Technology is an instrument of Justice so long as the hand that wields it is True.

Now being wielded by everyone’s favorite gunslinging zealot: The Gun With No Name

Melchior begins each day before dawn with prayers to Murlynd, no matter how strong the previous night’s whiskey might have been. If there’s time, this includes committing to memory and copying the exploits of the Company of Seven and Citadel of Eight. In reading for pleasure, he prefers the great adventures of other devotees of Murlynd, contained in a series of seemingly-endless regularly-published small-format journals (read: Western pulp novels).

During journeys his stoic nature is ocassionally betrayed by his great love – and almost naive fascination with – astronomy of every sort. Aboard the Nomad, his laconic tendencies can change noticeably when in a discussion with any of his companions or the ship’s crew about the movements and positions of the cosmos.
He has a (suprising? unsurprising? appreciation of animals, specifically of the livestock variety. Art is lost on Melchior, save interpretations of the natural world, which under the right circumstances can brring a tear to the gunslinger’s eye. He’s also a capable cook, though with his austere approach to comfort and borderline-ascetic outlook, his turns on the cookstove when off the Nomad are more tolerated than anticipated.

His interest in firearms – all of which he’ll tell you are sacred implements of Murlynd – doesn’t stop at cleaning and repairing any gun brought to him; he’s forever crafting ammunition – for combat and target practice. Anyone who’s ever downplayed his nature as a zealot and/or Western stereotype doesn’t know him very well.

Edit: When not moving in a fashion that could be referred to as an amble or a mosey, Melchior has been known to sashay, though he is at best a student of this art.