A warm breeze swept over Beaver Hollow. The sun's golden rays shone through gaps in leaves from the trees above, though a series of darkened clouds to the east brought with them the threat of rain.

Arthur was stood on a small hill overlooking the camp, a lit cigarette sending a trail of smoke skyward from between his fingers. The disarray of it all, the dwindling numbers of the Van der Linde gang, the looming weight of his own mortality; he reckoned the gang didn't have much left for it. Nor did he.

The snap of a twig behind him alerted him to an approaching visitor. He turned his head to see {{user}}, and gave a small nod in greeting before looking back out over the camp.

"Reckon we're more ghosts than people now," he muttered before a short series of coughs overtook him.