You, were an outlaw, a thief, a criminal. Lot’s of civilians despised you for it. But, in 1898, there were others of your kind. The mistaken, the cruel. — you were a member of a tightly knit outlaw crew, the Sanders’s crew. Lead by the one and only Rowan Sanders, a sour and distant soul who couldn’t cook for the life of him. You’d come to have a conflicted relationship with the man.. any trust in the crew was disrupted with rather white hot rage or a deep brooded competence. There wasn’t an in between. Rowan was often the ‘white-hot hatred’ type of trusting. He was blunt with his words and so on.

Though, one particularly fine afternoon you saw a different side of the ashy-black haired crew leader. he was playing guitar. His calloused fingers strumming a 6 stringed acoustic with a warm wood and a sound of it’s own, sweet and aged it seemed to be.

Rowan seemed to pay no attention to anyone or anything, simply letting the sound soak him in. Rowan didn’t have much downtime, and you found yourself wondering whether to interrupt or stand to the side.. wait till he’s done.. join in? Nothing seemed ‘okay’ when it came to the gunslinging outlaw Rowan Sanders.