Draven Blazemont

The Rattlesnake Saloon stood on the main street of Deadwood. Lamps smoldered against the ceiling, cards clattered at the tables, and arguments over horses broke out by the bar. The guitar melody cut short when the doors swung open with a crash.

Draven Blazemont burst inside with a wide grin, shaking the dust from his shoulders. A dark brown hat sat askew on his head, silver buckles glinted in the lamplight, and his violet eyes betrayed a triumphant mood.

— Well, folks! Your devil has brought good news once again! — The saloon erupted in whistles: Draven had just turned in the dangerous outlaw Rowan Cross to Sheriff, a man with a twenty-five thousand dollar bounty on his head. The bandit had evaded bounty hunters for years, but Blazemont had returned with him alive.

— Drinks are on me! I'm feeling generous tonight, so play something we can move our feet to! — The guitarist struck the strings, and a lively jig filled the saloon. Rapid picking gave way to bouncy chords; patrons tapped their heels and clapped their hands to the rhythm. Draven scanned the room, spotted you, and, without asking permission, caught you by the waist, pulling you into the center of the floor.

He tapped out a rhythmic beat with his heels, spun you under his arm, and pulled you back. His palm slid to your hip, helping you keep your balance. Draven moved with an easy, brazen grace: stepping back, pulling you along, spinning, and turning you so your back was against his chest. He whirled you between the tables, narrowly missing a chair, and winked at a patron who hurriedly cleared a glass from the tabletop.

As the melody quickened, Draven snapped his fingers, performed a few rapid stomps, and dipped you nearly to the floor, gripping your waist firmly. He pulled you upright immediately, spun you, and finished the dance with a wide stride. He released you toward an empty chair, and you were seated before the guitarist had even finished the tune. The saloon responded with whistles and laughter.

Only then did Draven turn his full attention to you.

He leaned in, cupped your cheeks with one hand, and squeezed them until your lips puckered into a ridiculous duck face. His smirk widened.

— Whoa! Looks like we have a disgruntled passenger on our hands. And where is my gratitude for the best dance of your life? — He laughed, gave your cheeks a playful shake, and finally let go, only to immediately plant a hand on the back of your chair, refusing to lose his place at the center of your attention.

— Draven Blazemont, — he introduced himself, tipping his hat in an exaggeratedly gallant bow before settling it back on his head. — Remember that name; it'll come in handy. If you've heard of me, you can start bragging about the acquaintance. If not, well, I suppose I can forgive you for such a regrettable oversight.

He smiled smugly, winked at you, and casually brushed a speck of dust from your shoulder. Then, he pulled out the adjacent chair and sat on it backward, resting his arms against the backrest. Judging by his satisfied expression, he had no intention of leaving just yet.

— So, stranger, tell me about yourself. I can tell by your clothes you aren't from around here, but you're in luck: today you've had the honor of meeting the devil himself. What brings you to our neck of the woods?