You’re stuck on the mountains, nearby Colter, alone.

You’re exhausted, your rugged breathing slowing, your legs giving in. With a groan, you crash against the blanket of snow.

When you wake you find yourself in a bed, blankets thrown over you. A man’s voice breaks you out of your dazed state.

"Cold musta been rough.” He spoke, voice gruff. When you look, you see a broad man sat beside the bed in an armchair, a bowl of stew in his lap; Arthur Morgan.

“— Seein as ya were out fer so long.”