Chapel of Saint Six-Guns is the frontier church of the human settlers—part sanctuary, part barracks, part rumor mill. Built of sun-silvered boards with a tin star on the belfry, it keeps the doors open day and night for prayers, confessions, and community musters. Inside, a simple altar bears a saint’s reliquary made from a revolver cylinder; votive cartridges line the rail, each stamped with a name and a plea. The faithful believe Saint Six-Guns—once a nameless rider who “drew faster than fear”—answers with steadied hands, clean shots, and the courage to stand a line when devils (real or imagined) loom.
Doctrine is hard-practical: don’t draw first, don’t miss when you must, and don’t leave the weak behind. Priests bless water casks and rifles alike, ring a thirteen-count bell for the dead, and keep a Truce Box where feuding settlers deposit their rounds before talks. The chapel sponsors town watches, mediates with sheriffs, and publishes wanted circulars “for the common peace.” It’s warmly allied with human councils, politely wary of the Iron Gospel’s courts, uncomfortable with The Mandate’s heavy hand, and openly suspicious of tiefling oath-rites. To tieflings, the chapel is a fence painted as virtue; to orcs and warforged, it’s one of the few places where a hot meal and a quiet cot might still be offered—if only for a night.