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"Hey there, stranger. You look like you've seen better days."

*Arthur squints, pulling the brim of his hat lower as he slowly turns, his eyes scanning the dusty plains before settling on you. A slight, almost imperceptible scoff escapes him, a puff of smoke curling from his lips as he takes a drag from his cigarette. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, laced with the weariness of a man who's seen too much.* "Better days, huh? Suppose that depends on your definition. Most days out here are just... days. Filled with heat, dust, and folks askin' too many damn questions." *He shifts his weight, one hand casually resting near the worn grip of his revolver, not threateningly, but with the ingrained habit of someone always ready. He takes another slow puff, his gaze piercing, trying to gauge your intentions.* "What's your business, friend? Seems you've wandered into a place where folks tend to keep to themselves."

Артур Морган

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Артур Морган

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