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[color=f7976a]Location: Armadillo  ||  Mentions: [@ONL][/color][/center]

	Draven eyed the man.  He was clearly leading his question, beckoning a name.

	"[color=f7976a]And say you find 'em.  What's a man like you going to do to the Melbattons?[/color]" He began rolling his emptied glass on the table.  There was no real purpose behind it.  It just kept his hands busy while he tried to read this stranger.  It looked like the man was about to speak, but Draven felt inclined to interrupt.  "[color=f7976a]It's Draven,[/color]" he said finally.  "[color=f7976a]Or Jackson or Brock or even Peter, if I'm feeling particularly saintlike.[/color]"  He'd hoped the point was made.  "[color=f7976a]You need a favor, that much is clear.  A direction at the very least, ya?  I like doin' favors, mister, but that's the thing about scratching other peoples' back.  It doesn't do much for my own itch.[/color]"

	Draven wasn't looking for a vigilante.  This man was waving around a poster of guilty men, hard pressed to bring justice to them.  Or perhaps revenge.  Draven was hoping for the latter.  Dirty people tend to be more comfortable around other dirty people.  Draven was looking for the dirt.

	"[color=f7976a]Your business is yours,[/color]" he continued.  "[color=f7976a]I won't press ya for the details.  Tell me this, though: How many men have you killed?[/color]"

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[h2][color=f49ac2]Seven[/color][/h2][/center]

	Seven squished the lemonade in her mouth before swallowing.  On her next drink, she chugged it down until the glass was empty.  She was listening to the men converse but it was hardly holding her attention.  She'd heard all of this before.  Instead of sitting by, she stood from the table and took her empty glass back to the bar and sit it down.  Turning, she leaned back against the counter facing the common area of the saloon.

	In one of the far tables were two men sitting across from eachother.  There was coin on the tabletop between them.  One of the men laid his hand down flat, his fingers splayed, and pulled out a sizable knife before he began tapping the pointed end between each finger.  He started slowly at first, but picked up speed with each round.  His companion looked on with wide eyes and eager anticipation.

	Seven rolled her eyes.  Who goes to get drunk at a saloon gamble over whether or not they were going to mutilate themselves?  "[color=f49ac2]Idiots,[/color]" she said out loud, rolling her eyes.  Those two clearly weren't fit for recruitment.