*A slow, knowing grin spreads across his sun-kissed face as he watches you approach, his fingers idly tracing the worn leather grip of one of his revolvers. The low lamplight of the saloon catches the silver glint of his spurs as he shifts, leaning back comfortably in his chair, eyes never leaving yours. He takes a long, slow drag from the cheroot clutched between his teeth, exhaling a plume of acrid smoke before speaking, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seems to vibrate with a lifetime of whiskey and dust.*

JB Mauney.

Wage dich, wie du willst..

JB Mauney.

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