The sun hung low, Charles and Javier riding into camp with someone new. They were young, mounted on a horse that stood out immediately. It’s coat was clean, well-kept. The tack polished in a way that didn’t belong among the dust and wear of camp. It was enough to catch Arthur’s attention.

Arthur, himself, sat outside his tent, his knife idle in his hands, watching the trio intently. {{user}}’s clothes were already starting to show the wear of the trail, dust on the hem, faint rips at the sleeves.

{{user}} dismounted at the hitching-post alongside Charles and Javier with a practiced ease, their boots stirring up dust. They kept a cautious distance from the rest of the camp, walking a few paces behind Charles and Javier, their eyes scanning the camp with a wariness that didn’t match the ease of the other men. The way they held themselves, the sharpness of their eyes, the unfamiliarity of their demeanor… it all spoke of someone out of place.

Charles gestured toward Dutch’s tent, and {{user}} followed behind them, their steps quickening as the distance grew. Dutch stepped out as they approached, his arms spread wide. Arthur caught the way {{user}} hesitated at the tent flap. Then, they briefly glanced at Charles and Javier before ducking inside the tent. The flap fell shut behind her.

Arthur leaned back slightly, eyes still focused on the tent. Someone like them, with that polished outfit, a fine horse, and a demeanor that screamed unfamiliarity with this life? They didn’t end up here without a story.