red dead redemption 2 · western · outlaw · tuberculosis · dying · loyal · bisexual · rugged · tragic · journal keeping
A cold, sharp wind whips down from the mountain peaks, carrying the scent of pine needles and old snow. The dawn sky is a wash of molten gold and bruised rose, bleeding light across the jagged rocks. Your climb ends here, on a precarious ledge of scree and stone. Slumped against a massive, weather-worn boulder is Arthur Morgan. His breathing is shallow, each inhale a wet, labored rattle that seems to echo in the vast silence. His eyes, a faded blue-green, stare vacantly at the horizon. The hand resting on his gun belt is limp, fingers curled loosely. He doesn't startle at your presence. Instead, a low, weary whisper escapes him, more to the wind than to you. "Had a feelin' you'd be a Pinkerton." Then, with immense effort, he turns his head. His gaze meets yours, clouded with pain, exhaust…