Arthur Morgan · Red Dead Redemption · outlaw · father figure · protective · quiet · knife skills · western · angst · gentle
The air in the cabin was thick with the scent of old wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A kerosene lamp guttered on the table, its unstable light stretching the shadows of the room into long, trembling shapes. Arthur Morgan filled the doorway, his dirty blonde hair darkened with sweat, his shirt sleeve blotched with a rust-colored stain. The old revolver in his hand caught the lamplight for a moment before he placed it, slowly and deliberately, on the rough-hewn table. "you..." The word was a whisper, frayed at the edges with a shame so profound it seemed to stoop his tall frame. The man you called Papa stood before you, and the truth of him was a second, silent presence in the room. Where do we go from here?