That one actually looks a lot more fun than the mercer one...here we go.

Name: Winchester 'Chaos' Boff
Race: Most probably Human
Class: Gunslinger

Backstory:

Over his last swashbuckling years, Winchester Boff had become a man of many reputations. That in itself was not the problem -  after all, who would not appreciate a little fame for their selfless deeds? Okay who was he kidding, Winchester Boff was by no means a selfless man. But unlike his reputation said, he wasn't doing what he did for the fame. Getting closer to the core of the matter, this was one of the issues his reputations: the stories people told about him were so ridiculously antithetic. He'd been called spineless, ruthless, piteous, relentless, trigger happy. A coward, a hero, a traitor, and a legend. To be brutally honest, he didn't think anyone had called him a legend yet, but he was working on it. In any case, Winch was not the man to deny any of it. He might have embodied every single one of these things once in a while, but none of them really matches his description, at least in his own opinion.

That was where the real problem began. All of those people talking about him, whether behind his back or right there in his face, thought they knew him in some way. They thought they'd monopolized the universal truth of what made Winchester Boff tick - yet they were utterly clueless. Winch wasn't in it for the glory, the killing or the money. The one name he'd heard for himself that he'd liked most so far had been 'Chaos Walking'. That came somewhat close. The thing he was seeking, the thing Winchester Boff was treasuring most, were the few, fleeting moments right before the pandemonium. The transience he felt right when a fight began, right before the adrenaline would start spiking through his body. He liked to describe it as the moment when, while making your way from one wastebone to the other, you feel the stairs below your feet crack, losing the ground below your feet, and all of a sudden you're falling. And while your mind is still processing what has just happened, your body is already beginning to panic. These were the moments he lived for. And if he would ever get a chance to choose, he'd damn well do like it too.

Winchester Boff arrived in the Wild Waste when he was still a child. His father a scholar interested in white coal, his mother an archaeologist, they'd thought the waste to be a promising locale to nurture their interests. It was this goal that had set them on a train riding one of the newly established routes into the waste. One onslaught of fiends and a bandit raid that he'd dynamicly helped to fight off later he'd discovered the blissful feeling of life-threatening danger and a surprising proficiency for firearms. Instead of pursuing the career of either of his parents, Winchester became the apprentice of a local gunsmith, both to temper with and understand the mechanisms of these miraculous tools, but also as a means to get his hands on a weapon to practice with. The practice bore fruits, the way he managed to fight off attacking monsters spread his name, and thats where the problems began - but he would only figure that part out on his own later.

Barony Co. was always looking for suitable recruits willing to defend their tracks from natural and unnatural enemies, and there were plenty of both. Winchester did not hesitate a heartbeat when offered a position, but one or two pistols could only ever fight off so many. After facing defeat by the hands of an overwhelming force of bandits, he was offered a choice to die in the wreck or switch sides, and Winch had decided that he hadn't enjoyed himself just yet to have his bones be buried underneath the sands. It was the first changeover of many, and Winchester slowly but surely drifted off to less and less respectable crowds and employers. His area of expertise unintentionally broadened to whatever could be achieved with a pair of pistols and enough bullets, from safeguarding goods over to treasure-seeking and finally bounty hunting. As long as he could rain bullets on his enemies and dance in between the ricochets, Winchester felt alive. Those fights were the reason he kept going, and he threw himself into them with everything he had, seeking thrills wherever he could.

But just like Barony Co. started changing, slowly and subtly and first, but quite visibly the longer it went on, so did the Wild Waste that was shaped in its grasp. The opportunities Winchester was longing for were getting scarce. The monsters weren't always sufficiently entertaining, and hunting just one person tended to bore him eventually, but the challenges he was seeking slowly began to fade. That, above all, was unacceptable, especially in a place like the waste. It was time do actually do something about it. He decided that as long as he could, he would stay true to his name, winching himself up, and hailing bullets on the people he passed on the way there - even if he died trying.

Physical Description:

Aaaand, it's closed! Thanks for everyone who applied, I'll send out PMs soon to those who got in! There were so many great applications!

A few members of the original crew have dropped, so I'm recruiting again in this thread: https://www.dndbeyond.com/forums/d-d-beyond-general/play-by-post/132961-recruiting-again-for-a-wild-west-campaign

If you're interested in getting in, make sure to throw an application there!

Quote from Spiderwrangler >>

Ability scores: 14 14 16 13 15 12

Name: Thardoran Stargazer
Race: Reborn (Dwarf)
Class: Wizard
Backstory: Dying was not part of the plan, Thardoran feels certain of that. Of course, that happened so long ago that it's hard to remember what exactly the plan was, but dying wasn't part of it. From what bits and pieces have come to him over the years, he thinks that he had traveled here when the wastes were 'young', seeking out knowledge and magic... or was it riches? Either way, the cave in put an end to whatever plans he once had. He's grateful he doesn't remember dying, remember waking up dead for the first time is more than enough to deal with.

He came to in the collapsed cavern, white coal dust coating him, his mouth dry and caked with sand. He fumbled around and found his waterskin, flushing his mouth and taking a gulp, though it sat heavy in his gut. Going through his pack, he found a torch and tinder, striking the torch, a wan flame guttering and going out. He tried again and again, only to find there wasn't enough air to keep a flame going. But then how was he still breath--- huh. Alright... not breathing. That's not normal. He lapsed into a catatonic state, rousing himself every so often, pacing the interior of his oubliette. Memories of who he was before are hazy and fractured when they do come, but they are infrequent.

He's accepted that he's no longer alive, accepting that is maddening, but to continue to deny it would be worse. After years? Decades? he began developing abilities he didn't recall having before. The first time he was able to bring forth light to illuminate his prison, it brought him to tears, or would have, had he still been capable of producing tears. It was only at this point that he started thinking of himself as Thardoran, as a book in his pack had "Property of Thardoran Stargazer" on the inside cover. He knew there was a possibility that he'd borrowed it from a Thardoran, but better to be wrong than to continue without a name.

What followed was a long time of experimentation, testing and pushing the limits of what he might be able to bring forth, and he kept notes in the margins of the book in his pack, until he ran out of ink. He had other ideas, and sometimes they worked, but without a good record to be able to test and retest the variables... He read and reread the book untold times, until he had to put it aside for fear of wearing the pages to the point he lost his notes. 

He's unsure how long he was down there, but recently a shift in the ground cracked the stone around him and he was able to expand it and wriggle free. Surrounded by sand, he picked a direction and started walking, eventually finding his way to a wastebone community. 

Physical Description: He looks like the most ancient of dwarves, were he fully living, he'd look well beyond the average life expectancy of 350 years, perhaps pushing 450 or more. For himself, he's uncertain of how old he actually is, dying and persisting while buried in the Wastes could have prematurely aged his appearance dramatically. Or he might have been down there for the millennia that it felt like. A craggy, lined face, wispy hair sprouting from his scalp and face, and old, faded tattoos, the significance of which he can no longer recall.

 

 Still interested!

Can come up with something else, if this doesn't suit.

Please post your application to the other thread, just to make things easier so I don’t have to manage two.

Sorry, got excited and didn't read fully...