ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

word prompts compilation

complies THIS MEME // THIS MEME // THIS MEME

ADD ++ FOR REVERSE

[ attention ] for your muse to touch mine as a way of getting their attention

[ wake ] for your muse to wake mine

[ cover ]  for your muse to cover mine with a blanket or a jacket

[ lift ] for your muse to give mine a hand stepping up or over something etc.

[ kiss ]  for your muse to come up to mine and kiss them without warning

[ run ] for your muse to run their fingers through mine’s hair

[ braid ] for your muse to braid mine’s hair

[ embrace ]  for your muse to hold mine

[ smile ] for your muse to smile at mine from across the room

[ wave ] for your muse to gesture to mine to come closer

[ panic ] for your muse to grab mine’s arm or get behind them in a moment of danger

[ touch ] for your muse to rest their forehead against mine’s

[ weep ]  for your muse to catch mine crying

[ eat ] for your muse to offer mine food

[ hit ] for your muse to attack mine

[ love ] for your muse to touch mine as a show of affection or reassurance

[ nap ] for your muse to fall asleep against mine

[ rest ] for your muse to rest their head in mine’s lap

[ look ] for your muse to catch mine staring

[ seduce ] for your muse to touch mine sexually

[ help ] for your muse to lean on mine for support

[ give ] for your muse to offer mine their arm

[ entwine ] for your muse to hold mine’s hand

[ laugh ] for your muse to laugh at something mine did

[ dance ] for your muse to dance with mine

[ sit ] for your muse to pull mine into their lap

[ yell ] for your muse to calm mine down

[ cry ] for your muse to wipe mine’s tears away

[ dream ] for my muse to share dream with yours

[ nightmare ] for your muse to wake mine from a nightmare

[ surprise ] for your muse to show up at mine’s house without explanation

[ fix ] for your muse to treat mine’s injury

[ sacrifice ] for your muse to get hurt protecting mine

[ guard ] for your muse to step between my muse and danger

[ taste ] for your muse to cook for mine

[ sing ] for your muse to sing to mine 

[ goodbye ] for my muse kissing and/or hugging your muse goodbye

[ secrets ]   my  muse  sharing/confiding  a secret

[ bloody ]   for your  muse  coming  to  my  muse  with  blood  stains 

[ drunk ]   your  muse  takes  care  of my very drunk muse 

[ bed ]  my  muse wakes up in  the  same bed as your muse with little  recollection  of  the  night  before

[ scream ]   my  muse  hears  your  muse  scream  and  runs  to  them

[ trail ]   my  muse  watches  as  your  muse  traces  one  of  my  muses  scars,  asking  them  about  it

[ piggyback ]   my  muse  gives  yours  a  piggyback  ride

[ jump ]   my  muse  holding  yours  up  by  their  thighs

[ carry ]   my  muse  carries  your  muse  to  their  house

[ lighter ]   my  muse  pulls  out  a  lighter  and  lights  it  for  your  muse  to  use  to  light  their  cigarette

[ shot ] my  muse  gets  shot  and  struggles  to  your  muses for aid

[ wound ] my  muse  patches  and  bandages  a  wound  your  muse  has  gotten

[ fight ]   my  muse  stops  your  muse  from  getting  into  a  physical  fight  with  someone  else

[ arrest ]   your  muse  finds  my  muse  arrested  in  cuffs  

[ hospital ]   my  muse  awakens  in  a  hospital,  finding  your  muse  by  their  side,  asking  what  happened

[ betrayal ] my  muse  finds  out  that  your  muse  has  betrayed  them and  confronts  them  about  it

[ nude ] my  muse  walks  in  on  your  muse  accidentally  seeing  them  naked

[ karaoke ]  for our muses to sing together

[ wet ]   your muse  strips  down  to  their  under  garments  and  runs  into  the  water,  motioning  for my muse  to  join  them

[ crawl ]  for  your  muse  to  crawl  into  bed  with  mine .

[ flower ]  for  your  muse  to  offer  my  muse  their  favourite  flower

[ gift ]  for  my  muse  to  surprise  your muse  with  a  gift

[ homemade gift ]  for  my  muse  to  make  your muse  a  gift

[ bestow ] for your muse to give my muse a gift, bought or handmade ( bonus if you add what it is )

[ serenade ]  for  my  muse  to  sing  to  your  muse

[ caress ]  for  your  muse  to  gently  run  their  hand  down  my  muse’s  face

[ caught ]  for  your  muse  to  catch  my  muse  wearing  their  shirt .

[ love letter ]  for  your  muse  to  give  my  muse  a  love  letter  they  wrote  for  them

[ boop ]  for  your  muse  to  boop  my  muse  on  the  nose

[ date ]  for  my muse  to  ask  your  muse  to  go  on  a  date

[ confess ]  for my muse  to  confess  their  feelings  to  your  muse

[ sleepy ]  for  my muse  to  slowly  fall  alseep  on  your muse

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Arthur stayed where he was as Page cleaned herself up, only squeezing her shoulder ever so gently as she winced from the burn of the drink. He definitely felt pity for this girl, even after all the goddamn trouble she'd put him through. He really, really wished he didn't. He wished his heart could stay as stone cold as it was when he'd shot at those goddamn O'Driscolls- but he was always a bit softer on women, damn him.

He raised a brow as she repeated his comment about the hotel in confusion- confused by her confusion. Wouldn't she prefer a hotel to sleeping in the goddamn wild? Especially after all that? Or was she worried he was taking her there to do something she wouldn't like? Jesus Christ- he gave a roll of his eyes, sighing as he pulled his hand back.

"Listen, miss- hotel's gotta bath and a nice warm bed. I've got 'nough to cover a night and then we keep movin'." He said, bringing a hand up to scratch at his beard as he glanced away, thinking. "'F you'd really prefer sleepin' out in the brambles, 's fine by me, but the wilderness ain't really no place fer a lady." He muttered, glancing back at her.

He was going out of his way to be nice here, not confuse her- she'd got caught up in too much shit that wasn't her fault, and goddamn him, he was beginning to feel guilty.

He wished she'd just accept the offer for the damn hotel and shut her mouth about it.

As Arthur draws nearer, his vantage point improves, and very soon he can see the situation rather well:  The men indeed appear to be O’Driscolls– due to not only the accents, but the bits of green incorporated into their clothing.  A green vest there, a green-striped shirt on the other, and the man who had spoken to him wore a tattered green kerchief around his neck, and another odd scrap of green cloth around the band of his battered hat.  He’s not a big man, neither in height or build, nor is he small.  He is– like so many– a man who had been shaped by rough living.  Dark hair, unremarkable, dark eyes, a forgettable face with squarish features and a triangular beard growing from his chin.  The only quality of note is his stillness, and his seemingly utter lack of feeling.  His face might as well have been a frozen lake with nothing to see swimming in the depths beneath.

He does not at all seem surprised or concerned that Arthur is approaching, armed to the teeth to fight a one-man war against them.  He just watches.  Still and silent as the grave.  The paint horse with the unattractively short tail under him shifts uneasily, grumbling his vexation.

Arthur can see, too, what concerns her: the bearded man– the leader of this little hunting party of O’Driscolls–is holding a lit fire bottle over the thorny brush nearby.

“Certainly,” The man answered him flatly, “But you an’ I both know: it’s never too early for a killin’.  Especially righteous revenge.”

He sloshes the clear liquid in the glass, giving it and then the bush a glance before meeting Arthur’s gaze again, “…Yesterday I sent my brother and my sister’s only son with some of the lads to hit a coach that was to be carryin’ some cash.  An easy first job for the boy, wit’ plenty o’help.  So imagine my surprise when only my tremblin’ nephew returns, tellin’ a story about a bear of a man, who fought like the devil, come up with a woman an’ kilt my boys o’er a bag.  Not even the money, no.  Just a ladies bag.  You shot that boy so he cannae even walk now, and murdered my little brother, Morgan, protecting this little rabbit bitch of yers.  I don’t know why you’re soft for her, and I don’t much care save to know that you are.”  Then he jerks his chin toward the brush, “So she’s for the pyre, and maybe once her screamin’ stops ringing in your ears, we’ll be square, ol’ boy.”

It’s a terrible situation.  If Arthur shoots him– even shoots him dead– it was all but certain that he would drop that bottle into the bushes, where it would shatter, spraying fire and glass all throughout the brambles, and if Page is in there… Even if he manages to shoot the bottle, the only change would be that some of it would likely hit the man and his horse as well, but the brambles would not be spared… Whatever he does, it’s his best interest that the man does not drop that damn bottle if he wants to spare the girl!

The cold, dark eyes of the O’Driscoll are as unforgiving and pitiless as the tomb.

*

Page freezes again when she hears the voice of the thief she’d been in the company of.  So his name was ‘Morgan’ after all…

And these awful men were part and parcel with the awful men from yesterday, the ones at the stagecoach.  And the cold voiced one wanted to kill her in revenge…

There’s only one thing, though: she isn’t sure what a “pie-er” is…

Well, two things: she also doesn’t know how to crawl out of this bush without tearing half of her skin off her bones and getting the immediate notice of these men and their dogs.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Hello everyone!

Oh boy- it's been quite awhile, hasn't it?

Honestly, I never really expected to come back to this blog full time- but guess what? I've found muse once again!! That's right-

I'm re-opening this blog!

If anyone who I used to rp with would like to continue our threads, or start a new one, feel free to DM or send an ask! I hope to be here as often as I can be, but I can promise I won't be as absent as I have been. I sincerely apologize for that.

I look forward to hearing from you all again, and so does Arthur! 💜

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Arthur was beginning to feel something like pity for this poor girl. At the wheeze of a laugh, and as his eyes trailed over her condition... Jesus Christ.

'At least ya ain't dead', he had the urge to say, but suppressed it in favor of taking off the bandana hanging loosely around his neck, holding it out to her. It was full of sweat and dirt and perhaps a bit of dried blood too, but it was the best he had for her to clean herself up with.

His face softened into a smile as she thanked him, but he really didn't feel like he deserved much thankin'- considering that he was the one who'd gotten her all mixed up in this in the first place.

Everything was a goddamn mess. All of it.

At her question, Arthur pondered, teeth worrying a dry and cracked lip as he glanced around, looking for any sign of the bastards coming back. But for now, he supposed they were good.

For now. It was always 'for now', given his lifestyle.

"Now... We getcha cleaned up, and get to the nearest hotel." He said, hand still on her shoulder and thumb gently rubbing, trying to soothe her- though it was a subconscious action on his part.

He got a slight idea, pulling out a bottle of half-empty whiskey and holding it out to her, though he had no idea whether she'd want it or not.

"Somethin' t' calm ya, if ya wan' it."

As Arthur draws nearer, his vantage point improves, and very soon he can see the situation rather well:  The men indeed appear to be O’Driscolls– due to not only the accents, but the bits of green incorporated into their clothing.  A green vest there, a green-striped shirt on the other, and the man who had spoken to him wore a tattered green kerchief around his neck, and another odd scrap of green cloth around the band of his battered hat.  He’s not a big man, neither in height or build, nor is he small.  He is– like so many– a man who had been shaped by rough living.  Dark hair, unremarkable, dark eyes, a forgettable face with squarish features and a triangular beard growing from his chin.  The only quality of note is his stillness, and his seemingly utter lack of feeling.  His face might as well have been a frozen lake with nothing to see swimming in the depths beneath.

He does not at all seem surprised or concerned that Arthur is approaching, armed to the teeth to fight a one-man war against them.  He just watches.  Still and silent as the grave.  The paint horse with the unattractively short tail under him shifts uneasily, grumbling his vexation.

Arthur can see, too, what concerns her: the bearded man– the leader of this little hunting party of O’Driscolls–is holding a lit fire bottle over the thorny brush nearby.

“Certainly,” The man answered him flatly, “But you an’ I both know: it’s never too early for a killin’.  Especially righteous revenge.”

He sloshes the clear liquid in the glass, giving it and then the bush a glance before meeting Arthur’s gaze again, “…Yesterday I sent my brother and my sister’s only son with some of the lads to hit a coach that was to be carryin’ some cash.  An easy first job for the boy, wit’ plenty o’help.  So imagine my surprise when only my tremblin’ nephew returns, tellin’ a story about a bear of a man, who fought like the devil, come up with a woman an’ kilt my boys o’er a bag.  Not even the money, no.  Just a ladies bag.  You shot that boy so he cannae even walk now, and murdered my little brother, Morgan, protecting this little rabbit bitch of yers.  I don’t know why you’re soft for her, and I don’t much care save to know that you are.”  Then he jerks his chin toward the brush, “So she’s for the pyre, and maybe once her screamin’ stops ringing in your ears, we’ll be square, ol’ boy.”

It’s a terrible situation.  If Arthur shoots him– even shoots him dead– it was all but certain that he would drop that bottle into the bushes, where it would shatter, spraying fire and glass all throughout the brambles, and if Page is in there… Even if he manages to shoot the bottle, the only change would be that some of it would likely hit the man and his horse as well, but the brambles would not be spared… Whatever he does, it’s his best interest that the man does not drop that damn bottle if he wants to spare the girl!

The cold, dark eyes of the O’Driscoll are as unforgiving and pitiless as the tomb.

*

Page freezes again when she hears the voice of the thief she’d been in the company of.  So his name was ‘Morgan’ after all…

And these awful men were part and parcel with the awful men from yesterday, the ones at the stagecoach.  And the cold voiced one wanted to kill her in revenge…

There’s only one thing, though: she isn’t sure what a “pie-er” is…

Well, two things: she also doesn’t know how to crawl out of this bush without tearing half of her skin off her bones and getting the immediate notice of these men and their dogs.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

“Arthur, how would you go about wooing a girl?” She takes a chair and sits down with her journal and pencil ready. “I need to know for uh.. science!”

Arthur scratched his head, brows furrowing. Wooing a girl... When was the last time he'd tried to do that? Sometimes it came naturally, other times he failed horribly- but still, he had to give an answer... "Not sure yer gonna particularly like this answer, but- sweet talkin's yer friend, an'... Don't be afraid to be bold, I guess..." He muttered, trailing off as he gave a shrug. He resolved to think about it a bit more in the future.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Arthur was relieved to have freed the girl from the brambles- but holy hell did she look like a mess. His self-proclaimed stone cold heart felt a spark of pity at her condition. The poor girl looked like she was in immense pain, not to mention how terrifying that whole ordeal must've been for her...

He let silence- well, silence beside her sobs- hang between them for a few moments, considering what to say to her- sorry? Are you okay? God dammit woman? Definitely not the last one. He cleared his throat, grip on her arm staying as he crouched to level with her.

"Y'aright?" He asked, surprising himself as his voice came out softer than he thought possible. The shock kept hold of him for a few seconds before he decided to act yet again, free hand coming up to gently rest on her shoulder. He wasn't sure if he should speak again, brows furrowed as he thought about it. He decided it was best for him to let her calm down and wait for an answer.

Though it was obvious that she wasn't 'a'right', based on her current condition- Arthur fully expected some biting remark from her along those lines.

As Arthur draws nearer, his vantage point improves, and very soon he can see the situation rather well:  The men indeed appear to be O’Driscolls– due to not only the accents, but the bits of green incorporated into their clothing.  A green vest there, a green-striped shirt on the other, and the man who had spoken to him wore a tattered green kerchief around his neck, and another odd scrap of green cloth around the band of his battered hat.  He’s not a big man, neither in height or build, nor is he small.  He is– like so many– a man who had been shaped by rough living.  Dark hair, unremarkable, dark eyes, a forgettable face with squarish features and a triangular beard growing from his chin.  The only quality of note is his stillness, and his seemingly utter lack of feeling.  His face might as well have been a frozen lake with nothing to see swimming in the depths beneath.

He does not at all seem surprised or concerned that Arthur is approaching, armed to the teeth to fight a one-man war against them.  He just watches.  Still and silent as the grave.  The paint horse with the unattractively short tail under him shifts uneasily, grumbling his vexation.

Arthur can see, too, what concerns her: the bearded man– the leader of this little hunting party of O’Driscolls–is holding a lit fire bottle over the thorny brush nearby.

“Certainly,” The man answered him flatly, “But you an’ I both know: it’s never too early for a killin’.  Especially righteous revenge.”

He sloshes the clear liquid in the glass, giving it and then the bush a glance before meeting Arthur’s gaze again, “…Yesterday I sent my brother and my sister’s only son with some of the lads to hit a coach that was to be carryin’ some cash.  An easy first job for the boy, wit’ plenty o’help.  So imagine my surprise when only my tremblin’ nephew returns, tellin’ a story about a bear of a man, who fought like the devil, come up with a woman an’ kilt my boys o’er a bag.  Not even the money, no.  Just a ladies bag.  You shot that boy so he cannae even walk now, and murdered my little brother, Morgan, protecting this little rabbit bitch of yers.  I don’t know why you’re soft for her, and I don’t much care save to know that you are.”  Then he jerks his chin toward the brush, “So she’s for the pyre, and maybe once her screamin’ stops ringing in your ears, we’ll be square, ol’ boy.”

It’s a terrible situation.  If Arthur shoots him– even shoots him dead– it was all but certain that he would drop that bottle into the bushes, where it would shatter, spraying fire and glass all throughout the brambles, and if Page is in there… Even if he manages to shoot the bottle, the only change would be that some of it would likely hit the man and his horse as well, but the brambles would not be spared… Whatever he does, it’s his best interest that the man does not drop that damn bottle if he wants to spare the girl!

The cold, dark eyes of the O’Driscoll are as unforgiving and pitiless as the tomb.

*

Page freezes again when she hears the voice of the thief she’d been in the company of.  So his name was ‘Morgan’ after all…

And these awful men were part and parcel with the awful men from yesterday, the ones at the stagecoach.  And the cold voiced one wanted to kill her in revenge…

There’s only one thing, though: she isn’t sure what a “pie-er” is…

Well, two things: she also doesn’t know how to crawl out of this bush without tearing half of her skin off her bones and getting the immediate notice of these men and their dogs.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

ooc psa

Hello! I've been back recently, and I'm very glad to be! I just have a small psa for everyone I'm engaged in rp with. Please don't feel bad if it's a few days before I reply- I still care! School is taking a toll on me but in still hanging in there! I'll try to reply later tonight or tomorrow, but please bear with me. I care about all of these and all of you 💜

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Arthur felt his anger ebb for a moment as the bullet split the man's face open, and he was almost glad it did. He had killed him out of necessity... Mostly. He could've shot the lantern, or tried to spook his horse, but no... That man deserved to be shot right where he was, right in his ugly mug- he had no right to bring a lady into this. None at all.

As the other O'Driscoll's began riding off, he fired back at them, any concern for his own wellbeing gone for the moment- he had no need to fire back at them, he just... He was full of adrenaline- so much had just happened, he'd been so angry, he'd almost lost that poor girl...

The damn girl—!

As the men on horseback drew too far away for gunfire to continue, he quickly put his guns away, looking to the brambles- oh thank god. In his rage, he'd forgotten that wet wood don't burn. He'd be happy if he wasn't so goddamn pissed off about this whole situation.

After a moment of assessing the situation, Arthur pulled out his hunting knife, stepping closer to the brambles- and the lantern. He stomped on the flames a bit, trying to get them to die as he looked through the brambles to see the poor girl struggling. That looked damn painful.

"Hol' on there, I'll getcha out." He said, thinking for a moment on the best way to actually do that.

He wasn't exactly the most carefulan on the planet, whether conscious of it or not, but for now, he'd try his best.

Using his hunting knife, he began to hack at the brambles, attempting to cut them so that he could free the poor girl from where she was stuck within them- he was praying to whatever existed that he didn't end up cutting her in his recklessness.

What a mess this all was...

What a goddamn mess.

As Arthur draws nearer, his vantage point improves, and very soon he can see the situation rather well:  The men indeed appear to be O’Driscolls– due to not only the accents, but the bits of green incorporated into their clothing.  A green vest there, a green-striped shirt on the other, and the man who had spoken to him wore a tattered green kerchief around his neck, and another odd scrap of green cloth around the band of his battered hat.  He’s not a big man, neither in height or build, nor is he small.  He is– like so many– a man who had been shaped by rough living.  Dark hair, unremarkable, dark eyes, a forgettable face with squarish features and a triangular beard growing from his chin.  The only quality of note is his stillness, and his seemingly utter lack of feeling.  His face might as well have been a frozen lake with nothing to see swimming in the depths beneath.

He does not at all seem surprised or concerned that Arthur is approaching, armed to the teeth to fight a one-man war against them.  He just watches.  Still and silent as the grave.  The paint horse with the unattractively short tail under him shifts uneasily, grumbling his vexation.

Arthur can see, too, what concerns her: the bearded man– the leader of this little hunting party of O’Driscolls–is holding a lit fire bottle over the thorny brush nearby.

“Certainly,” The man answered him flatly, “But you an’ I both know: it’s never too early for a killin’.  Especially righteous revenge.”

He sloshes the clear liquid in the glass, giving it and then the bush a glance before meeting Arthur’s gaze again, “…Yesterday I sent my brother and my sister’s only son with some of the lads to hit a coach that was to be carryin’ some cash.  An easy first job for the boy, wit’ plenty o’help.  So imagine my surprise when only my tremblin’ nephew returns, tellin’ a story about a bear of a man, who fought like the devil, come up with a woman an’ kilt my boys o’er a bag.  Not even the money, no.  Just a ladies bag.  You shot that boy so he cannae even walk now, and murdered my little brother, Morgan, protecting this little rabbit bitch of yers.  I don’t know why you’re soft for her, and I don’t much care save to know that you are.”  Then he jerks his chin toward the brush, “So she’s for the pyre, and maybe once her screamin’ stops ringing in your ears, we’ll be square, ol’ boy.”

It’s a terrible situation.  If Arthur shoots him– even shoots him dead– it was all but certain that he would drop that bottle into the bushes, where it would shatter, spraying fire and glass all throughout the brambles, and if Page is in there… Even if he manages to shoot the bottle, the only change would be that some of it would likely hit the man and his horse as well, but the brambles would not be spared… Whatever he does, it’s his best interest that the man does not drop that damn bottle if he wants to spare the girl!

The cold, dark eyes of the O’Driscoll are as unforgiving and pitiless as the tomb.

*

Page freezes again when she hears the voice of the thief she’d been in the company of.  So his name was ‘Morgan’ after all…

And these awful men were part and parcel with the awful men from yesterday, the ones at the stagecoach.  And the cold voiced one wanted to kill her in revenge…

There’s only one thing, though: she isn’t sure what a “pie-er” is…

Well, two things: she also doesn’t know how to crawl out of this bush without tearing half of her skin off her bones and getting the immediate notice of these men and their dogs.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Arthur was doing his best to stay calm underneath the rage bubbling inside of him. He knew he should've killed that son of a bitch- damn him for being nice! Some cold blooded outlaw he was. Page was going to die because of his mistake. Hell, if he hadn't gotten mixed up in this, she'd be fine- or would she be?

No time to dwell on that now- the bottle is far too close to burning the poor girl alive!

Arthur had always considered himself good at quick thinking, but this... This was a tough one. And now, for some godforsaken reason, feelings had gotten wrapped up in it. Not anything romantic, he sure wasn't 'soft for her', as the O'Driscoll put it, but he was kind enough as to not wish her death!

In the heat of the moment, Arthur's anger got the best of him, and he fired his gun- aimed right at the man's horrible, ugly, disgusting face. Fuck it all- he'd probably just gotten Page killed, and himself, what was he thinking?

Good god Morgan, you're quite the fool, aren't you!

Did he really just put emotions at the forefront of his mind? What would everyone at camp do if he was wounded? Shot dead?

He'd really made a mess of things now.

As Arthur draws nearer, his vantage point improves, and very soon he can see the situation rather well:  The men indeed appear to be O’Driscolls– due to not only the accents, but the bits of green incorporated into their clothing.  A green vest there, a green-striped shirt on the other, and the man who had spoken to him wore a tattered green kerchief around his neck, and another odd scrap of green cloth around the band of his battered hat.  He’s not a big man, neither in height or build, nor is he small.  He is– like so many– a man who had been shaped by rough living.  Dark hair, unremarkable, dark eyes, a forgettable face with squarish features and a triangular beard growing from his chin.  The only quality of note is his stillness, and his seemingly utter lack of feeling.  His face might as well have been a frozen lake with nothing to see swimming in the depths beneath.

He does not at all seem surprised or concerned that Arthur is approaching, armed to the teeth to fight a one-man war against them.  He just watches.  Still and silent as the grave.  The paint horse with the unattractively short tail under him shifts uneasily, grumbling his vexation.

Arthur can see, too, what concerns her: the bearded man– the leader of this little hunting party of O’Driscolls–is holding a lit fire bottle over the thorny brush nearby.

“Certainly,” The man answered him flatly, “But you an’ I both know: it’s never too early for a killin’.  Especially righteous revenge.”

He sloshes the clear liquid in the glass, giving it and then the bush a glance before meeting Arthur’s gaze again, “…Yesterday I sent my brother and my sister’s only son with some of the lads to hit a coach that was to be carryin’ some cash.  An easy first job for the boy, wit’ plenty o’help.  So imagine my surprise when only my tremblin’ nephew returns, tellin’ a story about a bear of a man, who fought like the devil, come up with a woman an’ kilt my boys o’er a bag.  Not even the money, no.  Just a ladies bag.  You shot that boy so he cannae even walk now, and murdered my little brother, Morgan, protecting this little rabbit bitch of yers.  I don’t know why you’re soft for her, and I don’t much care save to know that you are.”  Then he jerks his chin toward the brush, “So she’s for the pyre, and maybe once her screamin’ stops ringing in your ears, we’ll be square, ol’ boy.”

It’s a terrible situation.  If Arthur shoots him– even shoots him dead– it was all but certain that he would drop that bottle into the bushes, where it would shatter, spraying fire and glass all throughout the brambles, and if Page is in there… Even if he manages to shoot the bottle, the only change would be that some of it would likely hit the man and his horse as well, but the brambles would not be spared… Whatever he does, it’s his best interest that the man does not drop that damn bottle if he wants to spare the girl!

The cold, dark eyes of the O’Driscoll are as unforgiving and pitiless as the tomb.

*

Page freezes again when she hears the voice of the thief she’d been in the company of.  So his name was ‘Morgan’ after all…

And these awful men were part and parcel with the awful men from yesterday, the ones at the stagecoach.  And the cold voiced one wanted to kill her in revenge…

There’s only one thing, though: she isn’t sure what a “pie-er” is…

Well, two things: she also doesn’t know how to crawl out of this bush without tearing half of her skin off her bones and getting the immediate notice of these men and their dogs.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

((Man, I really suck don't I? Haha... School has been kicking my ass, and I've been busy every weekend, but I'm FINALLY FREE FOR TWO DAYS! I'm going to get back to replies starting TODAY! Thank you all for sticking with me even when I disappear, and I'm happy to be back once again 💙))

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Arthur's horse had faithfully returned to him after a few long moments, much to his relief, though he decided to just grab a couple more guns off of him and have him stay where he was- he'd call for him when everything was done.

He now had a shotgun and rifle on his back, a hunting knife, and a pistol in each holster- he was clearly not messing around, and he wanted those bastards to see that.

After following the trail for a little bit, he stopped as his eyes met the mans, anger rising in him- goddamn O'Driscolls... Surely that's who'd done this. He'd make sure they got what was coming to them.

As angry as he was, he'd try to reason first- if there was any reasoning to be done with O'Driscolls- he'd be cautious though... He didn't want to get him or especially Page killed- he'd have to play his cards carefully.

"Fine mornin', gentleman." Arthur greeted as he began slowly sauntering up to get a view of the situation, his hands on each of his pistols, still in their holsters- it was a warning, he was ready to shoot if need be, but perhaps a bit of talking could distract them...

"Don't'cha think it's a little early t' be kidnappin' an innocent girl?"

There is a part of Page that recognizes very well that this man has no right to chastise her like this, and that she has every right to tell him so.  But that part is small and drowned out by the shame-faced self-reproach which consumes her.

Maybe she wasn’t a ‘menace’, but she was certainly making a nuisance of herself, which was almost as bad.

Somewhere in her is the tiny voice of her self-respect, hollering that she had no business thinking she ought to exert herself to try and be helpful to this man who had victimized her and was likely setting her up to do so again.  She cannot hear it.

She only hears Mister McGinnis telling her very frankly that every one of God’s creatures was flawed, and that the flaw of the woman was that she’d been given a mouth…

Well then.  If Mister Arthur wanted her quiet– if her silence would appease him– then she would say nothing.  If that would he helpful to him, then he would have it.  It was only her foolishness that had bidden her to speak to him, anyway.  That naive hope that they might… that he might…

… Might what?  Care about anything she had to say?  The contents of her empty-headed thoughts?

Anything at all concerning her?

Really.  What a cursed fool.  She really ought to be so ashamed.

So she has no reply for him as she stoops and picks up the weighty, rolled bundle.  She does not protest that she doesn’t know how to tie it to the back of the saddle.  She does not speak of her spiking terror as she purposefully closes the distance with the horse’s flank.

She says nothing when the snarling of a large canine from the nearby underbrush sends a jolt of alarm through her.  She must bite down on her lip hard to keep from making a sound when the horse utters an uneasy huff and dances under the thief, freezing her in place, locking every muscle in terror.

She stands there a silent statue, her thoughts full of blood and the screaming of a child, tears streaming down her face.

A tiny sliver of her is certain she’s just as much of a nuisance as before– that despite all her hopes she’d never again find a place to be useful.  Another shard of her offers the flimsy comfort that at the very least the man has his belongings now– he can probably get away with them and rid himself of her without much trouble.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Howdy!

((I'll be at school from 8-3:30 central time, so I will not be able to get to replies at all during that time. Please be patient with me! Replies will be slow going during the day, and sometimes evening due to homework, but I'm still here... And I look forward to getting home to reply to you all :) ))

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Arthur Morgan's favorite places to be are on the mountain, by the river, and between two thick thighs.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Arthur cursed under his breath as the dog ran away, the quiet filling him with dread and anger- they'd got to her, hadn't they? Those sons of bitches... He'd kill them all when he found them. If they even touched a hair on that girls head-

At least he was decent at tracking, he could thank Charles for that. So that's exactly what he began to do, trying to keep his cool and just focus on what he saw, and what he remembered from where he heard the hooves beating earlier.

He let out a few short whistles, hoping his own horse hadn't ran too far away from him- he really wished he was on it right now, it'd help him get there faster, and it was packing a couple extra weapons on it.

All he knew was that he had to get to Page before they did anything to her, and if they had... He'd have to kill every single one of them. He'd made his mind up, though he knew he may have to kill them all either way.

There is a part of Page that recognizes very well that this man has no right to chastise her like this, and that she has every right to tell him so.  But that part is small and drowned out by the shame-faced self-reproach which consumes her.

Maybe she wasn’t a ‘menace’, but she was certainly making a nuisance of herself, which was almost as bad.

Somewhere in her is the tiny voice of her self-respect, hollering that she had no business thinking she ought to exert herself to try and be helpful to this man who had victimized her and was likely setting her up to do so again.  She cannot hear it.

She only hears Mister McGinnis telling her very frankly that every one of God’s creatures was flawed, and that the flaw of the woman was that she’d been given a mouth…

Well then.  If Mister Arthur wanted her quiet– if her silence would appease him– then she would say nothing.  If that would he helpful to him, then he would have it.  It was only her foolishness that had bidden her to speak to him, anyway.  That naive hope that they might… that he might…

… Might what?  Care about anything she had to say?  The contents of her empty-headed thoughts?

Anything at all concerning her?

Really.  What a cursed fool.  She really ought to be so ashamed.

So she has no reply for him as she stoops and picks up the weighty, rolled bundle.  She does not protest that she doesn’t know how to tie it to the back of the saddle.  She does not speak of her spiking terror as she purposefully closes the distance with the horse’s flank.

She says nothing when the snarling of a large canine from the nearby underbrush sends a jolt of alarm through her.  She must bite down on her lip hard to keep from making a sound when the horse utters an uneasy huff and dances under the thief, freezing her in place, locking every muscle in terror.

She stands there a silent statue, her thoughts full of blood and the screaming of a child, tears streaming down her face.

A tiny sliver of her is certain she’s just as much of a nuisance as before– that despite all her hopes she’d never again find a place to be useful.  Another shard of her offers the flimsy comfort that at the very least the man has his belongings now– he can probably get away with them and rid himself of her without much trouble.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Send in “🍺" to find my Muse drunk.

Send in “🍻” to have my Muse find yours intoxicated.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Arthur swiftly turned around when the dog went behind him, definitely not wanting to get attacked from behind- though he knew the dog was just trying to keep him in place, damn mutt. Was there any way to get it off of him without having to kill it?

He began backing away from it again, knowing it may try and do the same thing it just did over and over again- and time was really ticking, the riders could have Page by now...

He'd try one last thing to get the dog off if him before worse came to worse. steadily, he pointed his gun at the ground next to the dog, firing a shot in hopes that it would startle him away- it was really his last hope before he'd have to do something he really didn't want to.

He tried to back up a bit more quickly, one gun still aimed at the dog and the other the ground, just in case he may need to fire another shot into it- or unfortunately, one into the dog.

There is a part of Page that recognizes very well that this man has no right to chastise her like this, and that she has every right to tell him so.  But that part is small and drowned out by the shame-faced self-reproach which consumes her.

Maybe she wasn’t a ‘menace’, but she was certainly making a nuisance of herself, which was almost as bad.

Somewhere in her is the tiny voice of her self-respect, hollering that she had no business thinking she ought to exert herself to try and be helpful to this man who had victimized her and was likely setting her up to do so again.  She cannot hear it.

She only hears Mister McGinnis telling her very frankly that every one of God’s creatures was flawed, and that the flaw of the woman was that she’d been given a mouth…

Well then.  If Mister Arthur wanted her quiet– if her silence would appease him– then she would say nothing.  If that would he helpful to him, then he would have it.  It was only her foolishness that had bidden her to speak to him, anyway.  That naive hope that they might… that he might…

… Might what?  Care about anything she had to say?  The contents of her empty-headed thoughts?

Anything at all concerning her?

Really.  What a cursed fool.  She really ought to be so ashamed.

So she has no reply for him as she stoops and picks up the weighty, rolled bundle.  She does not protest that she doesn’t know how to tie it to the back of the saddle.  She does not speak of her spiking terror as she purposefully closes the distance with the horse’s flank.

She says nothing when the snarling of a large canine from the nearby underbrush sends a jolt of alarm through her.  She must bite down on her lip hard to keep from making a sound when the horse utters an uneasy huff and dances under the thief, freezing her in place, locking every muscle in terror.

She stands there a silent statue, her thoughts full of blood and the screaming of a child, tears streaming down her face.

A tiny sliver of her is certain she’s just as much of a nuisance as before– that despite all her hopes she’d never again find a place to be useful.  Another shard of her offers the flimsy comfort that at the very least the man has his belongings now– he can probably get away with them and rid himself of her without much trouble.

[ask-n-rp-arthur-morgan]

Hello all!

I apologize for the long, long hiatus! School started a little over a month ago and things have been H E C T I C, but I'm back! Activity may be slightly low during the week, but I'm here and still willing to do/continue rps :) I will dm everyone individually who has tried to contact me in the last month or so and if you still want, we can do somethin! Sorry again for my absence, but I'm so happy to be back!