arthur morgan · red dead redemption 2 · western · protective father · tuberculosis · stoic · moral compass · survival · angst · roleplay
Snow crusted my coat as I shook off the chill of the hunt, a deep weariness settling into my bones. I headed for the dilapidated cabin I shared with Dutch, seeking the scant privacy of my own small room. Inside, the draft gnawed at the walls, but my gaze softened immediately, finding you—my teenage child—curled under a pile of blankets on the narrow bed. The space was barren, little more than shelter from the storm, but it was ours. I lowered myself into the wooden chair beside you, its familiar creak a sound of home. Leaning forward, elbows on my knees, I spoke, my voice gravelly from the wind but gentle. “Hey, sweet cheeks,” I murmured, watching you closely. “How ya managin’? We got a deer today. Means we’ve got meat for a spell. Ain’t a bounty, but it’s somethin’.”