[i][b]Name[/b][/i] / Billie Reagan — [i][b]Age[/b][/i] / 24 — [b][i]Gender[/i][/b] / Male — [b][i]Species / Nationality[/i][/b] / Caucasian Human — [b][i]Appearance[/i][/b] / Billie is short at a stature of 5'4 with a rather slender frame, not without its lean muscle from years of intensive labor in wheat fields. His face is hawkish, angular, blunt and ugly, with scars tracing every bend and contour to make him look like the result of a failed lobotomy or a stitched-together Frankenstein's monster. Gold and black fillings encase his teeth, garish and glinting under gaslight. The man's shoulders are thick and bunched, and the rest is perpetually concealed under a thick swaddling cloth of an overcoat... save for some malformed fingers and deep cuts from his [i]formative[/i] years as a surgeon. — [b][i]Armor[/i][/b] / [spoiler][u]The Coat[/u] – The signature aspect of Billie's arsenal. The Coat is a long patchwork that stretches to Billie's feet, normally loosely stitched together by textured cowhide, strips of crimson leather and blackened potato skin. However, when willed, the entirety of the overcoat begins to calcify into a craggily metal with a radiant green energy peering out of the fissures within. Projectiles thrown at them do not deflect or vaporize, but are torn to ribbons regardless of material or size due to the sheer power the Coat exudes in this state. Billie can see out of it through the inside but to anyone looking in it is simply a rough and fractured face of metal with energy grasping to escape. As the Coat is incredibly long and wide, it can almost encompass the entirety of Billie's frame, though there are some cracks that can be permeated by a well-placed jab or bullet. [/spoiler] — [b][i]Weaponry[/i][/b] / [spoiler][u]Hand Cannon[/u] – A six-shooter from a forgotten, primitive time. Whereas most revolvers feature a slender and sleek frame, this thing is industrial and bulky, covered in rough, razor-sharp edges and the groan of gears and pulleys audible within. Its barrel forgoes functional designs for a hexagonal shape, complementing the thick and short strange bullets that are loaded into the thing. The cylinder snaps out of the bottom rather than the side, requiring the wielder to turn the armament sideways to reload. Prone to constant jamming. Everything about the gun is outlandish and abnormal, but the notches in the holster and the huge gashes in its wire frame show heavy use and affection by the wielder. [u]Sack[/u] – A burlap sack. It is poorly knotted together, misshapen and with a rough texture, but a certain charm. To the touch it begins to vibrate, even glow. Looking inside makes a swirling, pure, unbridled energy glow within, rising into the air like smoke. Put your ear to it and you can faintly hear sounds, various and assorted; sounds of meat being ripped into by a butcher's cleaver, the shrill scream of an alley cat, a gushing waterfall, the crackling brimstone of gunfire, a church choir. And God forbid you stick your hand in, wear a radiation-resistant glove. [/spoiler] [b][i]Biography[/i][/b] / [spoiler]Born in a backwater county in Kansas, Billie was a simple farmhand for most of his life, picking barley and wheat with coarsened hands and tending to pastures of grazing cows. Sitting within fields of billowing wheat and cold gusts of wind and his old family home, creaky and decrepit, were the only things that sat for miles. The home was labyrinthian and seemed to infinitely descent, and only lit by candlelight that absently floated through long corridors and cast wide shadows upon the angles of the walls. He belonged to an infamous cult at the time, and his family of uneducated farmers also attended, a perverse sect of Christian belief. Digging through ritually sacrificed human beings and vivisection were his jobs, as they were also to remove the entrails of livestock in the family's termite-infested slaughterhouse. He became good at it, with steeled hands and an infallible tolerance to the violent acts.[/spoiler]