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ㅤㅤㅤㅤIN ORDER TO BECOME A WITCHER,    YOU HAVE TO BE BORN IN THE SHADOW OF DESTINY,    AND VERY FEW ARE BORN LIKE THAT.    THAT’S WHY THERE ARE SO FEW OF US.    WE’RE GROWING OLD,    DYING,    WITHOUT ANYONE TO PASS OUR KNOWLEDGE,    OUR GIFTS,    ON TO.    WE LACK SUCCESSORS.    AND THIS WORLD IS FULL OF EVIL WHICH WAITS FOR THE DAY NONE OF US ARE LEFT.

INDEPENDENT, PRIVATE GERALT OF RIVIA [ ... ] THE WHITE WOLF OF THE WITCHER SAGA. BOOKS-BASED, GAMES-COMPLIANT. PREVIOUSLY WILCZMIN. since 2020. by kat, she/her, 29.

read carrd byf. UNAFFILIATED WITH ANDRZEJ SAPKOWSKI OR CD PROJEKT RED. CHARACTERISATION HEAVILY RELIANT UPON OWN HEADCANON. influenced by mixed wiedźmin media & slavic folklore.

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dang what if i miss arthur morgan. what then. /:

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"Is that your dick bulge?" No ma'am that's cigarettes. Move along you don't want me.

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how do my friends know i'm on here when i HAVEN'T EVEN POSTED ANYTHING.

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@outl1ve

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I love you Arthur Morgan, I love you... (Sean quote teehee)

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they dressed as each other for halloween, (ft. @redemn // also currently at @dhampirul ; go follow kat for alucard shenanigans!!)

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i've lost my memory for whatever reason and i don't know who you are but i just have a feeling that i'm supposed to trust you (said feeling is completely wrong and it's an enemy of some sorts)

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" BUT HERE'S THE THING - " * arthur-coded rant *

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"Are you ok?" I'm actually tired bro. From the bottom of my heart I'm tired

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watching roger clark talk about red dead and him saying that his canon ending is helping john escape with high honor . :) i am validated every day .

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“Sometimes giving someone a second chance is like giving them an extra bullet for their gun because they missed you the first time.”

— Unknown

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❝        now  i  didn't  say  nothin'  about  takin'  my  chances  with  sally  over  here  ,        ❞        asserts  the  outlaw  first  and  foremost  .        ❝        you  got  a  quick  mouth  on  you  .      you  see  a  gun  in  my  hands  ?        ❞        and  with  that  ,      he  moves  his  arms  onto  the  counter  ,      the  sides  of  his  empty  hands  rested  within  her  view  .      for  all  the  bad  he  is  ,      he  counts  himself  a  fool  only  when  he  wishes  to  show  that  he  is  .      in  matters  of  trading  blows  and  quarreling  with  the  locals  of  these  various  parts    …    well  ,      he'd  rather  be  seen  as  competent  ,      and  not  flee  like  a  dog  with  his  tail  between  his  legs  .      he  knows  if  some  woman  comes  out  with  a  shotgun  cradled  in  her  arms  and  the  rage  of  hell  in  her  eyes  ,      he  won't  be  taking  any  chances  with  that  .        ❝        i  told  you  ,      i  ain't  here  lookin'  for  trouble  .        ❞

only  a  drink  .      a  drink  and  a  good  rumor  .      but  annabelle  is  as  quick  of  a  woman  as  she  is  clever  .      as  far  as  the  outlaw  is  concerned  ,      this  barmaid's  eyes  don't  deceive  her  .      there  are  good  reasons  why  most  people  fail  to  meet  his  gaze  ,      why  they  walk  faster  when  they  spot  the  pistol  in  its  holster  at  his  side  ,      why  the  law  keeps  their  eyes  on  him  while  he  does  nothing  but  work  at  cleaning  his  horse's  hooves  .

perhaps  ,      then  ,      it's  why  he  once  more  grips  at  his  glass  ,      taking  a  good  mouthful  to  gulp  down  .      bitter  alcohol  stings  somewhere  deep  in  his  chest  .        ❝        do  i  look  like  the  charitable  type  to  you  ?        ❞        this  question  slithers  through  his  lips  ,      rhetorical  puff  of  air  brushing  past  his  chin  .      no  quirk  gives  away  his  humor  ,      arid  and  disagreeable  .        ❝        what  can  i  do  to  get  it  outta  you  ?        ❞

he makes threats so easily : he has no fuckin' idea who she is, then. in truth, a part of her almost likes it that way (without her father's reputation held over her like a painful reminder of everything she wasn't, she has no one else to be but herself, for whatever that means-- whatever thoughts he has of her, it is clear that they come from who she is, not whose last name fits over her like a noose). sure, it didn't seem like he had the best impression of her, but at least it was a honest one. her impression of him, though, is tainted. thought she might not be able to pick his face out from the thousand of wanted posters that litter their tiny town, he still stinks of trouble.

" if you came in here with your gun out, sally would match you blow for blow, sweetheart. " it is almost a joke, if not for the fact that it's the absolute truth. sally didn't open up a bar just to be walked all over. she was dangerous with a gun (hell, she was dangerous with just about everything she wrapped her greedy hands around : annabelle sure as shit wouldn't fuck with her). " you've got a real death wish if you want to take your chances with that old broad. "

well, had she seen anyone new around? the question caused her head to swivel slightly, this way and that way, as if she was checking to see who else was listening. a few people had taken an interest in their conversation, but they seemed drunk enough that it'd slip right from them the second they stumbled out of the saloon. " maybe, " she hummed, fixing him with her best smile. " i don't give away anything for free though. you never know when you're getting hustled-- i steer away from all charity. "

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So we doing it?

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a  sigh  of  relief  escapes  his  lips  as  they  duck  beneath  the  tarp  stretched  across  his  small  table  and  bed  ,      into  the  makeshift  walls  of  his  so-called  'tent'        for  what  it's  worth  ,      it's  hardly  enough  to  shield  him  from  view  ,      but  just  enough  that  he  can  convince  himself  ,      especially  in  the  throes  of  slumber      (  or  ,      perhaps  ,      while  being  aided  in  his  undressing  ),      that  peeking  eyes  can  be  easily  noticed  if  anyone  dared  .      sloppy  fingers  tug  at  similar  places  in  that  fabric  ,      brush  again  raven's  one  too  many  times  .      if  he  were  less  drunk  ,      he  would  apologize  .      to  say  nothing  of  the  palm  at  his  chest  .      he  breathes  ,      careful  ,      steadily  ,      seemingly  unable  to  parse  it  all  .      his  gaze  meets  hers  .

he  blinks  once  ,      twice  ,      thrive  ,      a  blank  look  in  whiskey-widened  eyes  ,      a  window  that  frames  the  picture  his  mind  :  thoughts  laced  together  ,      frantic  attempts  to  untangle  the  knots  that  inundate  any  line  he  tries  to  grasp  .        ❝        sure  ,      sure  .      i've  seen  a  lotta  things  i  can't  explain  .      but  i  ,      i  ain't  uh        i  ain't  smart  'nough  to  recognize  what's  really  goin'  on  anyway  .      ain't  really    …      ❞        words  stutter  out  before  he  has  the  chance  to  stop  them  ,      on  account  of  the  drink  coating  his  throat  ,      his  tongue  ,      with  an  easy  venom  meant  to  poison  .      he  sure  could  be  called  poisoning  himself  now  ,      for  what  it's  worth        the  very  fact  he's  rambled  on  about  himself  about  idiocies  and  stupidities  is  not  a  thing  most  anyone  would  hear  .

a  long  moment  stretches  .      he  reaches  up  now  ,      lifting  his  hat  from  his  head  .      with  less  easy  access  to  the  table  beside  his  bed  ,      for  want  of  raven's  space  ,      he  instead  sets  his  hat  atop  her  lengthy  black  hair  .      then  ,      as  if  he's  suddenly  remembered  he  has  a  bed  ,      the  man  drops  himself  quick  on  the  mattress  ,      forearms  rested  over  thighs  .      gaze  settles  on  the  particularly  severe  curve  of  her  shoulder  .        ❝        creatures  in  the  woods  i  can't  understand  .      neither  c'n  the  rest'a  this  lot  .        ❞        he  chuckles  to  himself  ,      lets  out  an  airy  groan  against  the  spin  of  the  world  still  insistent  upon  the  bottoms  of  his  feet  .        ❝        eh    …    n'  scares  me  plen'y  ,      miss  omen  .      all  that  stuff  .      i  don't  gotta  know  about  it  .      that  ain't  my  domain  out  there  .        ❞

the body is not her domain as is the mind,    but invisible tendrils of darkness keep his feet steady,    she won’t let him get more scruffed than life has made him.    all this safekeeping she does in secret,    and it pains her that she hasn’t been honest with him.    now is no time for confessions of what she is,    but she wonders if she could harness proof that he would care for her regardless.    it’s not fair now,    that he’s drunk,    but she can’t allow herself the elation of his presence without worrying.    even as her cheeks morph the warmth of his words into redder hues,    her smile shies away.    if only he could truly save her,    if only she could remain in the embracing feeling of his happiness as she is now and never face the evils of her kin.    these are impossible things to hope for,    as they are, friends, they can only thrive in the dark,    hiden from the burden of their foul responsibilities.   

‘ mhm,    until you fall asleep,  i will not leave you,   ’ no one seems to rise as they enter the tent,    but she’s careful to keep her voice down.    a purring whisper that speaks both of caution and tenderness,    releasing his arm to illuminate a candle with matches she stole earlier from him.    the sentimentals that permeate his space don’t go unnoticed by the empath,    one item however,    holds most of the spiritual energy,    a jarred flower.    ‘ but i do not wish to impose,    pearson does not need another mouth to feed,    ’ especially not one that will refuse to eat his stew.    she’s aware of her complexities and can only expect to carry them lonesome.    it’s easier to tend to others,    it negates the need to accept in voce that she has needs beyond sainthood.    

slowly,    she reaches for arthur’s neck,    giving him a final smile before delving into the task of helping him shed the day and rest.    fingers graze him as she works on untangling his handkerchief,    dark eyes immersed,    lingering on his chest for a second too long when she's done.    ‘ say,    arthur,    ’ here she looks up at him,    innocent, her left hand lifting to find the brim of his hat,    tone shifting from that mantric hymn to unequivocal human timidity,     ‘ are you a spiritual man    ? have you ever seen something you cannot explain    ? ’

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always reading about and thinking about arthur as usual . anyways , in this book it says someone calculated that arthur’s kill tally , even in an honorable run , must have been somewhere around 900 people .

sb : how many people have you killed ? arthur : nine . sb : oh thank god . that’s not as bad as i thought haha , i thought it was gon’ be 90 or somethin big . arthur : hundred . sb : NINE HUNDRED ????

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the physical goods are here .