Individual RP (OCs)

🚬Our Time Has Passed🚬

"Industrial life has never been for me. I know my ways are ways of the old, but I can't help but cling on to the lifestyle I was raised in. Devoting themselves to a factory, 12 hours a day, 7 days a week... It's disgusting what people are letting themselves succumb to... I know my days are past... I know I can't fight change, can't fight progress, can't fight society... But I know I can fight to keep my way of life. Just need some money so I can start over somewhere new... Just me and the gang, our own rules, our own ways of life. One way or another, I'll make it happen."

"Gentlemen, let's ride!"

Name: Deacon Vanderbilt

Age: 32

Looks: Deacon dresses like someone out of a wild west movie in an almost literal sense. Black cowboy boots, brown denim pants, leather belt, and don't forget about his holster where his beloved Betty, his six-shooter, rests in. Considering that he's always on the move and typically in cool areas, he wears a brown outdoors jacket with a beige button-up shirt under it. His hat was his father's before he passed, and doesn't have any standout features other than a black leather wrap stitched into it. As for his features, he's strong-jawed and stubbled, has sharp eyes, and always has this intimidating look about him that he doesn't intend to display. He's rather tall at 6'2 and is built for the outdoors, very toned and strong as an ox. He can always be found with a cigar hanging from his lips, something he tried for the longest to kick, but couldn't.

Personality: Deacon is a good-hearted man doing what he can to preserve his way in a world being industrialized more and more every day. He has a strong belief in independence and pride, very bothered by westward expansion and the industrial revolution, very set on his old ways of surviving off his land and being left alone. With the way things are changing, he doesn't have long left until he either has to conform or keep moving, so of course he'll choose the latter and hold out for as long as possible. Other than his beliefs, he's very polite and respectful, has a strong sense of pride, is well-known for having a silver tongue and good aim, and loves horses as every cowboy does.

Occupation: Former farmhand as a child, turned outlaw due to changing circumstances and his gang.

Family/Friends: Byron Vanderbilt, father, deceased at 33 via a home invasion.

Josephina Vanderbilt, mother, deceased at 28 due to health complications.

Cole, Beau, Cassidy, Flint, Kyle, and Abner, all members of the gang with individual talents, but the exact same desire, Cole being the leader.

Cole, 45, leader of the gang. Silver-tongued and merciful when committing crimes, great speaker and leader.

Beau, 39, the cook of the camp, great at what he does and an expert at making meals out of strange items.

Cassidy, 24, the mom of the camp. Makes sure people are working and keeps things clean.

Flint, 31, the gang's hunter. Brings home the meat so people don't go hungry.

Kyle, 20, a young kid who's very intelligent and does a lot of the thinking for the group. Also an extra gun. A former orphan, just like Deacon.

Abner, 43, a con artist and loan shark. One of the gang's primary money sources.

Talents: Deacon's one hell of a good shot, is a great speaker, is great with horses, and is incredibly intelligent, but uses that knowledge for small-time crime.

Dislikes: Industrialization, self-proclaimed "sophisticates," high-class people, the law, and moonshine.

Likes: Horses, guns, the gang, money, lawless life, and independence.

Backstory: Deacon was born to Byron and Josephina Vanderbilt at their homestead in Central Lousiana, a very healthy child throughout his life. They lived simple, made a living through ranching, and never bothered anybody. He was raised well, never caused problems, and of course was great with hard work and shooting, as is customary with a 19th-Century Southerner. Trouble didn't come until he was 12, when his mother passed away due to tuberculosis at 28. Life was a lot more grim, but he and his father pushed on and did the best they could. Tragedy would strike again at 15, when their homestead was raided by bandits, his father shot and killed while trying to defend the home. All Deacon could do was watch, and he'd always blamed himself for his father's passing. Now with no homestead or family and the threat of being orphaned over his head, Deacon decided to risk it and live in the streets of New Orleans, where he was eventually found by Cole Hamilton, a leader of a small gang that did small-time robberies in order to get by, nomads of some sort, always on the move, yet always at home together. Cole saw both an opportunity to have another hand at camp and also the sorry state Deacon was in, and ended up taking him under his wing. Years later, Deacon had been converted to a life of small crimes for self-perseverance, with the promise of a safe haven where there were no laws and nobody to tell them what they could do. All they needed was money. Of course, it never happened, and with the Industrial Revolution taking place, time was running out. 17 years later, still no paradise, expansion going farther and farther west... At least the gang had stuck together, but they needed money quickly if their plan was really to take place. Something had to give...

(I'll go into more detail in the RP, too much to write down here.)

SI: You are part of a group of bandits that is trying to drive out Deacon's gang for moving into your territory, and you are sent into their camp in the dead of night to do some reconnaissance. As you attempt to sneak in, you're grabbed by a big man and put into a chokehold from behind, the barrel of a gun pointed right against your temple, the sound of the hammer being cocked back ringing in your ear. "Got you, you son of a bitch." A deep, masculine voice whispers in your ear. "You've got five seconds to give me a good reason why I shouldn't blow your fucking head clean off. I recommend you start talkin'..." You?

SII: You're working for the law in a small town named Waco, Texas, when suddenly the alarm at the small bank sounds off. It's rare that this town sees any crime at all, and you and four other officers are all that stand between your people and bad deeds. It was time to move. By the time you get to the bank, several outlaws on horses take off, and you follow in pursuit, slowly gaining ground on the group. Your fellow officers stay behind to make sure everyone in the bank is okay, so it's just you and the group of bandits. Suddenly one of the outlaw's horses collapses and sends him sliding across the dirt road, a grunt coming out of the man as he comes to a stop. You get off your horse and draw your gun on the man, who sits up and slowly puts his hands up, shaking his head as he does so. That man is Deacon Vanderbilt, a man wanted in several states for thievery, unrecognizable with his black bandana pulled up. "Well, shit. You've got me." Or so it seems. It looks like he's got something up his sleeve. You...

SIII: You're a pianist at a local pub, but also tend to step in when fights break out in heated moments. Today you'd get another chance to do just that. You're doing your thing on the piano, when suddenly cheering erupts and a crowd forms around two men, so you decide to have a look for yourself. Two men are shoving each other, about to throw hands, one of them a random patron and the other man being Deacon. "Come on buddy, put your dukes up! Swing first!" The patron does just that, and Deacon simply weaves out of the way. "My ma swung faster than that, come on!" Another punch, weaved again. "You're making this too easy for me, partner!" Deacon decides to quit playing around and delivers an uppercut square to the man's jaw, sending him back into one of the tables, splitting it in two. It looks like Deacon's about to walk over and continue the beatdown, it's about time to step in. You..?

Or we can make a fresh one! Just send me a message.