (Hit Points): 9
Will: 12 (+5 points) – Stubborn, steadfast even in the face of danger.
Per (Perception): 12 (+5 points) – Sharp eyes that miss little.
FP (Fatigue Points): 10

Basic Speed: 5.75
Basic Move: 5

Advantages:
Gunslinger
Hard to Kill