The NPC pool is a resource of non-player character descriptions for use in roleplaying games. This entry by my podcasting compadre Matthew Farr.
There is little more I can say about that strange wanderer than a simple description of his person and tell of his passage through our town. More taciturn than even the stilted hands that sit at the bars, their social capacities dulled by hours on the trail, and the company of their herds, the Wanderer bears an unmistakable air of one who has travelled with only himself and his burdens for companionship, and whilst I could not speak of whether it is from inclination or grievous past experience, he shared little with us in his time here.
His appearance is singular – skin dulled to grey despite exposure to the sun, his eyes curiously widely spaced and strangely reflective, his voice a dry rasp with undertones which could, by the superstitious, be termed less than wholly human. I only saw him remove his hat once, and what remains of his hair is thin and lank, over a scalp strangely mottled, and ears that look almost as if they are receding into the sides of his head. His clothing is aged and worn from travel, embedded with dust that, whatever its original colouring, is now a range of browns. Only his-gun belt seems well preserved, worn with use yet carefully maintained, the weapons within gleaming and oiled.
He came to the town out of the east, stating only that he travels away from the sea, his voice carrying a yearning that I could not fathom. As he spoke of it, his whole body seemed to cry out against his travel, and for a reason I cannot explain I was overcome with the sure knowledge that only the strength of his will keeps him from turning back east towards that great expanse, although I do not know what calls him, nor why he seems to fear it so.
This however I do know – of the local hoodlums who accosted him on his way through town, the ones who shake down all newcomers, especially the strange and lonesome, all are now dead. Dead in the blink of an eye and the thunder of his guns. Dead, with a cold efficiency more chilling than any sentiment raised by his appearance….and now he has gone, travelling West, always West, away from the Sea, and whatever he fears that dwells within.