Stanley Steele
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-- Frontier Wanted Bulletin
Stanly J. Steele is a highly dangerous bandito from the sun-scorched lands of The Frontier. Once thought to have been finally caught and hanged for his list of infractions a mile long, Stanley won a game of skill with Death and was returned to the land of the living a skeleton of his former self. His newfound lack of flesh hasn't slowed him down in the slightest.
Table of Contents
BackstoryIn some far-off lands, where the brutal star in the sky has licked the surface dry and life can only thrive in the ravines and canyons split open like hardened mud in a now dried-up river, there was once a man known to many and most as The Second Sun and his gang, The Silver Lining. Known as such his path in life was one that left such a path of chaos and the dead scorched in his wake. Stanley J. Steele was a horrible person. An elf whose avarice would make him murder, shoot, steal, and triple-cross any who stood between him and whatever had happened to catch the flickering flames of his sights. His posse was known as such because at the very least it’d be quick if they found you first. He was hated by all, loved by none, feared by most. They would rob banks, hold up political offices, not pay tips in bars, raid workshops, hijack railcars, jaywalking. Very, very few could ever hope to outshoot him, and those that could, couldn't handle the underhanded tactics he packed as a surprise. He was nearly unstoppable… Nearly... See, when I said he was 'hated by all', there's no "but"s, no "Except"s, none of the sort. And this included his own crew. His fall from the top of the list came from the gun placed firmly by the back of his coat, and it fired one fateful day in the middle of another heist. The grand vault of the middle of somewhere town, the crossroads of 5 ravines had earned the place the title of Pentium Rose. It had nothing more to its name than the convenience of going through it to get somewhere else. It was then and there that he was shot in his back by his second-in-command. The rest of his crew shut the vault, locked the door, and left. The Sheriff at the time couldn't stop the crew, but he knew damn well Stanley himself could kill him and 50 of his best men before they could even draw a bead of sweat on their foreheads, much less think about drawing their guns. Even as injured as he was. So he made a choice. The best one he had. The only one he had. He kept the vault closed. One whole week, Stanley was mad as Hell: curses, swearing, threats against everything and anyone, promises of the cruelty he'd enact. No one went into the bank, but his hatred could be heard by anyone in the center square. Felt by everyone in the town. And after the first week, the bank went silent. Not another word slipped out of the vault's sparse ventilation. But the Sheriff knew better, he could still feel the hatred seeping from the locked door. Legends say that by then it had caused the paint to peel off the walls, and the floorboards had become splintered and creaky. It was as if the man's vitriol was tearing apart the very bank itself, trying to get out. It was an incredibly hot month, that year, the heat had even started leaking into the typically protected ravines. The Sheriff made the call to let him cook in that solid steel locker for two more weeks. Until finally came the day that they would open the vault. A single shot rang out the moment the Sheriff peeked into the vault, and when he stumbled back his eye had been shot cleanout. His men rushed to shut it once again but he shouted for them to halt. One patched socket later they opened the door wide to see what had happened. There, sitting slumped over at the furthest end of that steel cell, was what was left of the Second Sun. He was burned, bad to almost the point of melting. Heatrash, dehydration, starvation. He was thin before but now Stanley was little more than skin loosely flaking off of bones. And yet he was still alive. Barely, mind you, but that hatred in his eyes hadn't dulled for a single, wheezing breath of hot, miserable air. He had taken a few threads from his shirt, tied his gun to his hand, his finger to the trigger, and having propped it up with precisely placed stacks of gold bars and bills, aimed at the door. He had the strength left to pull the trigger once, but not enough for a second shot. As the Sheriff would later recall, this would be the only time anyone had ever heard of Stanley missing a shot meant to kill. They brought him out to hang that noon. The almost corpse of the outlaw had to be hoisted by two other men to the gallows. The Sheriff wanted him dead, real and rightfully dead at the hand of the law he had evaded and made a mockery of for so long. Everyone in town attended, hell, people came from towns all around to cheer and jeer at the hanging of Stanley Steele. He stood more so by the rope around his neck that day than by his own strength. But as he gazed out over the seas of attendees, spite in his gaze, he saw one face, one face in particular that stoaked the coals of his anger. His lungs drew in one last gasp, hot air burned dried lips and cracking windpipe. His tongue burned with one last spell at the ready, one last curse to lay. She was faster. With an aim from across the town and a pull of the trigger, a shot rang forth. His jaw was blown clean off, his final words inflamed and incompleted. His gallow caught flames as the floor dropped out from under his feet. The crowd cheered. After all, he deserved it and far worse. But as he burned and choked on dry blood held down by a crushed throat, a curse wallowed in the burning embers of his eyes. This was not the end of Stanley Steele. Years later, Roughly 45 by his later count, Stanley was rumored to have risen from his grave to scorch The Frontier once more. Those who had seen him were run white with terrible claims that he had risen from the grave no more a man than a thin specter of his former self, empty sockets filled with twin embers of hate. While his flesh may be no more, the wight still held his spells and cruel aim. Rumors flew of the many reasons such a villain had been allotted a second life, the most common being that he had somehow bested the Desert Death in a game of skill for his own soul. Whatever the reason, his plights of revenge eventually saw their end when he was recruited by the Devil Karl as a part of the Contractors, individuals tasked with seeing various hunting down and correcting cross-universal disruptions. Stanley has taken to the work like cold to brandy, his sights finding no end to the treasures he can plunder and the foes he can hunt to his non-existent heart’s content.
PersonalityStanley J Steele is, by all accounts that one could give, a villain. Stanley’s cruelty seems to stem from nowhere more strongly than his own amusement. He simply delights in outwitting, tormenting, and pushing others to their limits. He’s dastardly, sly, scheming, and sprinkled with a heavy layer of dry sarcasm and wit. That said, his layers of villainy and antagonizing remarks do slowly peel away to reveal the kind of person Stanley is at his core. He holds effort, skill, and creativity in extremely high regard, his training and preparations deeply reflecting these core ideals. He goes to great lengths in the field of mathematics and, while rarely if ever showing it outside of combat, could be considered a genius in the field. His attention to detail and care for the refining of techniques is especially reflected in his own equipment; each weapon and tool in his arsenal is crafted, maintained, and refined by him to a perfectionist degree. His observant nature is something that is hard to shrug off in any interaction with him. Stanley is clever as he is cruel, and as cruel as he is clever. He easily picks up on any weakness a person may have to throw in with his usual antagonizations. He cheats in any game in any way he can. He steals things simply because he can. And he is a master of intimidation and terror. Still, while Stanley hoards wealth, collects trophies, and takes heads as much as any tyrant or marauder, he will also lazily admit that these things hold very little meaning to him beyond bragging rights or what they can be materialistically used for. Stanley takes the greatest pleasure in the act of taking these items. He lives for the moments, of heated shootouts, of stalking a bounty that thinks they have a chance of getting away, of the seconds ticking down to the count of a quickdraw. Stanley finds fundamental meaning in a “Take or Be Taken From” way of life. |
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Abilities
Enchanting
Stanley is a master of a field of magik known as Enchanting or Enchants. It is static magic taken from an outside source to then be given form and purpose through either spoken word or a written pictograph. Unlike traditional magik, Enchants must be applied to physical objects to produce effects, taking the best to metals and tough, solid materials, and being most likely to break or fail when applied to soft/flexible materials or living beings. These Single words or pictographs can be layered or strung together in a Syntax to produce more complicated effects.
Preternatural Shot
Stanley has what can only be described as a supernatural sense of space, depth perception, and coordination. He can accurately guestimate dimensions and measurements to the .01 cm, calculate trajectories and angles in a fraction of a second while under pressure, and determine wind-drift/bullet-drop/deviations without scopes or other measuring tools.
Second-Sun Shells
Stanley is no run-of-the-mill gunslinger, and as such he caries no run-of-the-mill munitions. The bullets Stanley uses are custom cartridges that he fits himself under meticulous focus and care. These bullets typically consist of copper-wrapped rounds with a Tungsten-Silver core. Tungsten Silver is specially prepared for most Contractor equipment due to its anti-supernatural and anti-resonate properties. In short, Stanley’s rounds are more than capable of going through typical walls and harming lightly-armored opponents or the supernatural/“otherworldly inclined”.
HateSong and Heartbreaker rounds are even more specialized to bring greater levels of hurt to anything that crosses Stanley’s path.
HateSong munitions are Steel-plated Tungsten-Silver .400 Magnum rounds, meant to punch holes through forcefields, heavy armor, and a couple dozen people at once.
Heartbreaker munitions are a 1” Bore, Copper-Plated Wyrm-iron round. Slightly different from his typical Tungsten-Silver cores, as while Tungsten-silver actively neutralizes the supernatural, Wyrm-Iron comes from the REFINED AND CONGEALED BLOOD OF THE GREAT WYRM WHICH WRAPS AROUND THE CORE OF HIS PLANET, ITS MIND IS DEAD, ONE WITH THE DIRT, BUT ITS SEVEN HEARTS STILL BEAT WITH GREAT POWER AND ELDRITCH LIFE, which makes it actively attempt to cannibalize any source of energy it comes into, including the life force of a living being. The sheer size, power, and killing potential of these rounds are second to none in Stanley’s arsenal. However, he’s typically reluctant to use more than one if at all due to the dangerous, costly, and painstaking processes involved in both retrieval/refining of materials and production of the ammunition itself.
Strengths
Dexterous Bastard
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Stanley cupidatatis nonincredibly proident,smart. suntMuch, MUCH more than he’ll typically let on. He’s practically a prodigy when it comes to quick mathematical calculations, specializing in culpatrajectories, quiand officiahas deserunta mollitfirm animgrasp idof estphysics laborum.and chemical reactions. His ability to quickly adapt and plan around new situations was what allowed him to become the menace he was once infamous for. He’ll often use his environment and anything he has on hand to become more dangerous to whoever he’s hunting down.
Aim with the hand, Kill with the gun, Forget the face of your father
Stanley thinks very little about taking a life or the morality of who he is. To Stanley, you must either take or you will be taken from. He won’t question who he is fundamentally as he’s already died and doubled down on it. He does find those who can kill as easily as he does to be very interesting opponents.
Lethal, Locked, Loaded
It goes without saying that a majority of the tools and armaments at Stanley’s disposal are meant for taking someone in as anything but alive.
Weaknesses
Lightweight
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A Wight Isn't Undead
Stanley’s not exactly a fantasy skeleton or even a zombie in terms of how he works. While he may be extraordinarily flexible now, he can’t freely detach and reattach his limbs like some fantasies may depict. Bones are a bit easier to break without all that meat to buffer impacts as well. Strange as it may seem, Stanley has nothing to do eiusmodwith temporthe incididuntnecromancies utnor laboreis ethe doloreseen magnato aliqua.be Ut“Un”dead, enimhe’s adconsidered minima veniam,living quisbeing nostrudby exercitationspells ullamcoand laborisabilities nisifor utcontextual aliquippurposes.
Let eaMe commodoHave consequat.My DuisFun, auteDamnit!
Stanley dolormore or less enjoys the process than he does getting to the end of the game. Against weaker or even outright pathetic opponents Stanley is more so inclined to, for lack of a better term, dick around a bit. He’ll often taunt, flaunt, procrastinate, and outright back out of checkmates to ensure he gets his fill. That’s not to say he’ll just let you go with a warning per se, but he’s less likely to immediately put a hole in reprehenderityour head if he thinks he can kick you in voluptatethe velitgroin essea cillumfew doloretimes eubeforehand fugiatfor nullashits pariatur.n Excepteurgiggles.
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Stanley suntloves danger. He lives for the moments when it’s his life on the line next to someone else. He’ll outright challenge people to quickdraws, purposely set off traps, destroy buildings (While he may or may not still be in culpathem), quiand officiagive deseruntup mollithis animown idrange estadvantage laborum.if it means raising the stakes of a fight. That said, he finds the best enjoyment in getting out of these situations as much as he likes getting into them.
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Author's Notes
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