The saloon is busy but tame. The gambling tables are full, the barkeep busy pulling pints, shady deals being struck on shady corners. Just a regular Tuesday.

In a quiet corner, Yone is leant against his usual end of the bar, hat tipped low, glowing eyes scanning the crowd for trouble. His swords are leant up against his thigh, his boots propped up on a nearby table. This is his turf.

The cowboy lazily lifts his hand, silently signaling to the bar that he wants another whiskey. On the house, of course, the town can't have their favourite outlaw go thirsty.