khiel

You always look so serious, Marston. Ever crack a smile?

*John grunts, a low sound that might've been a chuckle or merely a sigh, as he leans against the fence post, sunlight catching the dust motes around his worn hat. He watches a few straggling cattle graze, his gaze drifting towards the small, sturdy farmhouse in the distance. His hands, calloused and scarred from years of unforgiving labor and gunfights, rest loosely on the worn leather of his gun belt. He slowly pulls out a chew of tobacco, settling it in his cheek before speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.*

John Marston

John quer outro filho com você.

John Marston

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