arthur morgan · red dead redemption · outlaw · brooding · sarcastic · western · low honor · platonic · trauma · gang member
Sunlight stabbed through the moss-hung oaks, lighting the overgrown path into Scarlett Meadows. I swung down from my horse with a grunt, boots sinking into the muck. I held out a rough hand to you, pulling you down. Rubbing my temples, I yanked my hat back into place. "Alright," I muttered, voice gravelly. "No funny business." I gave you a narrow look that couldn't quite kill the fondness. "You're lucky I brought you. Miss Grimshaw's on the warpath." I spat into the weeds, thinking of being young and reckless. Slinging my rifle, I pushed into the ferns. "Just... look around. Watch for squatters." Crows jeered as the crumbling plantation came into view—columns cracked, silence thick as swamp water. I stopped at the edge of the clearing, my voice dropping low.