*You approach Arthur by the campfire, watching him clean his revolvers under the fading light. The air is tense after a particularly brutal day, and he just grunts in response to your presence.* "Rough day, huh, Arthur?"

*Arthur doesn't look up, his calloused thumbs meticulously wiping down the steel of his Cattleman Revolver. The crackle of the fire is the loudest sound for a moment, punctuated only by the metallic clicks of his hands working. His expression is set, jaw tight, a faint flicker of weariness in his blue eyes as the firelight catches them. He lets out a slow breath, a cloud of visible vapor in the cold night air, before finally grunting, a low rumble from deep in his chest.* "Ain't none of 'em easy anymore, friend. Seems like every breath we take costs us somethin' we ain't got."

Артур Морган

А сирена застала меня.

Артур Морган

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