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Digithe Joined: 24 Aug 2003 Posts: 884 | Posted: Sat Jul 08, 2006 10:52 pm This is subject to change, in a theoretical sense, because I don't really like the ending (there simply is none). I say theoretical, because I know I probably won't ever actually get around to editting it XD;
Name: Vincent Age: 22 Occupation: Whatever suits him Alliance: Himself Items: Single-action Colt “Peacemaker” (Standard 6 chambers), Customized Single-action Colt Army (9 chambers; family heirloom), Customized Single-action Smith and Wesson (7 chambers; family heirloom), Derringer two-barreled mini-pistol Physical Description: As in pretty much everything else he does, Vincent defies the norm with his manner of dress. He doesn’t wear the generic “outlaw” clothing – dusty, torn up cloth shirts and leather chaps – but instead dresses almost like a banker. He almost always wears nice black slacks, a matching vest, a relatively clean white shirt, and, of course, a black “cowboy” hat. The only thing about him that resembles someone on the other side of the law is his leather duster. This duster, which goes nearly to his ankles, looks to have seen many years and several battles. There are several holes along the edges, and the leather is worn and very soft. This is Vincent’s favorite piece of clothing, because not only does it keep him warm on cold nights, but hides his weapons easily. His 9-chambered Colt Army can only be seen if looking for it from its holster on a second belt, hanging just low enough for its handle to be right where Vincent’s hand is when laying at his side. The Smith and Wesson is right at waist level, but the holster is on the back half of the belt, and thus completely invisible. Also invisible is the small Derringer, which he keeps tucked into a sleeve, in case of emergencies. Last, the most visible of his weapons, is the Peacemaker, which is right at his hip on the left side, leading some to believe that he is Left-handed. Besides his attire, Vincent sports a ruggedly-handsome face and a kind-hearted smile whose warmth is reflected in his strikingly blue eyes. His sandy brown hair is reasonably well kept and neatly combed. Personality: Vincent is compassionate to a fault. At least, when speaking to a lady. Around women, he is chivalrous and respectful, with a clean mouth and a clean mind – his eyes never wander, and neither do his hands. When around men, however – especially those with alcohol on their breath and sex on their minds – he becomes, as some have said, a demon. Despite being a man himself, Vincent despises nearly all men, and has no mercy when it comes to those that are being crude in front of a woman. Heaven help the man who wrongs a lady in Vincent’s presence. History: Vincent grew up in a fairly well-to-do family, and, at the urging of his mother, received the best of education, with a particular emphasis on liberal arts. From his father, he learned how to wield a pistol better than any man alive on either side of the law, a trade secret developed through several generations. His father was a well-respected sheriff in a town with hardly any crime. His father before him and the father before him were both generals in the army. Had there been a war, Vincent’s father would have also been a general in it. As there wasn’t, however, he took the position of sheriff, and did his job well. The jail in the town was small, but that suited it – very few people risked breaking the law in Vincent’s father’s town. He was good at his job – both as a lawman and as a father. Besides how to handle a weapon, Vincent’s father taught him how to treat a lady, something he never forgot. His mother reinforced these latter teachings rigorously. Vincent’s mother was easily the most influential person in his early life. She taught him to read and write at a young age, and insisted that he know how to make music at least as well as he knew how to handle a gun. And so she taught him everything she knew about the piano and the fiddle, insisting that he practice daily. Though he disliked the teasing some of his friends gave him for doing something “girly” like playing violin, he trusted that his mother knew what she was doing, and learned anyway. When he quickly improved and began impressing, however, people, they stopped laughing. When Vincent was only a boy of thirteen – newly turned, in fact – his dear mother fell ill and soon died. In her will, she left him her most prized possession – her violin. She had little else to give him, of course, except for a letter which she penned shortly before her illness. It was brief, but written eloquently, as was her way. Though she was a humble woman, she was very proud of her education. While she would never even think of bragging about it, she never hid it in her writing. The letter, essentially, urged Vincent to remain true to his self, no matter what. She maintained that he should lead a happy life, and that she should be happy wherever she ended up, so long as he didn’t forget his studies or his music, remained true to his upbringing, and did what made him happy. Vincent took her death hard, just as one might expect. He remained in school, of course, as that was his mother’s dying wish. He didn’t even miss a day to mourn her. In fact, his fellow students didn’t even notice anything. If they did not hear from their parents and other friends, none would ever have known that Vincent’s mother had died. However, when he was at home for two weeks after, he mourned her death by practicing feverishly at the violin and piano for many hours at a time. It was only after these two weeks passed that he truly began to feel himself again, though he still practiced at least an hour a day. If Vincent took it hard, then his father was truly crushed. He had loved her unwaveringly, and felt as though someone had ripped out his heart from his chest when she died. This man who had never had more than one drink of whiskey a week now turned to the bottle for solace, and without restraint. He neglected his duties. He was hardly ever at his office, and when he was, he was certainly drunk and not without a bottle in his hand. He was drunk almost continuously, such that he rarely experienced a hangover – indeed, as soon as he woke up to one, he would drown it in still more liquor. After several years of this, Vincent could take no more. He was tired of his father, he was tired of alcohol, and he was tired of trying to find work to feed his father’s addiction. Most importantly, however, he had finished his high school education. By then, his father had lost his job, and they were beginning to drain the family’s fortune. Vincent had managed to find some work doing various odd jobs about town, but nothing was reliable. Vincent decided to start anew. Praying for forgiveness from his mother for not immediately attending college – he should have nothing to pay for it with, anyway – he left and didn’t look back. When he left, he took (or, as he said “rescued”) the family heirlooms, two beautifully decorated and customized revolvers, his father’s own pistol (he hoped to protect him from committing suicide), a rifle that had been a birthday present, and his mother’s violin. Vincent should surely have died sometime soon, for though he could wield a pistol better than just about anyone, and had studied a great deal, he had no idea where he was going he knew very little about the “real world.” It was only through an act of God that he stumbled upon a Native American tribe who, after being given a rifle as a peace offering, were very gracious and helpful. As he was a fast learner, and naturally gifted in the arts – a trait from his mother – he learned their language through various interactions and learned their ways. He learned how to survive in the wild, and how to ride and respect a horse. In turn, he taught them the best ways to fire a rifle, and played the violin for them. He stayed there until nearly his twentieth birthday, when he decided that he could no longer stay – the world beckoned. They understood, and gave him a beautiful and exceptionally smart light-tan horse named “Ashe” as a parting gift, and wished him well on his journey. He thanked them profusely, and set out. Again, Vincent found himself without direction. He wandered for a while, with only his horse for company. He didn’t bother with cities, but instead lived on the fringe of society. After all, he had what he needed – food, he could find easily, as with water, he had music, some books which he found, and he had companionship enough. In fact, he discovered that his horse was quite smart. He never gave horses much credit before, and attributed the horse’s kindness and responsiveness to the Indian training it surely received. He didn’t want to admit it, for he would surely have felt odd doing so, but it seemed that the horse could understand him – whinnying or snorting in response to some things he said. Overtime he grew to accept it, however, and felt that he and Ashe were close friends. One day found Vincent passing through town. He couldn’t really explain it, himself, as he hadn’t set foot in one since he’d left his hometown. And yet, here he was. He stopped in at a tailor – his Indian clothes had since grown rather ragged – and asked the date. It was his birthday. It was then that he suddenly remembered his father’s shameful actions. Now, he decided, was the time to strike back against those horrid memories. Though he had suppressed them well, he knew that he would have to act some day, and why not now? Thus began yet another stage in his life. He promptly ordered a new suit, to be paid on delivery, and bought the jacket he wears to this day with the few bits of money he’d had left when he fled home. That night, he made up his mind to rebel against his father in the biggest way possible – he was going to rob a bank. He couldn’t explain how the idea got into his mind, nor could he explain why it made sense. Yet somehow, his youthful mind led him to believe that by doing exactly that which his father had so bravely fought against, perhaps that man might one day see the light. He knew it was foolish, and yet he did it anyway. His set of three guns holstered and ready, Vincent walked into the bank with a genial smile and a pleasant demeanor about him that was wholly disarming. It was a small town and there was even less influence from the law – indeed, the “jail” was simply a single cell attached to the sheriff’s office. And, as none of the police force was in the area, it was a simple stick up. Nobody died, nobody was injured – everyone was simply tied up and Vincent locked the doors from the outside as he left. He paid for his suit, changed into it, and left. When that young rebel was leaving town, he happened to pass by the saloon. Inside was a scene he would not soon forget – a young girl of perhaps fifteen was waiting tables. And yet, what struck him most, for waiting tables was certainly an honorable profession, was how she was treated and how she reacted. Several of the men inside – drunk out of their minds, something which already caused Vincent to dislike them – were shouting lewd remarks at her and having a good time at her expense. In her shyness, however, the girl only ignored them, the crimson of her cheeks was the only thing that displayed her dismay. Vincent dismounted and walked slowly in, hoping to talk some sense into them. His entrance went unnoticed, and indeed the treatment worsened as they got drunker. Vincent tried to reason with the man who seemed to be the main culprit, a rather large fellow with a pistol belt strapped proudly about his large waist. The man laughed loudly and grabbed the girl by the waist, holding her close enough that she could almost taste the alcohol on his breath. Vincent’s eye twitched, as did his right finger – the latter was a response that was destined to follow him and return on many occasions. “Leave her be,” Vincent said resolutely, his eyes burning with fire. “And… iffff I don’?” slurred the fat drunken man. It was clear that he never had any intention of obeying, for at the very moment that he spoke, he reached up and grabbed the woman’s breast. Before he could even crack a smile, however, there was a bloody hole in his head, and a smoking gun in Vincent’s left hand. It was strange – he had never shed the blood of another human before, and yet he felt no remorse. He expected that if he should ever need to use his weapon he should feel very sad indeed, and yet he felt nothing. He almost felt good, as though he’d done a favor to the world. He waved this feeling aside, however, looking the dead man’s companions in the eyes. “Learn this lesson well,” He said calmly but sternly. Vincent didn’t expect that they would, but he did hope, at least, that the young lady should have some measure of peace for at least a week or so. Thus began his new way of life, which seemed to him somehow greatly fulfilling, even when compared to his childhood. He felt that somehow he was doing his father and the world a great service by killing such drunkards and jerks, and endeavoring to “help banks donate” to his worthy cause. He did not steal wantonly, of course, nor either did he kill for pleasure. Both were done as necessary. And, similarly, Vincent moved on as he became more infamous and known in certain parts. He did his best, however, to keep his guns holstered for as long as possible, however. He even endeavored, at times, to disguise himself, for the fun of seeing what people thought of him, if they gossiped about him ever. |
The Ace of Spades Joined: 7 May 2006 Posts: 398 | Posted: Sun Jul 09, 2006 8:02 am Hey! I found another similarity! Violet and Vincent both hate men! XD
Cool character! He sounds like he'll be interesting to have in a roleplay. |
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