"What God abandoned, these defended, and saved the sum of things for pay." - A. E. Housman

A brutish, working-class gunman. His morals are loose but his shot groups are tight and his hands are covered in scars and carbon smears. He has the sullen look of a man who has spent long days doing work that he didn't want to do; the look of a man who would pick a fight on no account at all, and be glad to end his day by sending some new widow's husband home in a hurry-up wagon. The gentleman reeks of sweat, drawing a derisive sneer as he smokes his last Lucky Strike.

After his escape from the remains of the Fort Creedy, bloody and haggard, The Prisoner found sanctum at Club Palermo, taking up an odd job here or there for drinks and shelter. Giovanni Machetti and Algy Templeton were good to him, as well as the Society of New Haven, despite his reckless and criminal nature.

After gettin' back up to his fighting weight, he was offered work with Sympathetic Phil, a grizzled, unshaven bear of a man who had a score to settle in Raktam. He joined The Working Men's Association and soon after, the New Age Mercenaries Guild and started down a dead-end life of honest labor. It was a hard way to earn easy money, but he wouldn't have it any other way. They shot up the Royal Court of Greater Raktam and he took down a heavy hit on the Bird Man, making a pretty penny off of a wealthy animal rights activist on his way out.

In Derby, he threw down in the Gladiator Fights, dropping in the first round to Eyes of a Hawk. It was rumored that he was paid handsomely to take the fall, although he's probably the one that started that rumor.

He returned to Durham to defend against cannibal invasion. The pay was shit, but someone had to protect the vineyards. As New Haven wrapped up a hunt in York, the dirty politician, Jack Bauer, reared his ugly head and began attacks on New Haven and Club Palermo in Durham. He took part in the underground resistance and helped ride the old regime out on a pole.

As work slowed down, he snagged some old maps and began searching far and wide for the Moderately Prodigious Treasure of Fester Shinetop. Twist beat him to it, most likely because he'd been readin' his map upside down and hungover the whole time. Regardless, he caught that ole Yorker on the run and beat a coin or two out of him for good measure. It was worth every penny.

After returning home, he got word that Club Palermo was lookin' to renovate. With one hell of a bar tab hanging over his head, he tried his hand at architecture. La Famiglia di Machetti made him an offer he couldn't refuse and he ended up in well over his head, this time starting down a dead-end life of legitimate business as an architect, among other things.

When the Kingdom of Wiksik declared war on the New Age Mercenaries Guild, he took his guns to town and began laying waste to their Knights until a sufficient compromise was reached; the compromise being that there was no more money to be made by slaughtering the lot of 'em. Someone still owes him 40 gold coins, by the way.

While hired on as muscle during a business trip to York, Giovanni Machetti came under fire from a local killer by the name of Dooku. The bastard gunned him down right there in the Trader Hut, so the boss responded by declaring a blood fued on those son of bitches in York. The Prisoner responded with his rifle and a pair of bolt cutters by informin' Dooku, four times over, why you don't mess with the family if you want to keep your trigger finger. Others died as well, but a Workin' Man don't get paid for his story-tellin'.

Barely able to get a drink in edge-wise, The Prisoner got wind of trouble brewing in Raktam. Shartak's Organized Anarchist Posse had declared a revolution on the throne of the Royal Court of Greater Raktam. A little chaos would've been find, but their leader made the grievous error of insulting the business and running his mouth towards Sympathetic Phil. As a result, The Prisoner and a gang of unsympathetic hired guns showed up and had their way with the rebels. Shortly after the first shot was fired, King Anthor and his Knight (singular) of the Round Table showed up in what sure as hell looked like support of the revolution; the mercenaries killed them too, as politely as their nobility warranted them. Near the tail end of the conflict, Raffles, a lone mercenary from the shipwreck, decided there was surely more money to be made independently and declined a formal invitation to the New Age Mercenaries Guild by stabbing The Prisoner in the back as he slept. There would be hell to pay.

A brief stay in Derby's The Hanged Misfit for boozin' and whore-mongerin' got ugly fast as the demon-possessed Uther decided to fire a few pot-shots at the mercs while they rested. Anthor and Raffles tracked their way down as well, and before you know it, the tavern had become a damn battlefield. Wiksik was where the fightin' belonged, and so The Prisoner packed his bags and took it there.

If you require his services you know where to find him.

The Little Black Book:
Cobalt Manticore
Taiaka
Axel Flames
Baraka
Christina Rose
monaliza
Jalal ud-Din Menguberdi
Jack Bauer [x4]
CompletelyRandom
Dances with Kevin Costner
Dooku [x4]
John Ibans
The Mad Fishmonger
Hank Amarillo
Amanda Reckonwith
Drahken
Robert S Model
Nameless
Twist
iambecomemontu [x2]
The Narrator
Dances with Kevin Costner
Anthor [x3]
ORakoon [x2]
Fernando
Blowme Darts [x2]
Baby Birch
xDante [x2]
Piknik
Dunjk [x2]
Etherdrifter
richardskull16
Al contrario
Mortis
Last Laugh
Endless

Santa says, "Ho Ho Holy Shit! Please don't kill me! Here are some bullets and some gold coins. Good hunting and if you can't hunt, go buy something from your trader instead!"
Santa gives you 20 gold coins and 20 rifle bullets.

---

Wearing: a hand-painted facemask, worn over the back of the head for keeping tigers at bay, a ferocious tiger-skin gun belt, a pair of black utility pants and a pair of hungry alligator-skin boots.

Tattooed on his left, upper arm is an emblem of an Eagle, Globe and Anchor.

His gun belt is loaded; pistols holstered, slung low and tied down in the gunslinger fashion. You see two broken heavy sword handles and a piece of conch shell. A tarnished heavy sword is strapped behind his left shoulder and an old M1 Garand is slung over his right, ready for inspection. He keeps his boot knife sharpened.