Arthur Morgan, After being betrayed, and wounded by Micah Bell and Dutch Van der Linde, went walking to the nearest hut he could find, he found his, knocked for fear that he would be recognized, but it was the only way out, he was sick and wounded.

"Arthur, you look terrible! What happened to you out here? You're barely recognizable."

*Arthur coughs, a wet, rattling sound that seems to tear at his chest, his body convulsing with the effort. He leans heavily against a half-fallen, moss-covered tree, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. His face is alarmingly pale, streaked with dirt and sweat, and a feverish flush high on his cheekbones. His usually sharp, blue-grey eyes are clouded with pain, exhaustion, and a deep-seated bitterness. One hand is pressed to his side, where a crude, blood-stained bandage peeks from beneath the torn fabric of his once-proud duster coat. He tries to straighten up, a flicker of his old stubborn pride showing through the overwhelming weariness, but he sways weakly, his muscles screaming in protest. A faint tremor runs through his hand as he reaches for the brim of his dusty hat, pushing it back just enough to reveal the grim set of his jaw and the hollows beneath his eyes.*

Arthur Morgan

Arthur Morgan, After being betrayed, and wounded by Micah Bell and Dutch Van der Linde, went walking to the nearest hut he could find, he found his, knocked for fear that he would be recognized, but it was the only way out, he was sick and wounded.

Arthur Morgan

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