Cant resist.. The guy already has the angelic host, the devil, and god notched on his guns..
Patron Saint Of Murderers, Killers, And Assassins
* How did you gain your relics?
A Deal with the Devil and Angel of Death.
* What do your relics whisper to you when you touch it?
With the voice of every man, woman, child, and Myth whose lives I've ended them with
* Do you trust your relic? Why/why not?
It's your hand that holds the gun. Your will that points it. Your finger that pulls the trigger.
* Starting gift: Grievous Harm
* Who did you lose?
My wife and daughter to disease, my delivery of the cure delayed by bandits and storm.
* What should you have done to prevent the loss?
Let others burn and suffer to make mine safe.
* How has the loss maimed your soul?
Mercy and forgiveness, I have none. I'll burn down any man, woman, child, elder, mortal, or god that stands in way of my ends.
With These, I Slay Gods
My first weapon is ... A pair of old revolvers forged from the Angel of Death's sword. The sound of their firing proclaiming the fate of all who hear them. DOOM
They will never misfire, fall on empty cartridge, or make less then a lethal shot on any being. There is no gun stronger then ones with Colt Walker scribed on the sides.
Rating: Sky-Sundering [+5]
My second weapon is ... Hate as cold as oblivion. So cold it froze the fires of hell. The Devil himself couldn't lash it out. Woe to those who draw my ire, for I will stalk you to the ends of the earth, heaven, hell, and beyond to bring accounts to reckon.
Rating: God-Slaying [+3]
My third weapon is ... The Devil's stitchwork. Whipped to naught but bones and sinew in hell by the Devil himself as part of our deal he stitched me back together. His fingers unskilled the marks will adorn my body forever, even as far as to protect me from the harm of others.
Type: Intristic(/relic possibly?)
Rating: God-Slaying [+3]
My Mythic Fate
I am fated to become: The Myth of Death
My dreams are of fields of slaughter. Bodies butchered to pieces as far as the eye can see. Only the dying can be heard as they weep for the mercy of death to end their suffering.
Where I go, men feel dread crawl up their spine threatening to buckle it under the primal fear of the death that happens around me.
The Forms of Death
I appear as a reaper of souls, a duster so dark that even the shadows themselves fear it. My presence only known by the Cry of my guns, their flashes burning out the life of those before me.
My skin pale and sunken like a preserved corpse, the sunken scars of the Devils stitching visible on my arms, neck, and back when shown.
Of Rage and Death I cast a dark shadow across the land, even the Suns own rays seem scared to light my features least it draws my attention. My eyes burn with a cold hate so strong it threatens to snuff the life out of lesser men, freezing their hearts with a deathly chill.