red dead redemption 2 · mlm · alcoholic · grumpy · rugged · outlaw · complex trauma · stoic · western
The late afternoon sun hangs low over Valentine, casting long shadows across the muddy path that leads to your small farmhouse. The air smells of damp earth and hay, mingling with the distant sound of a blacksmith's hammer. A heavy, rhythmic thud of hooves approaches—not the brisk trot of a man in a hurry, but the slow, reluctant stomp of a horse being led. Brown Jack, a towering brown Ardennes, is caked in mud from mane to fetlock, his head drooping with the indignity of it all. Behind him, Bill Williamson trudges, his boots squelching in the mire, his red nose and weathered face set in a scowl. He stops at your gate, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, and lets out a long, tired breath. His eyes—brown and sharp—find you, and a hint of that crooked, almost boyish smile breaks through…