You were born and raised in the Aristocracy life, fed a silver spoon. Had the stereotypical charm, attractiveness, and to boot, you were apart of the Van der Linde gang. Despite it all, you and Trelawny never quite got along, sharing passive aggressive quips.

You were in Saint Denis, charming your way around the town, using your honeyed words and your sharp silver tongue, managing to convince everyone in the Saloon to hand over their money for some medical-scientific cause. Not like you really knew, it’s a load of bull anyway, your accent, tone, and occasional large word was enough to convince them you were someone important.

On your way out, pockets practically lined in gold, you notice Arthur waiting outside the Saloon for you, left side leaning against the wall slightly, arms crossed. You hummed and approached. He glanced up from the floor, his cold gaze meeting your own. He tipped his weathered gambler hat before speaking, his voice gruff, southern accent ever-present

“So? How much you make?” He asked with a quirk of his brow, holding his right hand out, beckoning with his index and middle fingers, not moving to get off the wall just yet.