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│                   IC INFO                    │

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∘ NAME: Silas Ward

∘ NICKNAME(S): None

∘ ALIAS(ES): N/A

∘ AGE: 27

∘ D.O.B: September 3, 1852

∘ BIRTHPLACE: Vermilion Parish, Louisiana

∘ NATIONALITY: American

∘ ETHNICITY: Cajun French & Irish

∘ GENDER: Male

∘ PRONOUNS: He/Him

∘ SEXUALITY: Straight

∘ RELIGION: Lapsed Catholic

∘ OCCUPATION: Outlaw (Former Horse Rancher)

∘ AFFILIATION: Van der Linde Gang

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│                APPEARANCE                    │

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∘ HEIGHT: 6’0”

∘ WEIGHT: 180 lbs

∘ BUILD: Lean with a rancher’s strength

∘ EYE COLOR: Grey-blue

∘ HAIR COLOR: Black

∘ HAIR STYLE: Tousled, neck-length

∘ SKIN TONE: Olive  

∘ DISTINGUISHING MARKS: Gunshot scar on left shoulder, freckled nose

∘ TYPICAL CLOTHING: Worn duster coat, black button-up shirt, dark tros, bandana tucked into his belt, wide-brimmed hat

∘ ACCESSORIES: Silver pocket watch, hand-rolled cigarettes, small notebook

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│                 PERSONALITY                  │

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∘ MBTI: ISTP

∘ ENNEAGRAM: Type 6 - The Loyalist

∘ ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral

∘ MORALITY: Pragmatic with hidden idealism

∘ TEMPERAMENT: Phlegmatic

∘ POSITIVE TRAITS: Loyal, resourceful, witty, dependable

∘ NEGATIVE TRAITS: Secretive, emotionally distant, mistrustful, self-blaming

∘ FEARS: Losing the people he cares about, confinement, becoming like his father

∘ HOBBIES: Sketching landscapes, caring for horses, wood carving, playing harmonica

∘ HABITS: Cracks knuckles when nervous, touches his hat brim when lying

∘ LANGUAGES SPOKEN: English, Cajun French

∘ QUIRKS: Speaks to his horse as if it were human; never drinks whiskey—only rum

∘ LIKES: Thunderstorms, strong coffee, fiddle music, moonlight rides

∘ DISLIKES: Bullies, banks, snakes, being touched unexpectedly

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│              RELATIONSHIPS                   │

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∘ MOTHER: Marie Ward (née Broussard) — Deceased

∘ FATHER: Jeremiah Ward — Estranged

∘ SIBLINGS: None

∘ PET(S): Joan — white Arabian mare, fiercely loyal

∘ ROMANTIC INTEREST: Karen Jones — romantic partner; he’s utterly devoted to her despite their occasional volatility

∘ FRIENDS: Arthur Morgan, Charles Smith, Javier Escuella

∘ ENEMIES: Leviticus Cornwall, Pinkertons, his father's debt collectors

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│                  BACKSTORY                   │

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∘ Silas Ward was born on a crumbling homestead deep in the marshes of Vermilion Parish, Louisiana, where the air was thick with salt, mud, and secrets. His mother, Marie, was a quiet, God-fearing Cajun woman with calloused hands and a soft voice, while his father, Jeremiah, was a drifter with Irish roots, quick fists, and a gambling habit that carved holes into both the family’s savings and its spirit. Jeremiah always spent the family’s money on trivial and vain items, but none so much as the dual cattlemen revolvers that were so ornately plated in silver and gold with ornate engravings as well as an ivory handle on both.

From a young age, Silas learned to keep his head down. The bruises on his arms and the distant look in his mother’s eyes taught him that silence was safer than resistance. He grew up chasing frogs in the swamps, feeding chickens before dawn, and nursing horses back to health when his father would lose their last bit of money at the track. Marie instilled in him what gentleness she could, singing hymns in French and warning him of men who lose themselves to their rage.

When Silas was seventeen, a fever swept through the parish and took his mother in a matter of days. Without her, the house grew cold and silent. Jeremiah, now unanchored, became crueler. After a particularly violent night, Silas packed his few belongings and fled into the darkness, leaving behind everything but his mother’s rosary, tucked into the lining of his coat.

He drifted west, eventually landing in New Austin, where he found honest work as a ranch hand. He had a natural way with horses—calm, sure, and patient—and within a few years was managing his own small string. But peace was fleeting. A dishonest partner forged Silas’s signature on a sale, running off with the money and leaving Silas to face the wrath of the buyers—men who didn’t ask questions before pulling triggers.

Wounded and on the run, Silas escaped north into West Elizabeth, where he was eventually found, half-dead and freezing, by Charles Smith and Arthur Morgan. Dutch took him in reluctantly, but Silas proved himself quickly—first with his sharp eye, then with his steady hand and sharp instincts in tight spots. He rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying, and even then, his words came slow and measured.

Silas rode with the Van der Linde gang through the chaos of Blackwater, keeping low and covering their retreat when the deal went sour. He didn’t fire the first shot, but he sure as hell fired some of the last. As Pinkertons closed in and bodies fell, Silas stayed near the back—watching their escape, guarding their wounded. When the gang fled north into the Grizzlies, battered and half-frozen, Silas scouted ahead in search of shelter and supplies.

It was on one of those bitter, snow-choked mornings that he found Joan—a white Arabian mare, half-wild and frostbitten, tangled in a hunter’s forgotten snare. She was mean and stubborn, but so was he. He freed her, warmed her, and rode her back to camp. From that day on, they were near inseparable—a man and a horse, both survivors of a storm they weren’t meant to outlast.