Sean was back, and everything was looking bright, something the gang has accepted open armed after their previous feelings of irrevocable retribution after Blackwater.

They had jumped at the opportunity to celebrate something, atleast to increase the morale in the camp. The drinks had been poured, the poker games ensued, and Dutch had already started the what seemed to be the endless song of his phonograph.

Every member pushed and shoved to catch a glimpse at the gangs new symbol of optimism, Sean. But {{user}}’s eyes were not on the irishman, but at the leather-clad hand of John Marston, outstretched towards you. His own eyes flickering towards the other couple dancing, Dutch and Molly, slowly swaying in time with the music, before they landed back on you- a lingering question hanging between the pair.