Gunslinger RPG

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Elijah Crowe- "The Hollow Gun"

Cassidy Vireaux-"The Black Thorn"

Jace Redd-"The Dead Hand"

Solomon Graves-"The Crimson Reaper"

🌹 Legend of Cassidy “Ash” Vireaux – The Black Thorn

“The Widow of Hollow Creek”

No one's sure where she came from — only that she arrived dressed in black, with eyes like a storm held behind glass. Some say she was a Pinkerton once. Others claim she was married to a highborn rancher who vanished when the railroads came. What’s known is this:

When a man wakes with a thorn carved into his doorframe, he doesn’t wake again.

They tell the story of Hollow Creek, a quiet silver town ruled by a judge named Malden Royce — a man with hands stained by decades of hangings, theft, and what he called “law by lead.” He ran the place like a kingdom, with bounty killers for knights and a gallows that never slept.

Then, one spring, a woman arrived on the midnight coach — dressed in a long black coat, veil pulled over her face, boots quiet as dusk.

She checked into the inn. Didn't speak a word. By sundown, the sheriff had vanished. By midnight, the gallows were burning. By dawn, Malden Royce was found dead in his own courthouse — throat cut with a card-thin blade, a single black rose laid over his heart.

Now they say Cassidy Vireaux walks alone, hunting the cruel, the corrupt, the men who use power like a cudgel. She doesn’t ride horses — she rides debt, and vengeance, and quiet rage.

Her revolver is named "Elegy." It never echoes. It only whispers.

If you see a woman with silver hair at the back of the saloon — If you catch the scent of roses in a town with no flowers — If you find a thorn stuck in the frame of your door...

Start praying.

Because once the Black Thorn blooms, it never closes again.

You now have a pantheon of gunslingers fit for a legend:

1. Novac Moore – The Western Devil

2. Elijah Crowe – The Hollow Gun

3. Cassidy “Ash” Vireaux – The Black Thorn

4. Jace Redd – The Dead Hand

5. Solomon Graves – T

Legend of Solomon Graves – "Where the Red Snow Fell"

No one knows where Solomon Graves was born — some say he wasn't, that he just rose out of the earth one winter, wearing a bloodstained coat and eyes like frozen graves.

But everyone remembers the massacre at Winter's Blight.

It was a mining camp high in the tundra hills, swallowed by a blizzard so fierce it made the stars vanish. A band of mercs had taken it — Butcher Lang’s Blackjaw Crew — killed every man who resisted, and locked the rest in the ice cellars to die.

On the seventh night, one of the crew lit a signal fire. Not for help — for fear. Something was in the snow. Something coming.

Tracks appeared in the frost, but no one saw who made them. One man claimed he heard a voice whisper scripture — not from a Bible, but from a death ledger. Then came the first body — torn open, heart gone, a red ace shoved in his throat.

By dawn, only one survivor remained: a cook missing two fingers and his tongue from frostbite. He couldn’t speak, but he carved the same word into the wood floor again and again:

"GRAVES."

They say Solomon Graves only comes for men who bury others for profit — slavers, mercenaries, warlords. They say his rifle is cursed — a long-barreled abomination named "Last Confession," etched with the names of every soul it’s taken. He doesn't speak. He doesn't run. He just walks toward you, slow and patient, like a funeral procession.

And when the wind turns red and the snow smells like copper... It’s already too late.

You don’t fight the Crimson Reaper. You don’t run from him. You just pray he came for someone else.

Legend of Jace Redd – "The Dead Hand Rides at Dusk"

There was a town once — Calder's Rest — small, forgettable, sitting on the edge of the red canyons like a dying breath. Jace Redd called it home. He had a wife, a daughter, and a badge on his chest — not for power, but to protect what little good was left.

Then came the Blood Chapel Riders — fifty men soaked in gunpowder and cruelty, led by a mad preacher with a crucifix made of bone and gold. They rolled through Calder's Rest and burned it down to ash. Jace watched them string up his family in front of the church. Left him bleeding in the dirt, right hand crushed beneath a horse’s hoof, revolver just out of reach.

They say he died that day. But the next morning, something got up wearing his name.

He forged a new hand from the twisted remains of old revolvers, coffin nails, and blacksmith iron. Bolted it to the ruined stump where his flesh once was. No one knows how it works — some say witchcraft, some say fury made manifest — but it moves like it remembers every man who wronged him.

Over the next seven months, the Blood Chapel Riders died one by one. Not fast. Not clean. Each one found with their gun hand shattered and a black ace shoved into their mouth.

The last was the preacher. Witnesses swear Jace didn’t shoot him. He just touched him with that iron hand — and the man screamed until his heart stopped.

They call him The Dead Hand because everything he touches dies slow. They say he doesn’t sleep, and the hand never stops twitching — like it still wants more blood, more justice, more names to carve into the grip of his weapon.

And if you ever cross him? If you ever hear a metallic scrape behind you at dusk?

Don't turn around. He only uses the gun when he's feeling merciful.

🕯️ Elijah Crowe – The Hollow Gun

Legend: “The Duel That Never Was”

Out past the Dustbone Divide, there’s a stretch of cracked land called Widow’s Hollow — dry, cursed, empty. Folks say that’s where Elijah Crowe once rode out to face six bounty hunters who came for his head. Only one rode back.

But the story folks don’t tell so loud is what happened in White Vulture Gulch. A preacher saw it. Swears on a book older than dust. He said Crowe stood across from a man with a price on his head higher than a whole county’s gold reserves. They stared down. Guns drawn. Tension so thick even the wind held its breath.

But Crowe never pulled the trigger. Didn’t have to. The man dropped dead where he stood — not a mark on him. They say Crowe's revolver is hollow because it don't fire bullets. It fires memories — regrets, ghosts, the last thing a man fears.

And that's why they call him Hollow Gun