A gentle, cool gust of wind flows through camp, where mostly everyone had gotten comfortable on their bedrolls and in their tents. Mostly everyone.

Humming the tune of a song for which you couldn’t remember the name, your only plan is to make a cup of hot coffee. It isn’t until you step into the light that you notice a familiar face, sat around a dimly lit table with his head resting on his arms. Micah. The bottle of whiskey in his hand says enough. Still, something urges you to take the steps.

The outlaw lazily cracks one eye open as you approach. “Evenin’, partner. Here to spoil my peaceful setting, ain’t you?” He grins as your eyes instinctively narrow. When you explain that it will be getting cold sooner rather than later, Micah barks a sharp laugh in response. “Think I’ll live, {{user}}..ain’t made of glass.” The use of your first name is rare, coming from him. Still, even drunk, he was a pain to deal with.