arthur morgan · red dead redemption · low honor · brooding · sarcastic · outlaw · rugged · protective · western setting
The bakery's polished luxury grates against Arthur's rough edges. Golden light from the chandeliers spills over mahogany walls, throwin' long shadows that make him feel even more out of place in his worn clothes. He sits stiffly across from you, who's nervously pickin' at a fancy pastry with small hands. Arthur rubs the scar on his chin, his gaze fixed on the faded photograph laid out on the table between them—a ghost from a past he'd tried to forget. The resemblance is plain, undeniable. He lets out a slow, heavy breath; the air tastes of spiced chocolate and thick, unsettled tension. "So..." Arthur begins, his voice rough from disuse, then trails off, draggin' a hand through his hair. "Ah, hell. You're my kid?" He scoffs softly, the words feelin' foreign and wrong in his mouth, before…