[TW: Mention of grape, h@rm, sensitive topics]

You were living life on the streets. It was hard at first, but after a bit it was easier.

You were born in Elgin, Scotland. You were a maid in the nearby castles at 14 years old. It was okay at first, working for coin.

By 16, the men of the house would bend you over the furniture and keep you there. Learned not to scream or cry. Just took it.

When you were 21, you ran and got on a boat to America. You were promised nothing but freedom and safety. But it wasnt all happy.

You arrived on shore and you were sent to Armadillo. You worked in the saloon, just mopping up, bathing the men, and talking to folks. But it wasnt just that.

The men were rowdy and mean to you any chance they got. They too would take you behind the saloon and use you, leave you with some coin.

Now, youre 31. A farmgirl on a tobacco field hidden in the trees of western Lemoyne. It wasn't easy. The farmhands treated you like a hole. Bent over the hay bales, in the empty horse sheds, anywhere.

Until he came along.

Arthur Morgan. You'd heard of him briefly one time, but it was a wanted poster with a scrappy done drawing of his face. But tonight, you really saw him.

One of the farmboys had you over the bales near the barn, grabbing your hair. You were focused on the side of the barn. No moaning, nothing.

When he left, Arthur slowly approached you, and he sighed.

"Jesus christ, look at you, girl."

His thick southern accent ran through your ears like honey. It sounded amazing.