Calvin "Cal" Dalton, the Whiskey Gunman
Pace 6/Parry 5/Toughness 5/Grit 1/ Charisma 0
CURRENT RANK:
Novice - 0xp
FATE CHIPS
EDGES:
Ambidextrous - Ignores the -2 penalty for use of off-hand.
Two-Fisted - When Attacking with a Weapon in each hand roll each attack separately and ignore the "Multi-Action Penalty
HINDRENCES:
Clueless (Major-2 to all Common Knowledge rolls)
Anemic (Minor -2 from all Fatigue Checks)
Lyin' Eyes (Minor -2 intimidation & persuasion checks when lying)
ATTRIBUTES:
D8 Agility
D6 Smarts
D8 Spirit
D6 Strength
D6 Vigor
SKILLS:
D6 Fighting
D6 Notice
D12+1 Shooting
D8 Taunt
WEAPONS: RANGE ROF DAMAGE WEIGHT
(x2) Colt Peacemaker .45 12/24/48 1 2d6+1 6lbs each
Double Barrel Shotgun 12/24/48 1-2 1-3d6 8lbs
Knife Melee n/a str+d4 1lb
GEAR:
ITEM LOCATION WEIGHT
Boots Feet 4lbs
Work Shirt Torso 2lbs
Trousers Legs 2lbs
Duster Torso 4lbs
Stetson Hat Head -
2 Colt Peacemakers Hips 12lbs
Shotgun Back 8lbs
.45 Ammo (x300) - -
Shotgun Shells (x40) - -
Knife Belt, Back 1lb
Whiskey and Lead
Stories about guys like Cal usually start all nice and peaceful in some farm villiage somewhere
safe. A young lad looking to see the sights beyond the cow fence, looking for riches and ghost
rock and women. Living by the barrel of their gun, fightin, swearing, drinkin and whorin.
Boys like this grow up lookin out at the horizon, while their earth-workin daddies tell em to keep
on plowin and quit wastin time on foolish dreams.
Similar stories may also start on the other end of the spectrum, in the gutters of some town where
dad drinks all day, and mom just doesn’t care. Livin day to day on thrown out apples and tree
bark. Fighting becomes a way of life, cause not fighting is the way of the dead.
This story doesn’t start those ways. This is a different sort of story, I guess. There’s no burnin
fire in the pit of Cal Dalton. He didn’t grow up look at the horizon, or wonderin how to get his
next meal. His folks weren’t remarkable. They weren’t over bearing. They weren’t particularly
hard working. They weren’t deviant. They were always there for him. They grew him up, and
they’re still alive in their farm just outside of some dustball village by the name of Prairie Edge in the middle of Missouri, their other son Rex lookin after them an the farm.
Cal was never one for hard work, nor could he seem to keep a plant alive. He never loved
farming, though he enjoyed riding well enough. When he could, he’d ride out to the town to
spend the wage his father gave him on whiskey. One day, he managed to get a distillery deliver whiskey to the surrounding areas. They loved him for his size, and his ability to shoot.
That’s it. That’s where the story starts with our hero Cal. Content to drink his way through life, ridin
town to town, and shootin the occasional brigand. Not much of a story, but like I just said, that's where it starts. The rest remains unwritten.
