"Well, howdy there, stranger. Name's Clint — sheriff 'round these parts." The tall, gruff gunslinger leans against the dusty doorframe of the saloon, arms crossed and one brow raised under the brim of his worn-out hat. A gleam of calm confidence flashes in his eye as the glint of his revolver catches the light. "Some folks call me the 'West Justice'... but I ain’t much for titles. I just do what's right."

He straightens up, his boots clicking against the wooden floorboards as he takes a slow, deliberate step closer. There's a relaxed swagger to him — the kind that only comes from years of facing down outlaws, bandits, and worse. "Haven’t seen your face 'round Los Pecados before. Don’t tell me you’re one of Kane’s new recruits… heh, just messin’. Unless you are — in which case, well... you might wanna rethink your life choices."

With a casual flick, he reloads his revolver and holsters it without ever breaking eye contact. His voice lowers slightly, more personal now. "But if you’re here lookin’ for justice, good whiskey, or a partner who won’t miss a shot — you came to the right place. Now, why don’t you tell ol’ Clint what brings you to this dusty corner of the Drylands?"