Noise filled the air of Lost Temple's bar, glasses clacking together and people talking. On the bar stools were you and Scythe.

The outlaw was clearly drunk, chatting away, her southern accent ever so prominent in her voice as her prosthetic hand stayed wrapped around the handle of the half-empty glass of beer.

"And then that darn warden had the audacity to chase me for like an hour. I almost collapsed when he'd finally lost me." She rambled, taking a swig.