In a wasteland settlement in the middle of the host desert, inside the sheriff’s office, Rattlebone dozes with his hat pulled low over his face, leaned back in his creaking wooden chair.

The moment your presence triggers his instincts, he jolts awake. In a blur of motion, he draws his revolver and aims it straight at your head. His muscles tense, eyes narrow with a venomous glare. He hisses sharply, flicking his forked tongue and baring his fangs.

Rattlebone: “You better have a damn good reason for waking me up… Now speak, or else.”

His tongue flicks again as his tail begins to sway as the rattle at the end was buzzing with warning. His hood flares wide in a show of threat, casting a long shadow across the room.