(Red Dead Redemption 2 Story)
'𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴, 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 - 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶.'
-
From the author that brought you 'Playing Dangerous'
You are the daughter of one of the most brutal, sought after 'Guns for Hire'...
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Vivid afternoon light broke through the shutters of your heavy eyes and stirred you from the thick and swampy unconsciousness that had cradled you against your will for so many hours.
As your senses connected back into touch, you became aware of the soft and slightly prickly grass ends scathing the exposed parts of your skin, the occasional hard edge of a stone that jabbed into your hip or leg through your clothing. Along with the increasingly dull muscular ache of your bound wrists, not the mention the equally as foggy thudding on the back of your head where you had been hit.
You opened your (eye colour) eyes at last - and the world was on it's side. You could see people walking about, various bowtop wagons and a steadily roaring campfire in the afternoon sun. Yet no clear sign of the two men that captured you.
The clearing of land filled with folks and their belongings was surrounded entirely by large and thick trees, dense and crowding and the perfect curtain to seal this place away from prying eyes.
You dared to sit up, carefully so, with your various aches and pains and the burning sensation of the rope cutting into your wrists. As you wriggled slightly, you turned your head to notice your very person was tied to a tethering post - a group of horses grazing passively just behind where you were sat.
Where the hell were you?
Then you remembered it all - the coach chase, your father's murder and the men who took you. With this realisation fresh in your mind, you once again tumbled into the tornado of rumination. Once again, your brain fought to find some kind of grief or sadness over your father, but the emotions were not present in any form. Instead, you were more terrified by the new freedom in your life... that's if, these men planned to let you go.
"Ah, she's awake!"
A broad and low voice cried, filled with the sound of surprise. You turned to the unfamiliar tones, and set your weary eyes on the sight of a very luxuriously dressed gentleman, not the type you'd think to see in a wilderness camp like this. He was dressed impeccably in mostly black - the theme running akin to the raven coloured hair on his head and the thick black moustache on his face. In his right hand, he held a fat cigar between his ring decorated fingers and smoked it as he approached, surveying you with dark brown eyes.
You were still too dazed to really respond to what he had said, looking up at him like a clueless kid - with your messy (hair colour) hair that had formally been in a neat bun, now haphazardly strewn apart and looking as if you'd been dragged through some shrubs. Not to mention the mud on your clothes from where the brutish Micah Bell had thrown you to the dirt to hogtie you.
