Factions, Families, Clans, and Empires
Appearence: Bruce is pretty much average. He stands at 6 feet tall, even ("an oddity," he once said) and weighs approximately 140 pounds. His skin is a normal color; he gets enough sun to maintain a healthy tan but never gets too dark, and spends enough time inside to become paler but never turns too milky white. His build, while cut and trim during his stint in the Army Rangers, has grown a bit of padding over his still-mostly-firm musculature. He has brown hair, which he keeps cut short, and a dusting of stubble. His eyes are his only distinguishing feature - the sharp gray of a sniper or a gunslinger, eyes that seem to cut like knives.
In terms of clothing, he dresses mostly plainly. He wears jeans that are bleached from exposure to sun and elements, the hem worn down from months of being scuffed on the sidewalk, and a pair of sturdy logging boots. He wears simple, neutral-colored t-shirts with a beaten-up, patchy, black Carhartt jacket with a flannel lining (in the summer he trades it for a similar vest).
Profession: No fixed profession. Bruce works several odd jobs whenever he has the chance, but has yet to be hired since his discharge.
Personality: Bruce is mostly kind and warms easily to new people. He enjoys what most working-class men enjoy - women, booze, and paychecks. As he has little family to speak of - most of them either retired, six feet under, or leading successful lives and forgetting about his existance - Bruce treats his friends like his family, and would go to great lengths to help them if needed. He's very much a social person, spending little time at home and most of the time at bars, sporting events or just walking the streets.
Bio: Former Corporal Bruce Tyrone Lawson, United States Army Rangers. Now there's a story. Lawson was born in Iowa - the ass end of Iowa, to be precise - to a fairly affluent family with a good track record for producing intelligent, decent men and women who went on to get jobs like lawyers, doctors, et cetera, and live in beautiful homes with beautiful trophy wives and beautiful children who would repeat the whole cycle again. Lawson... Wasn't one of those children.
From an early age, Lawson was a trouble maker - several times throughout elementary and middle school he found himself in trouble for several incidents, the most heinous (and funny) of which involved him, a monkey wrench and the school's plumbing system. High school found him in a worse way. He fell in with the wrong crowd and built up a hell of a bad track record, netting him the title of "The Lawson's Black Sheep". After barely graduating (squeaking by with an extremely low average), Lawson worked for slave pay (minimum wage), desperately trying to eke out an existance. But a while passed, things happened (bad things), and after one terrible choice too many, Lawson found his life diverged in a yellow wood, with two paths marked by a signpost. One sign read "Prison", the other "The Armed Forces". Lawson joined the Army and (somehow) managed to overcome his criminal record and become a part of the United States Army Rangers, where he saw deployment in the Middle Eastern Conflict. From the time of his deployment, Lawson served two tours of duty, logged over seven hundred hours of mission time and was promoted to the rank of Lance Corporal.
Then... Things started happening. Bad things. Again.
Lawson was on his first deployment in what was to become his third tour of duty when he awakened to find himself in a bombed out ruin surrounded by the corpses of several men and women, atop a small mountain of spent cartridges. When his company found him the next day, it was discovered that the dead men and women all had nothing to do with what was being fought in the Middle East (terrorism, oil monopolies, etc.). So Lawson was found guilty of war crimes and discharged from the Army with no honors.
After that, life was hard. With "instability" stamped on his resume and a surprising aptitude for finding himself awakening in the morning smelling sulfur and gunsmoke and seeing several dead or wounded men and women in various positions about himself, it became hard to find and keep a job. So Lawson drifted. And drifted. And... You get the point. Eventually he wound up here. Where-ever here is.
Alter's Name: The Drifter
Appearence: The Drifer's face is perpetually shadowed by the wide-brimmed slouch hat that he wears atop his head, but it can be seen that he has a great, bushy black beard and shoulder-length, scraggly black hair. He stands at 6'5" tall and weighs almost 200 pounds, all of which is raw muscle, and he appears to pretty much be mountainous in all respects. He has huge, leathery hands, a barrel chest, a neck as thick as an oak tree trunk and legs that could probably kick a full-grown bull elephant to death, or somewhere close. His skin has tanned to the color of old leather and has about the same consistency, and a long scar runs across the length of his face.
He wears the clothing of an Old West desperado, looking like he walked right off the set of High Plains Drifter or Pale Rider. He wears a long-sleeved cotton shirt with the first three buttons undone, over which is a blue patterned waistcoat that is worn unbuttoned. Thrown over that is a gaudy gold-and-red hand woven poncho. His pants are adorned with a worn pair of dark jeans and high boots (not riding boots). Around his waist are a pair of heavy revolvers, and slung around his shoulder is an ammo bandolier.
Abilities: The Drifter has an uncanny, almost magical, ability to fire his revolvers accurately. He is able to hit targets that his guns should not be able to hit, over impressively long distances, and sometimes even seems to curve the bullets so that they meet their target. He can also shoot extremely quickly, once recorded as firing all twelve shots from both revolvers in just under four seconds. The Drifter also shows impressive physical abilities - he can take an impressive amount of punishment from melee and projectile weapons before being hurt, can sprint for long distances (not quickly, but very far), and is about as easy to stop when moving as attempting to stop a main battle tank with a sheet of rice paper and a pair of crossed fingers.
Personality: Quiet and detatched. A very no-nonsense person you definitely want on your side, because God be with you if he isn't. The Drifter is born to do one thing, and do it very well - and that is to kill. If you point him at someone and tell him to kill that person, no matter how long it takes or how many people he has to slaughter, The Drifter will doggedly pursue that person.
Bio: Not really much to say. The Drifter first came to being in the Middle East, when several villagers happened upon a sleeping Lawson, who was in a hut after having been left to recon a village with suspected bomb-making facilities hidden in it. The Drifter appeared and slaughtered every villager. From then on, the Drifter has been wandering from place to place with Lawson, killing whoever he is told to - and actively seeking people to kill when he isn't already shooting someone.
Theme Song: "Triggernometry" (Red Dead Redemption soundtrack)