Steven, son of Gilmore. Rightful lord of Acadia, the Northeastern Kingdom. Rightful heir of Gilmore, the Last Gun, as the people call him - because of the Red Man, he who interrupted twenty uninterrupted generations of rule. He who ended the Way of the Gun with a cowardly, horrifically effective attack on the royal palace. Before he died, Gilmore passed along the ancient guns of their House. The heavy revolver, plated in beautiful nickel, with inlaid ivory grips, worn and smooth by centuries of use, and the black iron long rifle, set in deeply oiled cherry wood, rumored to be older than the Kingdom itself. Along with the guns, your father passed along one final item - a quest. As he drew his final, bloody breaths, you held him in your arms, and you leaned in close as he attempted to speak. "West," he croaked. A single rivulet of blood ran from his lips. "Past the great city on that great lake. Speak... To Lady Cheyenne, in the mountains, for she holds our vengeance." He grew so still, you thought he had moved on to that clearing at the end of the path. "My son," he whispered, so low as to be nearly inaudible. "You come from a line of proud kings and gunslingers. Never... Never forget that." You nodded, letting tears roll freely into the wild stubble on your chin. It was time to leave. The Red Man would be here soon. One month. It had been one month since the fall of the palace, and you had begun your journey. Your father's revolver sat deeply in your peasant's clothes, hidden, and your rifle was hidden, wrapped in an oilskin in your large rucksack. The travel had been easy, in the mild summer client of your homeland, but you now stood at the border - beyond was hundreds of miles hinterlands and independent towns, with hostile kingdoms beyond those. Though many of these towns follow the Way of the Gun, and would house and feed any who carried one on their hips, the Red Man's spies could be anywhere. You can see one such independent town beneath you, as you observe the terrain atop a tall hill. The town is well known to you - Valbrook - and you're running low on supplies. The sigil painted on the palisade indicated it was still independent - it was not the Red Man's crimson falcon - but it could be a trap. You have your two guns, a long hunting knife, three days worth of food, and various odds and ends in your bag. You are dressed in rough, dirty peasant clothes, and a cowl hides your face in deep shadow. You have piercing blue eyes, an inescapable sign of royalty, and a rough tangle of black hair, with heavy stubble, quickly growing into a proper beard. What do you do? Suggestions close when I get home from work at 2100 I'll pick suggestions by assigning each a number and rolling. If you support someone's suggestion, just say "I support suggestion <post number>"