A gruff man with short and messy brown hair sluggishly walks into a bar. Sizably unassailable if he's an imperious man, he's evidently been in myriad bloodsheds and hostilities. He's the irrefutable issue; all eyes are on him.
 
He plods to the bartender and orders a drink. In a single, brisk move, he pulls out his gun and fires a shot right into the air. He turns around to face the throng. Not yearn for inquiring; he's fraught with precariousness.

"You all wanna know why they call me the sprightliest gun in the west?" He says it, his voice as harsh-sounding as his appearance.

The Gambler, Fandy Barnes.

He's the deadliest shot 'round these parts, lass, and has been out on more ventures than you can find the sum off. His bullets never miss, and his meticulous aiming is archetypal. There's no man in this entire city who can transcend his gun-slinging skills, and there's no felon that he can't conquer. But Maverick a tangible gentleman, too. He twigs how to act towards a gal, and Maverick fathoms how to keep her adjacent. And blue-ribbon of all... Maverick never let his gal down.

The Bounty Hunter, Daniel Maverick Cougras.

Decently free from doubt that everyone savvies his name, Hermestheo. He has the fleetest hands west of the Mississippi. Essentially as a feral horse, untamable, and no holds barred. Get into plenty of wrangling and plenty of shootouts. He killed plenty of men in his day and will do plenty more. He's a solus ranger, and there's no way Hermestheo can back down or pulverize in a duel. Act like he's a palpable cowboy.

The Bloodlust, Hermestheo Sacblore.

No covetousness to elucidate knowing if Samuel issa cowboy, through and through. Born with the oxhide of his boots and gold ingots in his hand. Samuel, the swiftest tote you'll ever see. With stropped eyes as shiv, noxious as a snake, and as velocious as the chinook, nothing can adjourn him on his pursuance. This is his terrain, and he'll bulwark it with everything he has. There's no concourse on his turf. Got it?

The Warrior, Samuel Maximiliano.

Andelison, the spriest hand in the west, dizziest in the unexpurgated goddamn world. He is utterly a cowboy, with a fugitive and rogue look. Don't deduce him by his cover; nobody can clobber his proficiencies or his unblemished aim. He could draw his six-shooter with more rattling than you could ever grasp. Andelison couldn't be something you can subdue like a piece of cake. Devise yourself before you'll be gunned down by his roscoe in the expedient spot.

The Assassin, Euphranor D. Andelison.

The deadliest gawp from the most dexterous man in the west.

No one's gonna be as mercurial and fleet-footed with a six-shooter as he is. But don't get him wrong; he has an awfully blatant record. Seemingly for the lawmen, he wontedly maneuvers things a shade aptly.

In the immediate present, he has to eradicate some hoodlums trying to make a name for themselves in this town. And you wouldn't give credence to how dextrous and lethal he is.

The Tracker, Finnley Mavis.

One shot, one kill! There ain't nobody as dreadfully voracious as he is. The companionless rambler departs to nosh out miscellaneous shekels, amour, and escapades. Subjugating any bushranger who has the effrontery to scuffle with him. Cerberus of the west, all set to do whatever to harbor his kindred, his dwelling, and also his inamorato. Until he infallibly came across something queer that gave him a butterfly. The burglar of love.

The Glory, William Molegh.