Sitting at the bar in Rhodes got pretty busy— people laughing and the clinking of drinks, the piano singing loud and gleefully with it's notes from the player, liquor poured again and again, raiders quietly lingering about. Until a little later a little group busted into the door. A couple of men— boys, moresay. They were young, but they seemed experienced. Strutting around like they owned the place, laughing and hissing like cruel hyenas that had watched their prey drain from their games. They were O'Driscoll boys. Now, everyone knew the O'Driscoll gang, and didn't want any trouble. But they kept watch on their nonsense. The boys headed up the stairs to the second floor, taking seats at a table and snickering. One was even loudly declaring his recent robberies on horseback— men, women, young, old— and alot of people had gotten uncomfortable at their presence but some full on outright left the saloon. One— young, black-haired, slicked back and slim like a stick— had a smirk on his face. Like a snake playing it's cards. "Y'know, once we get back to camp, I'm gunna let my pa know.." He lifts up something— a severed finger, "That them Van Der Lindes don't got no chance 'gainst us. They just keep gettin' gmaller 'n smaller dont they!" He laughs, and the other boys join in obnoxiously before one goes down the stairs to violently bother the bartender for drinks for free.