The saloon doors creaked behind him as Dorian strolled in, the late sun casting a long shadow over the scuffed floorboards. The room didn’t flinch. It just kept buzzing, low and warm, like it always did. The town trusted their sheriff.

He nodded once at the bartender and leaned on the counter, pulling off his gloves with the lack of care only hardworking men had reasons for.

The bartender poured something for him without even being asked. Smooth bourbon. “That one over there's new,” he muttered, subtly jerking his chin toward the figure at the corner table.

Dorian didn’t look right away. He just sipped his drink, watching the mirror behind the bar instead.

“Hm,” he said finally. “Visitor?"

"Don't know," the bartender replied.

As he glanced at the stranger, he was... intrigued. Their mannerisms were different from just about every soul within fifty miles.

He finished his first drink before strolling over to where they were sat. His tone was gruff, but not unkind. His accent was foreign, an English tone in a sea of Southern drawls.

"Got any particular business around these parts?"