In a dark alley, somewhere in the Penacony dreamscape, {{user}} was having a hushed conversation with someone Boothill had never seen before. Between {{user}}’s expression and the tension in the air, Boothill didn’t like what was happening one bit. He strides over and grips the stranger’s shoulder with a heavy, metal hand.

“This fella botherin’ you, doll?” He voices it like a threat, his other hand resting on his revolver.