The Eidolon


Gender: None

Kit: Eldritch

Location: Hell on Earth


Alignment: Villain

Team: Solo Villain


Strength: weak (rank 0)

Agility: weak (rank 0)

Mind: weak (rank 0)

Body: weak (rank 0)

Spirit: (rank )

Charisma: (rank )


Infamy Points: 496

Personal Wins: 44

Personal Losses: 24

Team Wins: 0

Team Losses: 0

Tourney Wins: 0

Tourney Losses: 0


Status: Active


Finally, the Monroe clan had met their match. Even in a town of smugglers, gun runners and hoodlums, the Monroe’s were the worst of the worst. Back in them days, Ol Boss McAlister ran that town. He told them boys and anyone who was listenin’ that they were “stirrin’ up fires that their asses couldn’t put out”. He told them to not expect him to come to their rescue every time they whipped up a shit storm: friendship with their late father or no. “Hell…” He would say, “Their father already went and got his head blown off fer cattle rustlin’.” Them boys weren’t never much fer listenin’ tho. Two months had passed since they killed the last marshal that rode into town seekin’ justice. But this time, it weren’t no old run down marshal from the high falootin’ city. This time, they sent that damned Cimmerian Cowboy; scariest son of a bitch you ever done seen. He weren’t no better than the hoodlums that ran this town. I don’t know what could happen to a man to make him so damned ornery, but that cowboy could drink any man, woman or cow under the table…and he could outshoot every last one of ‘em too. Now, he was here in the worst town in Texas and he meant business. It was a shame what happened to them boys. Even worse what happened to that damned darkly cowboy.

In town, the Cimmerian feller was takin’ part in a right hootin’ and a tootin’ cock fight. Meanwhile, the Monroe’s were suitin’ up to set things straight with him once and fer all. They sent the youngin’ brother into town to lure ‘em out and into a trap. They were hidin’ all over the town: a few on the roof, a few behind some ol’ barrels and two right smack dab in the middle of the street. All intent on shootin’ that cowboy dead in his tracks. So, the youngin’ came in the bar and saw the cowboy hootin’ it up with the residents. Lil whippersnapper took this as a chance to be a man; being the youngest of the clan and all. His palms were sweaty and his brow drenched, “Hey you.” He’d say. “You want a piece of the Monroe’s; you gotta go through me first.” At that point, the whole bar stopped at a dime. The Cimmerian jes’ looked back. Tipped his hat and returned to his match, “Scram kid.” Is all the time he gave em. Well, that riled the youngster up right nice. “Slap leather ol’ man!” He yelled and pulled two revolvers as quick as he could.

Not quick enough.

Before the lil runt even cleared his holster, he was shot dead. Damned stupid Monroe’s, may hell be yer home. Speakin’ of hell, everyone done heard stories of that creepy cowboy, but the truth of the matter was much more a sight to behold. Hell was something that guy kept in his holster. When he shot that gun, he let hell loose like nobody’s business. Hell followed that beastly man around like a bee on honey. To boot: that ol’ darkly cowboy came into town and something evil came with him…but more to that later. Right now, there were other Monroe’s to take care of.

After gunnin’ down the youngest one, that ol’ cowboy stepped out of the bar and into the street. And those low down Monroe’s were right there waitin’. This time, those Monroe boys, had reached their limit. While they gabbed on about rippin’ out body parts and rapin’ the Cimmerian’s fella’s relatives, the old cowboy just looked around calmly. There were six Monroe’s hidden or otherwise. He knew this. Further away were the townsfolk; always around to enjoy a good shootout. Last, was a strange fella way off in the distance. Not many noticed him standing there. I did and it sent the coldest shiver down my spine I’d ever felt. I also noticed that the whole area where that creep was standing was covered in darkness…in mid-afternoon, no less. Like I said, that cowboy brought hell wherever he went. Nonetheless, the Monroe’s finished flappin’ their jaws and commenced to raising them guns. What happened next…well, if I didn’t see it, I would’ve never believed it. They said that the cowboy always let his adversaries draw first. This was true. Wasn’t he the sporting type? Those two Monroe brothers on the horse drew first…or at least they tried. Before they could blink, blue blazing rockets were flying around like damned stirred hornet’s nest. Within seconds, every damned Monroe in the area was on the ground dying. Never in my life have I seen such. I barely even saw the man draw. Never nothin’ like it…and it wasn’t over yet. As those darned spirited bullets found their homes in warm flesh; another bullet decided to go astray. With a zip, it went straight over to that creep in the dark.


See from what I hear tell, those bullets are drawn to haints and such. That’s the thing with this Cimmerian fella. He bounty hunts people sometimes, but rumor is he’s a ghost hunter too. So, that bullet flew straight to that ol scary fella…and what does he do? He just stands there and takes it. Boom! That bullet him like the Fourth of July. Blues flames flicker all over that fella and half his arm flies off. Well at this point, nobody knows what’s going on. But one thing everybody knows for sure is that fella wasn’t human. Cus as sure as I’m livin’, that man was not. Without an arm, he just walks forward. You can tell that ol’ Cimmerian fella doesn’t know what to make of him. He’s just as dumbfounded as the rest of us. I guess usually that sup’ed up Howdah of his takes a little bit more out of a man. So as the thing keeps comin’, the rest of the town folk hit the trails, me included. Hell, we can do just as much watchin’ from inside a bar as we can watchin’ outside.

Inside, the hen-peckers were goin’ at it. Any other time, I wouldn’t listen to old gossipin’ women, but this time…well, this weren’t no ordinary time. “It’s his own fault, that cowboy…” Mary Hall says. “He shouldn’t never fooled with that ol’ injun hocus pocus.” She bellyached. “That’s death right there…” Margaret McCready says. “He’s comin’ to take back what rightfully belongs to him.” She says and points at the cowboy…or the gun. I can’t tell which. “If’n ya ask me, he’s getting what’s comin’ to ‘em.” She said in her hen peckin’ way. Then the ol’ superstitious yella bellies start singin’ ol’ gospel hymns. Women. Back outside, the whole sky done gone black. That thing, well it was just standing there about 30 paces from the Cimmerian. You should’ve seen it. It was death incarnate. It weren’t nothin’ but a rotten corpse. Its face was half decomposed and it’s big skeletal teeth looked like they were smilin’. If I hadn’t a takin’ a swig of whiskey a few minutes ago, I would’ve dropped dead right then. Scary son of bitch if ya ever saw it.


Like a Greased Chicken

     Teleportation: superior (rank 2)


You should’ve seen the look on that cowboy’s face too. Stern as the day is long. I don’t know who was scarier. Usually, he lets the opposing man shoot…or try to shoot first. Not this time, those guns went a’ blazin' as soon as that spirit stopped walkin’. Bang! Bang! Bang! And there went those rockets. Now here’s the kicker - those bullets found home, but when they did that ol’ haint wasn’t there. I did not blink. I may have been drinkin’ but dammit, I ain’t blind. I did not blink. But just as sure as I’m livin’ that thing was gone. He just walked away. I don’t know how he did it, but he just walked away slowly an’ all them bullets missed. …And when those bullets were about to hit pay dirt, nothing was there. For the first time that I’ve ever heard of, that cowboy’s bullets hit nothing. Then, there he was behind the cowboy like he’d been standing there the whole time. The cowboy spun around fast as sin. He reloaded and fired again. And again. And again. Every time…same thing. That thing would jes’ walk off and poof. That damn spook was harder to catch than a greased down chicken.



     Energy Absorption: superior (rank 2)


I tell ya’ what tho. Them damned cantankerous spirited bullets weren’t going to stop. Them things fly around like they got a mind o’ their own. At least one of them hit home too. And when it did, it tore another chunk out that undead monstrosity. This time however, that thing didn’t just sit down an’ take it. Nope. When those bullets hit ‘em and that blue force rushed forth; the thing…well it opened its mouth and started suckin’ that blue fume right into himself. Weirdest thing ya ever saw in your life.


Psycho Pomp

     Regeneration: superior (rank 2)


Not only that, but as he did it, his body starts reformin’. One arm was glowin’ blue and reforming, then the chunk that he lost jes’ a second ago came right back. Ms. Mary Hall and ol’ Widow McCready passed out right then and there. Thank you lord. That’s when the Professor started yappin’. Professor Coleman was the smartest fella in these parts. He taught at the school outside of town, but “loved to sit a spell.” He would say. In other words, he was an ol’ drunk like the rest of us. He started harpin’ on how that haint was some sort of “psycho pomp”. He said that the haint was comin’ to collect somethin’ that shouldn’t be here. He called it an “Eidolon”. He said the whole thing was something akin to Greek tragedy. I’d say he came to scoop that spooky cowboy up and take em back to hell where he belonged. The Prof proceeded to say that a bunch of hicks like us wouldn’t understand what he was talkin’ bout. He was right. I proceeded to knock his lights out. So back to the spirit…there it was standin’ again, good as new.


Classic Colts

     Piercing Weapon: standard (rank 1)

  • Ranged Attack
  • Multi-Attack


…and I guess it had enough of the games, because finally it drew. Slowly it pulled its guns out: two single action colt revolvers. They were just as grim as that specter himself. The cowboy looked a bit perturbed at this point. He had unloaded a few rounds at that thing and ain’t seen any reward. So there they stood guns drawn and nothin’ but sagebrush and doom between them. Quicker an’ lightning that cowboy blew the hat right off that ghost’s head or what was left of his rotting head.


Devil and the Fiddle

     Marksman: standard (rank 1)


The ghost didn’t move. He just raised his hands and POW! The Cimmerian’s hat went flying too. So, it was a showdown. Who’d a thunk the devil was a sportin’ type. Course there was that one time when the Devil came to town and challenged that fiddler fella…but that’s another story for another time. Back and forth the two went; showing off their tricks. The Cimmerian went to pick up his hat and POW! Up it went again. He’d reach for it and POW over and over again until finally and like a flash he turned around and blew the spirit’s head clean off. Ha! Guess that cowboy had enuff of the gamin’. I guess you’d think that was to be end of that. Well, you’d guess wrong. That damn spook absorbed the blue hue into that open chasm that was where its head used to be. Then fell. The cowboy looked at his gun. The glow was a fadin’ fast. Not only that, but the spook…was reformin’ its head. Whatever was in that gun, seemed to be superchargin’ that damn spook. Yeah, it was time to leave town. Faster ‘an you can say “get tha hell out of dodge!” that cowboy unhitched a horse and got the hell out of dodge. Ha! Turn tail and ran he did. Damndest thing you ever did saw. You shoulda seen the looks on those townsfolk’s faces. Scared shitless we all were. The cowboy left us high and dry. First time for everything I guess. Course, weren’t nobody in that town worth a damn anyway. So, we watched as the “Eidolon” as the unconscious Prof would call him reformed, rose and strode out of town slow as a dead man could walk. True story. Strangest day o’ my life. I reckon that ol’ Eidolon will be hauntin’ that Cimmerian Cowboy fer the rest of his life. Better him than me. God bless his soul.