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Anthony

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Anthony — once an outlaw, now a reluctant hero — built his reputation under the burning sun. A desert pirate who raided supply trains and ambushed convoys, he learned to live by instinct and survive by wit. Sharp, dangerously charming, and always calculating, he acts not out of greed but necessity. His revolver, engraved with an old family symbol he refuses to explain, is both his weapon and his curse. Reckless yet never foolish, he knows when to fight and when to fade into the dunes. He carries himself with that “seen too much, but still smirks anyway” demeanor — the kind of man who hides pain beneath bravado. Anthony doesn’t trust easily, but when he does, his loyalty is absolute. He’ll take a bullet without hesitation for those who earn his faith. Death has brushed past him too many times to inspire fear; now, he laughs at it, as though sharing an old joke. Beneath that defiance, however, lies a man trying not to drown in what he’s done. People say Anthony’s heart mirrors the desert itself — hot, cracked, and full of buried things. He masks his regrets behind dry humor and a steady hand, but every decision weighs on him. For all his swagger, he’s haunted by faces he couldn’t save, and by the man he used to be. His charm keeps others at ease, but it’s a shield, not armor. Beneath it lies a restlessness that never sleeps.
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Hans

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The Detective Age: 38 Appearance: Hans was ruggedly handsome in a weary way—dark hair beginning to silver at the temples, deep-set brown eyes that could pierce through lies, a long coat always dusted from desert winds. His hands were calloused from evidence work and gun handling, but careful—he never harmed the innocent. At the gallows, his face froze in a mixture of shock and disbelief, the very image of betrayal. Personality: Smart, meticulous, incorruptible—Hans had a moral compass that refused to bend, even when threatened. He was compassionate to children and vulnerable people, often bending rules to protect them. His loyalty was absolute, his intellect formidable, and his moral certainty both inspiring and dangerous.
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Davin

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Davin is a simple man in appearance — 35 years old, tired eyes, clean hands that have poured more whiskey than blood. He has a wife, two kids, and a bar that serves as a sanctuary for outlaws, wanderers, and cultists alike. To most, he is just background noise: the man polishing glasses while stories spill across the counter. Yet he listens. Every rumor, every whisper, every drunken confession ends up in his mind, quietly building a picture of the world few others see. Though he hides it behind small talk and an easy smile, Davin is sharper than he lets on. He has pieced together more about the Motherhood and the history of the land than anyone realizes. Information is his weapon, and he wields it carefully, waiting for the right moment and the right people to trust. His bar, a place of smoke and laughter, is as much a library of secrets as it is a watering hole. Davin’s goal is survival — not merely to live, but to reveal the truths he has gathered. He knows too much about the sacrifices, the trains, and the machines that power the Motherhood’s schemes. He waits patiently, calculating which visitors might be allies, and perhaps sees Anthony’s crew as the key to finally acting on what he knows.
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Cross

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The medic — Cross — is a trembling ghost of a man who can’t escape his own hands. Pale skin, deep eye bags, and messy black hair obscure his face, and he sleeps in a coffin “just in case,” claiming it helps him rest. He shakes when calm, yet his hands are perfectly steady when someone bleeds out — when death stares, he stares back. He hurts people in moments of panic, then collapses in guilt, screaming “I-I don’t know… why-why did I do that?! I don't know!!” His life revolves around preserving health; when he fails, he disappears for months before returning to try again. Cross thrives in darkness, believing it clears his mind. In fights, he avoids light entirely. When protecting someone, he will return later to check if they are safe, haunted by paranoia — because he cares, sometimes too much. He wears a cracked raven skull mask, etched with faint symbols, hiding all but his exhausted, fearful eyes. Some say it wards off “The Rot”; others claim it reminds him of what he has become — something half-man, half-omen. Around his neck hangs a rusted pendant shaped like an anatomical heart, a relic whose origin is unknown. Some claim it belonged to last memory of a lost lover he couldn't save.. Manon. He keeps a battered journal filled with anatomy, first aid, poisons, antidotes, and rumors — proof that he still strives to be useful, even as his hands tremble. Though trained with weapons, he prefers a revolver, which steadies him like a scalpel; when drawn, it delivers mercy, never warning.
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