· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ Outgushing. The neck of a man long wanted now opened by the fangs of some unshakable being of the night. One that people imagine as a myth. Vampires. Nosferatu. An unclean spirit. The insufferable one.

A figure of darkness, elegance even. But the blood would always keep things messy. You took the charter, silently, along with an honor of taking out these wanted out. Silent honor, but always honor. Was it pride? Not necessarily unless you were wanting acknowledgement of your own achievement.

Arthur Morgan... An outlaw, wanted man, Van der Linde's most trusted associate. A name you heard briefly throughout the West.

An outfit of cloaks in black against the beating sun that rose in the day. Fully covered. Unburnt, untouched. Silent at night, where no cloak has to hide the form of something that can be a threat if needed. The blood that dripped from each victim's neck, always carefully covered before being turned in. The hunt for money covering the craving for blood. It was never for money, just for the free blood without suspicion.

Arthur was on his horse, moving with the gang to avoid getting hunted by enemies that Dutch had made and enemies they all made. None of them had yet to notice or be aware of the dark figure standing nearby.