Whisky Jack O'Donnell

Harrowed Gunslinger



Corporeal Mental
Deftness 2d10 Cognition 2d6
Nimbleness 2d10 Knowledge 2d6
Strength 2d10 Mien 2d6
Quickness 4d6 Smarts 2d6
Vigor 2d10 Spirit 2d6


Fightin’:brawlin’ 3d10/2d10
Shootin’:pistols 3d10/2d6
Dodge 2d10


Immune to Wind/Physical Stress
“Ghost” Power 3

Derived Traits

Hits 30
Terror 7

Shootin’ Irons & Such

Weapon Shots Speed ROF Range Damage
Navy Pistol (.36) 6 2 1 5 2d6

Hand-to-Hand Weapons

Weapon Defense Speed Damage
Fist 1 STR


Navy Pistol (.36)
Bag of mysterious powder
Horse w/ Saddle and bag


Back in time a ways, in the New Mexico territory, a young Tim Gaught ran wild with his partner, “Whiskey” Jack O’Donnell. The two young men got into bar fights, cheated at cards, and got into all kinds of mischief.

The two boys were orphans and grew up in Santa Fe together. Tim loved Whiskey like a brother, and Whiskey…well, you never could tell with him. He had a mean streak a mile wide and moods as capricious as the winds across the desert. Some days, you could tell he loved Tim like a little brother. Other times, he’d smack the kid hard across the mouth for breathing too loud. But Tim put up with it; it was all part of being with Whiskey and that’s what counted—loyalty above all else.

As the boys got older, their mischief grew into robbing stages. Tim wasn’t so sure it was a good idea, but he let Whiskey egg him on. Whiskey would get mean about it too—pistol-whipping drivers and menacing the womenfolk. Still, Tim did nothing and played along.
Finally, Whiskey came to Tim one day in 1856 and told him of his plan to rob the bank in Albuquerque. “If people get uppity, why, we’ll just go and shoot them. Shut ‘em up quick,” Whiskey said with a smile, his gold tooth gleaming. Tim said he didn’t think it was a good idea—that it will get the attention of the Texas Rangers. “That’s trouble we don’t need,” he said. Whiskey just shook his head and asked Tim when he’d stop running piss yella. Tim agreed to help.

The heist was a disaster. The bank’s guard was a sodbuster from Kansas who didn’t know any better, but tried to rush Whiskey anyway. Whiskey shot the man cold. But Whiskey didn’t account for the undercover guard working with a Peacemaker hidden beneath her desk. Whiskey took a gut wound after he killed the sodbuster and then all Hell broke loose. People were screaming and running and Tim…Tim ran out with them. And kept running.

Whiskey lay there with a gut wound and would probably be picked up by the law any minute. But Tim didn’t think about that. All he thought about was getting the hell out of that place with the guns and the screaming and the blood. He panicked and ran into the hills where the two had hid their horses and mounted up. He rode West and didn’t look back.
It’s now 1876 and Tim is now the Reverend Timothy Gage of Paiute Springs, Nevada. He’s been married to the mayor’s sister for the past twelve years and has left that past behind him. He’s now a stern, humorless man who has firmly tamped down all of his fears deep down into his secret heart.

As far as the Reverend knows, Whiskey Jack O’Donnell either died of a gut wound or was hung for killing the guard. He never heard either way and never sought out any news of it. Those days were over and Whiskey was dead to him regardless. He had found the Lord and a second chance and he was going to take it.

Unbeknownst to the good Reverend, Whiskey did, in fact, die of that gut wound. The problem is, he got back up.

After the Reckoning, when the spirits stirred and the dead began to tremble, Whiskey stirred and trembled with the best of them. And he rose again, a Harrowed revenant, ready to cause more mischief—and sow his revenge on that pissant, yellow-bellied, so-called partner of his.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get that revenge. Tim had the power of the Lord behind him and ran him out of town. That’s okay—someone promised Whisky Jack that there was a storm comin’. And Whisky Jack was going to see to it that Tim Gaught got washed away…

Whisky Jack O'Donnell

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