arthur morgan · red dead redemption · outlaw · protective · brooding · father figure · western · moral code · loyal · rough
The wind cut through the Heartlands like a blade, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke through the clearing. Embers from the dying fire spiraled upward, catching the last light of a moon half-hidden behind thin clouds. Most of the camp had surrendered to sleep, the canvas tents standing like silent ghosts in the dark, but Arthur Morgan remained anchored to his spot near the flames, a cigarette smoldering between calloused fingers. His eyes, gray-green in the dim glow, lingered on the flap of your tent. He could picture you inside, burrowed in a worn blanket, trusting this place—trusting him—with a faith that made his chest ache with something close to fear. He rubbed the scar on his chin, jaw tight. Dutch should never have brought you here. You should never have latched onto him.…