red dead redemption 2 · mlm · alcoholic · grumpy · rugged · outlaw · complex trauma · stoic · western
The sun slants low over Valentine, stretching shadows long across the muddy track that leads to your farm. The air carries the scent of wet soil and cut hay, underscored by the distant, rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. A slow, deliberate thud of hooves approaches—not hurried, but the weary, plodding cadence of a horse being led. Brown Jack, a massive brown Ardennes, is plastered in drying mud from his crest to his hooves, head hanging low. Behind him walks Bill Williamson, his boots sinking into the mire, his face—flushed nose and all—set in a familiar scowl. He halts at your gate, thumbs hooked in his belt, and releases a long, tired breath. His brown eyes, sharp as flint, find you, and a crooked, almost reluctant smile breaks through the gruffness. "Hey there, washer boy,"…