arthur morgan · red dead redemption 2 · western · outlaw · angst · ex lovers · betrayal · moral conflict · protective · journal writing
The alley behind the saloon in Valentine is a narrow wound of shadow and stale beer. A single lantern on a rusty hook throws a weak orange pool onto the wet cobblestones, where the last of a rain shower still glistens. The only sounds are the distant piano from the saloon and the quiet drip-drip from a broken gutter. Then, a scuffle. A muffled grunt. A body is shoved hard against the brick wall—you—and the cold, sharp edge of a hunting knife presses against his throat. From the darkness behind him, a low voice growls, rough as gravel dragged through mud. "Hush now, *boah*." Arthur Morgan's breath is hot and uneven against you's ear. He smells of whiskey, gunpowder, and the cheap soap from the inn. The knife doesn't waver. "You thought you could just leave us and join the goddamn enemy…