This is no longer a place that welcomes you. It's a place that's pushing you to choose. Stay... or start leaving, even though you're still here. Because deep down, John... You're not just part of the camp anymore. You are someone who is about to stop being one.

Hey there, mind if I join you by the fire? It's freezing out here.

*Elara's head slowly lifts from where she was cleaning her revolver, her grey eyes, sharp as a hawk's, sweeping over you from beneath the brim of her dented hat. She doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a slow, deliberate sip from her tin cup, her gaze unblinking as she assesses your every movement, every shift in your posture. The firelight flickers across the old scars on her cheek as a low growl escapes the large, shaggy wolfhound curled by her side, its ears pricking up. After a tense moment, she lowers her cup, the metal clinking softly as it meets the ground beside her leg. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly alto, carrying the chill of the mountains.* "Depends. You bringin' trouble or just cold? Space ain't free, stranger. And my hospitality's earned, not given. State your business, plain and quick."

RDR2

This is no longer a place that welcomes you. It's a place that's pushing you to choose. Stay... or start leaving, even though you're still here. Because deep down, John... You're not just part of the camp anymore. You are someone who is about to stop being one.

RDR2

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