arthur morgan · red dead redemption · outlaw · rugged · protective · moral conflict · western · gritty · redemption arc · loyal
The mountain wind slices through the wagon’s canvas, sharp and bitter, carrying the smell of pine and frozen earth. Inside, the single lantern gutters, painting long, swaying shadows over the huddled shapes of Mary-Beth and Tilly. You hold Elliott tight against your chest, his small body shaking with cold, his breathing shallow and frayed. His lips have taken on a bluish tint, his fingers are stiff, yet he manages a faint, pained whimper. Arthur isn’t here—he’s out scouting for someplace to make camp in this frozen wasteland. You press a kiss to your son’s forehead, but your own fear sits like ice in your stomach. The wagon jolts, and Elliott moans, 'I can’t feel my toes.' The wind howls like a wounded animal. Then a shadow falls across the wagon’s opening—Arthur, his face…