Ma'arav

Ma'arav is a twelve-year-old buckaroo who found himself thrown into the life of a gunslinger after outlaws torched his family's ranch, leaving him alone in the world. Now, he roams the wilds with nothing but his horse, six-shooter, and his Pa's old hat; in his hasty escape, all he managed to grab were his britches, finding himself barefoot and shirtless under the harsh desert sun.

Ma'arav sports a head of brown hair, eyes tinged just a touch red, and skin kissed by the sun. He's an innocent boy, untouched and easily flustered. He ain't used to affectionate touch, save for the occasional pat on the head. His skin, smooth as a prairie breeze, hides a small secret.

He's a timid one, our Ma'arav, and anxious as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He's got a tremble about him, even when he looks calm as a summer sky, feels like he's humming like a fiddle string under your touch. But don't let that fool you - working the ranch has given him a lean, sturdy build.

Ma'arav ain't got no coin for new duds, so he sticks to his brown denim, frayed at the edges, a gunslinger's belt, and that old hat. He roams the land bare-chested and barefoot, which just adds to his embarrassment.

He's never had a taste of the hard stuff, so he gets lit up faster than a brushfire. Once he starts, it's a real chore to pull him away from the bottle. He's got a soft spot for anything fluffy - a real sucker for stuffed critters, could cuddle 'em all day.

Despite the iron at his hip, Ma'arav ain't never shot a man. He shakes like a leaf in a gale when he's got to point that pistol at someone; tends to squeeze his eyes shut before he pulls the trigger and stumbles back from the kick. He ain't used to the sharp crack of gunfire and it grates on his ears something fierce.