thread starter for arthur morgan

[erron_black]

Erron had a problem.

It was clear to him now sprawled out on the bed ever so welcomingly provided him by the proprietor of the Old Light Saloon, threadbare sheets itching him where he swung his arm out to flick the ashes from his cigarette onto the rotted out wood floor. His bright idea to travel further north in search of lucrative opportunities had been scuppered by ice and snow unabated by neither time nor patience — and he only possessed one of those things in spades. He told himself it was for the best to turn back while he was still ahead; cut his losses before they had the chance to cut into him instead. It was bad enough the man with the bear living in him could have been the end of the line.

An ignominious final destination for the likes of Erron Black — chewed up and shit out by a man eating grizzly bear in the ass end of nowhere. Unloved and unmourned; forgotten by time in the frozen wastes.

That's not what happened, but it could have. He'd not never been the brightest star in the night sky, but he could take a hint from lady luck better than most. There was a time to press and another to finesse. So it was that he'd sauntered back south to insinuate himself back into another robber baron's cortege; easy work, that, mean mugging on their dime after seeing just how much damage he could do. Easy, and dreadfully boring between bouts of baronial infighting. It wasn't long before he succumbed to wanderlust for the filth and the squalor of the streets of Saint Denis and, rather more importantly, the cutthroat zeal inherent to the gangs that carved out a living there instead.

Where the robber barons sat at their desks scratching out letters of great import while everyone else did their work for them, up to and including himself, the city gangs were vibrant vipers nests of volatility and they always had dirty work to be done they couldn't be seen doing. Erron didn't care much for either of their political machinations, but neither of them thought he was smart enough to understand on account of his country upbringing anyhow. They were wrong, of course, but that was fine by him if it kept them from their campaigning and he could surreptitiously read everything they left lying around. Everything was going well until it wasn't.

There weren't many things Erron wouldn't do for money. He refused on principle to waste his time on anything less than large sums, preferably upfront and all at once, but he'd settle for cumulative on pain of death if his employer got any funny ideas. It was just good business sense. He wasn't without his quirks, though. Namely, his aversion to women not cut out for him and children. It wasn't that he was too high and mighty for it — he could claim no kind of moral high ground.

It was that they made him think things he didn't want to think; feel things he didn't want to feel.

Erron had been smack dab in the middle of rousting a business owner into compliance when he caught sight of tiny, slender feet at the staircase landing leading up to the man’s living quarters. He wasn’t so naive as to believe none of the people he terrorized didn’t have families, didn’t have nobody what cared about them, but he was careful, he was precise. And that’s why the only cracked teeth in his knuckles that night had been his employer’s — with many more to follow as the rage in him burnt white hot and inconsolable. He bid Saint Denis adieu at the bottom of a bottle with a pair of stinging, split knuckles and a vicious disposition. All the colors of his recollection from there running together misery red, flush with time and luck and money and not a whole hell of a lot else. He gambled and drank and caroused with other ne’er-do-wells in Van Horn; fought bare-fisted down in the mud for entertainment and money with the miners of Annesburg.

He wondered, as his traitor mind was wont to do in the quiet moments, whether the man with the bear living in him ever made it to that cabin by the lake.

It became ridiculous after a point — pacing along the river like a caged animal. He didn’t know quite why, but thoughts of Arthur had become ever more ubiquitous and alluring since the incident. Even now, his eyes drifted closed and his nostrils flared at the fragments of memories he treasured most, held so close to his chest not even the very man in question might suspect. Erron fished out the gold pocket watch he’d collected at the end of a grueling card game the night before and cracked his eyes to inspect the time; the ornate hands rapidly closing in on three-thirty ’o’ clock in the morning. He could reach the lake by sunrise.

So it was decided.

Erron hauled his aching body astride his beloved blood bay thoroughbred mare with an affectionate scratch of her dark mane, her saddlebags loaded down with all his winnings and worldly possessions which weren’t cached, and set about the lake in the dead of night. The number of souls out there with him were few and wary, clutching the grips of their firearms tighter at the sight of a lone stranger on the road that late at night and so very close to Van Horn. He was clean shaven and well dressed at the very least albeit a bit bruised and disheveled in a charcoal grey vest over top a black button up with matching trousers.

If he listened hard enough in the gloom, he could just about hear their sighs of relief when they passed him on by without incident. Soon, he was the only soul cutting through the dark.

He must have dozed in the saddle a good while because, with a sharp breath through his nose, he looked up and suddenly became aware of the sun having begun to rise above the horizon. Sugarlips flicked a curious ear in his direction as he stretched and adjusted himself in the saddle, but otherwise continued on down the road looping around the lake at her leisure. A thin plume of grey smoke rose from the chimney of the cabin situated at the edge of the water ahead. Erron leaned back in the saddle with a minute squeeze of his thighs to halt his mare’s stride a good distance away, the hand not on the reins dangling deceptively casually nearby his holstered revolver in case the occupant wasn’t who he was expecting it to be, and let out an ear splitting whistle.

Sugarlips held steady at the sound, familiar enough to hold her ground until he indicated otherwise, but chomped noisily at the bit beneath him nonetheless at the prospect of anticipatory flight.

Comments

[unshakencowboah]

After their fun in the snow, Arthur returned to his cave, a bag pump full of meat to last him awhile, laden with gifts of food, money and clothes thanks to Erron's generosity, and satisfied sexually for the first time in years. That's all it was, he convinced himself. Just a lay between two rough men with rougher pasts. Nothing more would come of it. Never had, never would.

The rest of the winter was rough, but he managed to get by without resorting to the temptation of devouring domestic animals. The money he'd gotten thanks to the legendary bison allowed him a bow and some ammo for his pistol, along with some new clothes. He remained in the cave though, determined to give it until the next season to ensure no Pinkertons raised their ugly heads seeking one Arthur Morgan of the former Van Der Linde gang.

Finally, the thaw came, and he left that cave, bought a horse with what little money he had left, and rode with great hope toward the Veteran's homestead.

He was surprised but pleased to find no squatters in the place, though it had been looted of all food and if any valuables were to be found, they were gone as well. After he cleaned up the place, Arthur discovered a loose floorboard, and a journal Hamish kept, along with a bit of money and a few other items of worth that were missed. He spent his days hunting, fishing, riding, living once more, living a life he'd longed for before it all fell apart.

Three nights a month, he disappeared into the hills, foraged and ran as a bear, the moon forcing the change, but his mind remaining as it always was. Still, the lack of company hurt. Percival, his massive black stallion, was nice to have around-wonderful to ride a horse again-but not much for conversation. Around the moon, it seemed worse. Like part of him was left back at that cabin by Lake Isabella. And he was ashamed to say some nights he thought back on the feel of the other man and hated himself for pining for a ghost.

It was the morning before the first night of the full moon and he was prepping breakfast for himself when a sharp whistle drew him away. He frowned and grabbed his gun. Wouldn't be the first time the damned Murfrees came around...

He stepped out onto the porch, dressed in only pants and suspenders, and he nearly dropped his gun as he stared at the familiar man.

Arthur looked different, a few months of good eating and good life had been kind to him, having gained weight and muscle, back to how he looked before the TB drained him. Also growing a goatee now, to hide the notable chin scars, clean shaved on the sides, hair loose and long.