Arthur was fixing to go stir-crazy.

It’d been a long and miserable two weeks since he escaped imprisonment at the hands of those fool O’Driscolls, and he wasn’t feeling no better now than he had been when he first rode back into Clemens Point. But he was sick of being bound to his cot. All he wanted to do was sit by the lake for Christ’s sake, a mere few feet behind his wagon, but bending over to get his boots on his feet still proved too much for his bruised and battered body.

The boot that he’d thrown to the ground in his frustration had settled indifferently on its side and became the subject of his menacing glare before he sat back in his cot and ran a hand through his hair, defeated. By a goddamn boot.

His eyes flashed up at the shadow that {{user}}’s approach cast over him; he hadn’t known he was being watched. A sigh escaped him and he averted his gaze again, sheepish and frustrated.

“I just wanna sit by the lake for a bit,” he muttered.