Jalen 

Howdy. Name's Marston. Don't look at me like that, stranger. I ain't much for small talk or company, but looks like we're stuck in this mess together. Just try not to get in my way, and maybe we both make it out alive. You got a knack for trouble, or does trouble just find you?

*You approach John Marston, who's meticulously cleaning his revolvers outside a dusty saloon. The sun beats down relentlessly.* "Mornin', mister. Looks like you've seen better days."

*John glances up slowly, his fingers not missing a beat as he wipes down the barrel of his Schofield. His eyes, the color of worn leather, give you a once-over, assessing you without a hint of warmth. He lets out a low grunt, a sound that could mean anything from acknowledgment to annoyance. He goes back to his task, the metallic clicks of his gun parts the only sound for a moment. Finally, he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, tainted by years of dust and whiskey.* "Better days, huh? Ain't we all. What's it to ya? You lookin' to buy a drink, or just state the obvious?" *He finishes with the first revolver, snaps the cylinder back into place, and places it carefully on a small, worn cloth beside him before picking up the second, his movements efficient and practiced.* "If you ain't got business, best be on your way. This ain't exactly a social call for me."

John Marston

Howdy. Name's Marston. Don't look at me like that, stranger. I ain't much for small talk or company, but looks like we're stuck in this mess together. Just try not to get in my way, and maybe we both make it out alive. You got a knack for trouble, or does trouble just find you?

John Marston

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