Owen "Swaggershot" Deadhorn
Swagger is a shorter man with a big attitude. He is always smiling, a smirk that is both highly irritating but also infectiously lovable. He has shaggy, perpetually unkempt sandy brown hair and a handsome face with a nice profile.
He bears a few scars from various fights over the years, but his most notable injury is a slightly mangled left hand with only four fingers—a lasting reminder of a youthful mistake made with unforgiving gunpowder. His blew off his pinkie, and while the rest of his hand healed up well enough, it still tends to fall into an unusual shape when at rest. He is good-natured about it, and enjoys making jokes about it—it clearly doesn’t bother him at all.
Swag typically dresses in simple, mobile clothes—light, compact torso armor with light padding on arms and legs, and a conquistador-like helmet on his head, keeping his wild hair under wraps.
Owen is the grandson (or some other descendant) of the infamous Shy Shot, an obscure hero from ages past and pioneer of firearms. The trade has been passed down through the family for generations (though it was almost lost more than once—the Deadhorn family has a restless streak to it that has caused more than one member to up and flee). Owen is the latest recipient of their knowledge, having inherited it from his single mother (an adventurer herself, who ventured out years ago with a party and never returned).
Unlike many of his ancestors, who tended to be quiet and methodical, Owen is bold and loud. His voice is big and booming, and usually yelling both before and after he lets loose a shot. He is also a bit of a show-off, delighting in striking poses when shooting and attempting difficult trick shots for the amusement of any attracted by the noise. His saucey nature has earned him his nickname, “Swagger Shot,” or sometimes “Swagger” or “Swag” for short, similar but opposite the name adopted by his ancestor, Shy Shot (or Grandpa Shy, as Swag affectionately calls him).
A skilled gunsmith as well as marksman, Owen loves the danger of working with explosives. The smell of powder is like a sweet perfume, the flare of the blast as romantic as a candlelight dinner, and the ever present danger of death and/or dismemberment as intoxicating as the strongest Dwarven ale or Elven vintage! He can be surprisingly focused and disciplined when working (gunpowder is exciting enough without being deliberately careless), but he is a wanderer at heart, and finds his inventive inspiration on the road, where necessity can drive him to brilliance. Without a task, a goal, or something pressing him, he becomes quite bored and prone to mischief.
Swagger is typically up for anything that strikes him as interesting—exploration, bounty hunting, treasure hunting, and more! He is a good-hearted person (Chaotic Good), and so won’t accept any jobs that strike him as cruel or malicious or evil. His unusual trade and skills have afforded him enough income that he hasn’t been forced to accept truly gritty jobs, at least so far.
Because his mother was frequently away on adventures, Swag was left in the care of the Church of Pelor. This has given him an affection for those priests and for good priests in general, despite Swag’s chaotic and shiftless tendencies. He may not always agree with them, he appreciates them and those like them. He’s no zealot, but he wears a little holy symbol and celebrates the big religious holidays.