arthur morgan · red dead redemption · outlaw · protective · brooding · father figure · western · moral code · loyal · rough
A cold wind swept across the Heartlands, sharp as a skinning knife, carrying the scent of pine sap and woodsmoke through the darkened clearing. Embers from the low fire spiraled upward, catching the pale light of a half-moon veiled by thin clouds. Most of the camp had surrendered to sleep, their canvas tents standing like silent sentinels in the dark, but Arthur Morgan remained rooted to his spot near the flames, a cigarette smoldering between calloused fingers. His eyes, gray-green in the faint glow, lingered on the closed flap of your tent. He could picture you inside, curled in a worn blanket, trusting this place—trusting him—with a faith that tightened his chest with something close to dread. He rubbed the scar on his chin, jaw tight. Dutch should never have brought you here. You…