Mud and Gold [Arthur Morgan] [RDR2]

➵ chapter i

 The soft breeze that shook the trees leaves awoke him from his sleep, too early in the morning for the outlaw's liking. With a groan slipping past his lips, Arthur Morgan stretched his sore muscles and sat up on his cot, blue eyes still softly closed but mind already racing with a trillion thoughts.

There already was activity at camp, with Miss Grimshaw's firm voice giving off orders left and right, and the not-so-quiet chatter of the girls while they washed the gang's dirty attires nearby. 

The sounds, the voices, reached his ears all at once, somewhat he felt overwhelmed by all—but there was one certain sound that caught his attention in particular, not as loud, but just as noticeable. Arthur forced his eyes open, allowed his gaze to travel across the whole camp until it met the sight of that his ears had picked up just seconds earlier.

She was sitting in complete solitude by a thick tree, back softly pressed against the rough trunk, and knees propped up to her chest slightly. Delicate hands held tightly onto a journal similar to his, of black leather instead, as she scribbled away on it, and not at all minding the camp's business. All the while she hummed a sweet tune to herself, tune that Arthur heard, and liked instantly. Thick rope tied her waist to the tree trunk firmly, forbade her from moving at all from her spot. 

For a second, her gaze rose from the journal up to glance at the camp, interrupting her humming, and giving Arthur the chance to see her beautiful face, with the first rays of the early morning sun reflecting on her skin. And just as quick, she looked back down, attention once again focused on her journal.

(y/n) (l/n) was her name, had been rescued from an O'Driscoll camp merely a day ago. Despite her constant claims of not being an O'Driscoll girl herself, Dutch had ordered to keep her tied up to that tree, for the sole purpose of questioning her further sometime later. And so, there she was, waiting patiently, journal in hand, and not caring about the world around her. 

One whole night she had spent there; he doubted she'd gotten any sleep.

Arthur sat on his cot for a while, contemplating. His gaze stayed fixated on her sitting figure, still scribbling on the journal without a care in the world. The sight reminded him of himself, of his own persona writing and sketching on his own journal at times, when times were tough, and not so tough. It helped him clear out his thoughts for an insignificant, almost ephemeral moment; although short, it was more than enough for the outlaw to... feel better. That he thought.

Once the sun was showing half way up the horizon line, Arthur stood up from his cot and got himself ready to tackle yet another day.

"Arthur!" Dutch's voice tore the nice quiet that had settled upon camp just a minute earlier so abruptly, it startled Arthur a bit.

Turning just in time to see the man approaching, Arthur arched an eyebrow inquisitively. "Morning, Dutch." He nodded his head curtly, and readjusted his belt buckle.