Everett Hawke

*"To forgive is charitable. I prefer making them repent."*

## History

Born in an outlying, sparsely populated town, Everett demonstrated from an early age his unique talents. Though he was incapable of casting as a sorcerer might, there was still raw, untapped mystical energy flowing through his veins. This was to the surprise of his parents, though after some time, his mother revealed that her great grandfather was, in fact, a sorcerer of small renown.

Yet, unlike the more honed spells that the man had been able to produce, Everett was completely incapable of spellcasting. It was obvious to anyone who had studied magic that what flowed through him was too raw and unpredictable to form anything resembling a proper spell, though it had its uses. Everett himself was fascinated and excited to make more use his innate talents - it was no secret that adventurers of this world were typically great heroes with fame that spread across the land and enough money to drown entire towns with.

In Everett's opinion, his mystic arts were a sign he was destined to be a great adventurer. When he came of age at sixteen years old, he promptly set off for adventuring. One curious thing he discovered fairly quickly was that animals *loathed* the raw, wild magic running through him. Most creatures avoided him out of habit, and when adventuring in a group, animals seemed to go after him first.

That was not the only setback that occurred during Everett's time as an adventurer. Though he himself was skilled with pistol and powder, he wasn't exactly a god. Multiple times during his adventures, he barely escaped by the skin of his teeth. He was forced to witness good people left behind to die because he wasn't strong or brave enough to stay behind for them, or instead of them. Sometimes other adventurers turned out to be cravenly villains, out only to make further misery for others, and they almost always turned on the group they were currently using. Time and again, Everett watched this happen, his funds barely improving and his fame only slightly sticking in the minds of the townspeople he passed by.

After five years of constant setbacks, failures, and betrayals, Everett had had enough of risking his life. He turned to his town a bitter, cynical gunslinger. He had the scars to prove his experience in the risk-filled field of adventuring, and with precious little skill in peaceful arts, Everett resolved to use his skill for something *less* risky than fighting legions of undead or bloodthirsty marauders. He became the town's guardian, of a sort - most would call him a bounty hunter instead. However, whenever the sheriff posted a wanted ad, Everett was always the first off to capture, or kill, the person wanted. He protected the town through skill of arm alone when it came under threat from banditry, but never again would Everett walk the path of a heroic adventurer.

That, at least, is what he thought. Drinking himself away one night, Everett stumbled into a passing stranger in the town. The stranger took a hold of the burnt out bounty hunter, steadying him and easing him onto the ground. The man revealed himself to be a priest of Iomadae, and he spoke with Everett to discover why a man bearing a badge of authority (a gift from the sheriff) was soaked to the gills. When Everett told him, through a combination of swearing and slurred words, what he had experienced, the priest understood. He counseled the sharpshooter with the ways of Iomadae, telling him that justice would come to those who had committed great evil, and honor would be bestowed on those friends he had left behind.

Everett awoke the next morning, the memory of the priest somehow sticking in his hung over mind. He had never been a religious man before, but he could not get the thought of Iomadae out of his head. A god that preached honor on those who showed bravery, and justice for those would dare commit sin, that was something he could get behind. He felt a fire in his veins, and something slid into place in his thoughts. Justice *would* come to those who would wrong others.

He picked up his gear once more, made sure his pistol was cleaned, and left the town quietly, a small note being the only thing he left behind.

It read: "Unfinished business. -Hawke"

## Appearance

Everett is a man of average height, though the stress of his life has already started to age him prematurely. His face has stress lines across it and his hair has started to turn grey in whole streaks. Across the left side of his face is a vicious, still red scar from when an animal attacked him during his first days of adventuring. Pinned onto his shirt is a badge of authority, though the name of his hometown has long since faded away from it.

His usual attire is quite rugged, befitting a man used to traveling, and spotting him without his holster and pistol is unheard of.

## Personality

Sardonic and surly, Everett isn't the bright spot of any party he's in. He will frequently complain about almost any task he's assigned, and assures his party that things will almost definitely go wrong. Still, he has a stubborn resolve that shines through despite his cantankerous demeanor. He prefers to avoid merry-making until the job's done, and is quick with a stern word if people aren't taking things as seriously as he feels they should.

Due to his past adventuring life, and vigorous faith in Iomadae, Everett has no tolerance for those of the evil persuasion. If a criminal is caught by an adventuring band with him in it, he will refuse to allow them to escape no matter what. Every evildoer must be punished, in his opinion. It is the only way to ensure the people of the world can sleep soundly at night.

## Adventures

### The Rage of Kanaloa

Shortly after his decision to return to the life of an adventurer, Everett heard of a place that was in dire straits. The island of Lalotai was under siege from fire elementals, of all things. While they weren't exactly as simple to handle as bandits, Everett decided this was as good as any way to make his return. He quickly made his way to the nearest teleportation mage, explaining his urgent need for travel.

The mage nodded, and helpfully cast the spell upon him to send him straight to the island so that he could help as soon as possible.

This, unfortunately, should have been preceded by a quick scrying of the area he was to be teleported into. Everett was dropped right into the middle of an active attack by the fire elementals rampaging across the island! Sweating bullets from the heat and the thought of his powder cooking off, Everett was forced immediately to quickdraw and start shooting the fire beings until the last of their embers burnt out. Howling curses and complaints into the inferno, he strode forward, totally unrelenting as elemental after elemental collapsed and guttered out in front of him.

When the first wave had collapsed around him, Everett had a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow and get his bearings. The heat on the island was ungodly already, and from what he could see of the surrounding forests, much of it was already on fire. He spat to the side, uncomfortably watching the wad of saliva evaporate almost immediately, and straightened the badge on his shirt. On the horizon he could see gigantic fire elementals striding forward, and it didn't take a genius to put together that taking those brutes down would smash the elemental offensive.

Everett stowed his black powder safely in his powder horn and hid the rest inside his bandolier, keeping it away from the heat threatening to make them explode across his person. He reloaded his pistol carefully, eyeing the next group of elementals surging out of the forest, blocking his way to those gigantic beasts tearing into the land. He took a swig of water from the flask hanging on his belt and took aim at the first of the approaching enemies.

"Inheritor grant me fortitude," he prayed, firing off the first shot of the second battle he was to partake in. "Inheritor guide my shots," he continued, spinning around the bludgeoning fist of another elemental that had made its way to him. He fired the gun directly into the 'face' of the creature, making it blaze in what he could only assume was pain (for he did not speak Ignan). "Inheritor, clear this evil from my path," he concluded, his hands reaching almost lightning quick speed as he reloaded his pistol again, firing it off over and over and over *and over* into the swarming horde. Time seemed to dance around him occasionally, flickering waves of magic making his steps shudder just a *bit* faster. Other times it seemed the wind itself was howling with his shots, blasting aside attacks from the elementals or bowling them over onto the ground.

Though he was struck several times by the creatures, Everett refused to fall. He spat in their faces, cursed their names, and continued firing until the barrel of his pistol was as red hot as the inferno dancing around him. Hammering shots tore through the outsiders, splitting them asunder under their furious fusillade. Through it all, there was the old gunslinger, seemingly unwilling or unable to fall, once again back on the field of battle. This time, though, he had a cause to believe in.

When the last of the outsiders had fallen to the ground, Everett calmly took another drink from his flask. Then, he began stalking towards those giants he had seen before. He wasn't the strongest person here, he had no doubts about that - but he was sure those hulking beasts would feel the sting of magically enhanced lead in them. Perhaps, even, someone might recognize him, if there were any people left to save.

### Striking the Behemoth

Having now attained a greater level of skill than before over the course of many months of training (as well as helping to retrieve long lost, sunken treasures and destroying a fearsome creature inhabiting an abandoned adamantine mine), Everett was gaining a larger amount of fame than he was used to, or comfortable with for that matter.

Perhaps due to this fame, Everett received a message, though perhaps a more accurate phrase to use would have been ‘ was planted with’. After stumbling out of a bar one clear night, a passing drunkard bumped into the veteran gunslinger, who almost immediately noticed they had slipped something into his hand with the tiniest of motions. Refraining from calling after the man, Everett checked his palm to see a letter.

He left the area, returning to his mobile home (a curious machine taller than a man that ran on energy it created itself), to read it in secret. It was a mess of gibberish that looked more like someone had gotten violently ill all over the page rather than trying to write anything. He thought it a prank for a moment, before checking the margins of the note: a scramble of letters was jumbled here as well, with a mention of ‘Key’ being 12.

Everett wasn’t a particularly bright man, but after puzzling over this further, he realized it must have been a simple letter shift cypher. He spent the rest of the night rewriting the message so that he could actually read it without getting a headache. When he was finished, he had already agreed to what the message asked. People were sick and tired of a band of marauders operating off of the Behemoth, and they were forming a coalition to take them down. Everett yanked his keys out of his home and began walking - his home wasn’t large, but any chance of getting the coalition spotted early was too risky.

When he arrived, he saw a mass of tents surrounding well-dimmed campfires, an attempt at trying to remain inconspicuous. It was a start, in his opinion. He took a drink from his familiar flask, spat to the side, and walked into the camp to get a feel for the situation.

Within the next few days, again in part thanks to his growing notoriety, Everett had started a training program for the soldiers already gathered. He had no idea what training they had received prior, so he’d begin by putting everyone through their paces in a grueling basic training regimen. Warriors in this program were given a crash course in field movement, dexterity training, chain of command, weapon maintenance, and reactive training. Everyone who stuck through the program became proficient in knowing who to report to and who took over if someone was killed in action, how to move as a unit across a wide area without losing track of each other, how to keep their weapons free of rust and grime, and what to immediately do if ambushed or otherwise surprised.

At least, this was true in theory. Everett had no idea how they would function in the field, there was only so much help that training could provide them. After this course, Everett further offered advanced training programs for archers and the few gunslingers that had shown up to the camp as well. For the archers, he trained them in precise and volley fire, teaching them how to hit targets engaged in the chaos of melee combat without nailing a friendly in the back. Organizing life-fire exercise for the archers was easy with the help of a couple cloth dummies to act as targets. He also added additional dummies to act as ‘friendly’ targets, with Everett loudly chastising anyone he caught accidentally hitting an ‘ally’. Imitating the ducking and weaving common to melee combat was a trickier problem, but in the end solved by asking a few minor spellcasters in the camp to conjure a few illusions which would dissipate when hit.

For the gunslingers, their training was similar. In the interest of maintaining the relative secrecy of the camp, they could only practice in areas that were warded by the Silence spell. These amateur sharpshooters were also trained in both precise and massed fire, both so they could hit smaller targets and also to make up for the relative lack of experience of the people firing their weapons. If an army shot enough lead at a target, it didn’t really matter if half of them missed. The rifleman groups formed by this training could put out withering amounts of fire, in one exercise reducing a set of cloth dummies to shreds and scraps of cotton.

During this time, a delegate was roaming the camp, asking adventurers for their ideas on how to assault the behemoth. A ‘curiosity’, they claimed.

“Bandits lack discipline,” Everett explained as he drank from his flask in his own tent, the delegate seated across from him. “They attack civilians and light outposts. They strike from ambush. They want everything on their terms because all they know is one big push with little chance for retaliation.”

The gunslinger didn’t give the delegate the chance to speak up, continuing on with barely a pause. “We should give ‘em some confusion of their own. They might have walls, maybe even a defense plan, but they ain’t used to someone smacking them in their own turf. Two divisions, attack slightly apart, two different places?” chuckled Everett, gesturing to the delegate with his flask. “Those marauders will get flustered, trying to figure out which side to shore up. Maybe even toss a third group in, if we get enough people for it. All we have to do is break into one place. They have to defend two or three. Once one line falls, their morale will break, and they’ll panic.”

The delegate then posited a further question: What would become of any of the surviving bandits?

Everett laughed again, fixing the other person with a grim eye. “Hard labor. They want mercy? Let ‘em earn it tilling the fields they spent years stealing from. If they say no? Lock ‘em up until eternity ends. Iomadae don’t tolerate any of this ‘take them at their word’ crap.”

Everett sat up further then, and his gaze turned hard. "And fella? I hear you spill any plans to the bandits? I'll drag you back to town *myself.*"

### Striking the Behemoth, pt. 2

"I'm going to drag him back to town myself!" Everett spat, raising his rifle to his shoulder and firing straight into the face of a twisted, ferocious monster that was seconds from disemboweling a soldier. As the beast fell onto the ground, howling in agony, its very skin split apart like a sack of flour ripping at the seams. Instead of cooking ingredients, however, ever *more* creatures spewed forth onto the battlefield.

Everett had experienced quite a bit in his time of adventuring, but this was taking the cake. Evidently very *little* had been done on the intelligence side of things while he had been training people to avoid dying immediately. At least his training was paying off, the immediate casualty report was far lower than it could have been otherwise. A part of his mind was already wondering whether that so called dignitary *had* been a plant, or maybe this entire *thing* had been a trap meant to eradicate the last of the resistance to the raiders from the behemoth.

"FIGHT! **FIGHT! *FIGHT!***" he roared out commandingly, reloading his rifle with blinding speed as he splattered the freshly spawned monsters across the ground. Whirling arcs of electricity shifted to caustic streams of acid and then back into reams of fire as his mystical energy whirled about him. He slammed a fresh cartridge into his gun before dodging out of the way of a hideous looking half-orc, its arms turned into what were unmissably blades of metal.

Time shifted rapidly around Everett, and to the half-orc's surprise (Maybe, it was somewhat hard to read his expression through his heavily modified and scarred face) he found himself missing several organs as three different bullets slammed into his chest at once.

Without missing a beat, Everett reached out and snatched a rifleman backwards, pulling him into a slowly growing circle around the gunslinger. "REFORM THE LINES, DON'T SPLIT UP! CONCENTRATE YOUR FIRE!" he yelled, blasting aside the fresh spawns from the half-orc's corpse. As he stepped and fired, he continued to grab more and more allied soldiers, roughly shoving them into a defensive formation until he was surrounded by a rough contingent of swordsmen, archers, and gunslingers, with him in the center.

The raiders, noticing the knot of defense, immediately began to converge on the group. Everett spat to the side as he reloaded his gun, the barrel burning hot to the touch.

As a huge monster of what was once a man broke through the line of fleshcrafted mutants, Everett gave his final order:

"DON'T YOU **DARE** LET THE LINE BREAK! YOU WILL **NOT** EMBARASS THE INHERITOR BY DYING HERE TODAY!"

### Striking the Behemoth, pt. 3

Everett turned on his heel, deliberately putting the battle of the titans above him mostly out of mind (though still wary of getting stepped on). In front of him were the by-now battle scarred veterans from the initial assault against the behemoth. They had managed to sustain fairly "light" casualties in that battle, but he was acutely aware of missing bodies in the crowd of soldiers facing the enemy in front of him. There were howls on the wind and the familiar ringing of metal-on-metal was already reaching his ears.

"Ready!" he called out in what was known as his 'command' voice. The front row of the soldiers he'd been assigned dropped onto their stomachs, rifles poking through the grass towards the tree line. Behind them, steely eyed dual-pistol gunslingers and riflemen alike eased onto one knee in almost unison. Remaining standing were the archers of the group, pulled towards the back for ease of massed fire. Everett could feel the ground thundering under his feet, and it was not just from the clash of the giants close by. The swordsmen and shield bearers of his battle group spread out to the sides of the formation, keeping well trained eyes on their flanks.

"Aim!" he commanded, snapping his rifle to his shoulder. The raiders were strong, he had to give them credit. Their morale was also far better than he had suspected, given that they were putting up still fierce opposition to well trained foes. In his opinion, it would only prolong their defeat.

His perception was proven unfortunately accurate within mere moments of giving his last order. The tree line seemed to erupt with a massive wave of fleshwarped horrors and abominations - exactly as he had planned. The raiders' entire plan seemed to involve throwing themselves headfirst at the enemy and smashing everything to pieces. In fact, judging by the expressions he could actually read, it seemed his foes were amused at what appeared to be people laying down in defeat already.

"FIRE!" roared the soldier, followed swiftly by a cacophony of blasts of black powder and the whisper quiet *thmm* of arrows piercing the air. The effect on the charging raiders was devastating, the bullets reaching their targets first and sending the recipients tumbling down into the dirt screaming in agony as their limbs and torsos exploded into bits of gore. No less agonizing were the arrows that followed behind them, making pincushions of the second line of raiders, some of them falling into the mud without being able to utter so much as a word.

Yet still, there were always more. Screaming in a combination of rage and indignation at the shock of losing their initial wave, even more abominations surged towards the disciplined group headed by the gunslinging adventurer.

"Fire at will! Don't let them get close, don't get distracted!" the soldier called out, snapping his gun from target to target as each one fell, putting meaning to his commands. "Don't let them intimidate you, you're trained, you're disciplined! We *will* see victory this day, so long as you ***keep focused!***"