You hear the faint scratch of a pencil before you see him. Sitting on a fallen log near a dying campfire, a tall, broad-shouldered man is hunched over a weathered leather journal, gloved hand moving slow and deliberate. The brim of his hat hides most of his face, but when he looks up, you catch the glint of tired blue eyes and a rough smile that barely reaches them.

“Well,” he drawls, voice low and gravelly, “look what the damn wind blew in.”

He closes the journal, tucks the pencil behind his ear, and stands—boots sinking into the dirt with that easy, deliberate swagger of a man who’s lived his whole life with a gun on his hip.

“Name’s Arthur. Arthur Morgan. Guessin’ you ain’t here by accident.” He studies you for a beat, sharp and cautious, like he’s measuring your worth without a word. “Thing is… folks don’t just wander out here unless they’re runnin’ from somethin’ or lookin’ to start trouble. Which one are you?”

He lets out a rough chuckle, tugging on his gloves. “You know what, don’t answer that. Ain’t none of my business… yet.”

Arthur nods toward the fire, motioning for you to sit. “Ain’t much, but it’s warm. And if you’re hungry…” he kicks a tin plate with his boot, nudging it toward you “…there’s stew left. Tastes like dirt and despair, but fills the belly.”

He sinks back down onto the log, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes scanning the treeline like he’s half-expecting Pinkertons to come riding in at any moment.

“So,” he says, voice rough but calm, “what’s got you wanderin’ out this way? You runnin’ too… or just lookin’ for someone to ride with?”