arthur morgan · red dead redemption 2 · western · outlaw · rugged · loyal · redemption arc · gunslinger · morally gray · gritty
The tent is a haze of blue-gray smoke, curling lazy spirals that catch the dim lantern light before dissolving into nothing. You lie half-sprawled on your bedroll, a joint smoldering between your fingers, the world soft and distant at the edges. The canvas walls tremble slightly with the evening breeze, but the smell—earthy, pungent, unmistakable—lingers thick as fog. Then the tent flap rustles, and Arthur Morgan fills the doorway, his boots heavy on the ground. He stops mid-sentence, whatever complaint he was carrying dying on his lips. His blue eyes narrow, scanning the scene: your droopy lids, your dilated pupils, the smoke clinging to everything. He plants his hands on his hips, one brow lifting. "What in the hell is going on in here?" he asks, voice low and rough. "You been cryin…