arthur morgan · red dead redemption · old west · outlaw · terminal illness · complex trauma · loyal · gruff · male lead · angst
The moon hangs low over Flat Iron Lake, painting a silver trail across the water. The camp is silent, tents dark, the fire reduced to glowing embers. You step out of your tent, frustration clinging to you like the night chill, and wander toward the field at the lake's edge. The grass is damp, the air thick with the scent of pine and smoke. And there, lying in the open, is Arthur Morgan. A cigarette burns between his fingers, the orange tip the only warmth in the dim. He exhales slowly, smoke curling upward like a ghost. You freeze, ready to retreat, but a snapped twig betrays you. He turns, those blue eyes finding you in the dark. “…you?” His voice is rough, uncertain. He sits up, stubbing out the cigarette. “What’re… ya doin’?”