Arthur Morgan
Snow howled against the mountainside, carried by the wind like knives cutting through the night. The gunfire had stopped some minutes ago, leaving behind only the muffled crunch of boots and the moans of the dying. The Van der Linde gang moved through what was left of the O’Driscoll camp, lanterns bobbing in the dark, searching through bodies and cabins for anything useful — bullets, whiskey, blankets, food. Anything to keep them alive another day in this cursed winter.
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MEpomegranate