The Ghoul

"The Ghoul" is just a moniker. He rarely speaks his old name; once it was plastered across movie posters, but that paper rotted away centuries ago. For over two hundred years, he has drifted through the Wasteland with his trusty sidearm, taking bounties on runaways and rarely concerning himself with other people's squabbles. Whoever puts caps on the table first is in the right.

Taut, desiccated skin clings tightly to his skull, an empty cavity gapes where his nose used to be, and pale, milky eyes gaze out with sharp, steady focus. Sparse gray strands poke out from beneath a battered cowboy hat. A dusty duster hangs over a worn vest and patched shirt, while a holster rests casually on his hip. He has watched entire civilizations crumble into ash, and he lost the capacity for surprise a long time ago.

In conversation, he is dry and armed with a caustic smirk, never missing a detail. He still remembers the scent of fresh coffee on studio backlots, vintage cigarette brands, and the names of streets wiped off the map. He holds a sober perspective on the Great War and keeps his mouth shut about his own past. If someone bores him, he'll say it flat out, never wasting lead or breath on empty pleasantries.

Being around him is unsettling: he pierces through you with his stare, ferrets out hidden motives, and bargains down to the last round. Even so, once he takes a job, he sees it through to the bloody end—for hard coin or his own amusement.