#RDRHalloweenBingo

[rdrevents]

In honour of our favourite spooky holiday, get some truly ghoulish inspiration from our RDR Halloween Bingo board 🎃 Fill 3 prompts in a row (either horizontally, vertically, or diagonally) for Bingo, or fill every prompt for a Full House! Whether you draw, write, craft, or compose your prompts, tag @rdrevents or use the #RDRHalloweenBingo hashtag so we can see and share your work! 

[southernlynxx]

Autumn Night

Rating: Gen Status: Complete Fandom: RDR2 Characters: Arthur Morgan & John Marston Canon/AU: Pre-Canon

Summary: “What do you think’s going on?” John asks, kicking his feet idly as he follows Arthur’s attention to the town. John has yet to visit, so knows nothing of the decorations that line the streets; scarecrows pitched in patches of grass and pumpkins lining peoples’ porches with carved grins and grimaces. Little ghosts fashioned from old handkerchiefs hanging in shop windows and paper bats dangling from the ceiling by lengths of string.  “Harvest festival,” Arthur supplies, to which John hums. Warnings: N/A Notes: Written for @rdrevents Halloween Bingo!

The sun sets early now; in its absence comes a chill that whispers of winter months lurking just beyond the horizon. But it’s still early days yet, and the ambient heat of the fire beneath the stew pot easily chases away the nip of fall from Arthur’s skin as he pours a ladle of broth into his bowl.

“Ah, a second helping, Mr. Morgan?” Pearson asks from his table nearby, sounding pleased as he carves up a slab of meat to be smoked and salted for long-term storage.

“Nah, I’ve had my share, Mr. Pearson. Figured I oughta take some out to John; he’s probably gone through his rations for the night already,” he offers dryly.

Pearson laughs and nods in agreement. “Boy eats like a horse! Gotta wonder where it all goes.”

“Right through ‘im is my guess; it certainly don’t stick around,” Arthur scoffs. Even in his twenty-first year, John Marston is slimmer than a string-bean and lanky as a foal with only the broadness of his shoulders and the surly jut of his jaw to give him any credibility as an outlaw.

With a parting wave to the cook, Arthur makes his way through the camp; familiar even in its many iterations with every move and pitch. A new wagon now joins the caravan encircling the outer edges of the camp, procured to cart the belongings of their newer members that Pearson wasn't content to store in his chuckwagon any longer.

For Dutch, the acquisition is a sign of their growing strength and comfortable means of living in the face of their nomadic lifestyle, despite it being their crimes and his grand philosophies that propelled it. Or perhaps even in honour of it; proof that they didn’t need to bend to the laws forced upon them to thrive in a world trying to stifle their free-minded thoughts. Arthur is frankly just relieved not to have to listen to Ms Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson’s incessant bickering about the lack of space anymore, or the sound of Pearson cussing the air blue every morning when he inevitably tripped over a trunk or got caught in the canvas of a spare tent, even if the memories still tease the beginnings of a smile out of Arthur.

He steps beyond the outermost wagons, which hoard the light and warmth of the campfires within their walls of wood and canvas; deprived of that, his skin bristles with gooseflesh as he’s exposed to the sudden chill. While the brief thought to collect his jacket crosses his mind, his gait doesn’t falter, pushing him forward away from the remnants of light and into the surrounding trees.

---

They’d settled down not a week ago in an old woodland not a stone’s throw from the town of Weststead; a quaint little commune that looked like it had upped and migrated straight from Massecheusettes to nestle on the fringes of the American West. It’s a small but serviceable town, with pretty painted houses and shops lining a cobbled mainstreet, the outlying land utilised for farming and ranching. The people were unusually amenable to strangers, and Arthur would bet his hat that’d been what convinced Dutch and Hosea that this was the perfect place to pitch-up for winter. After all, what could be better than a town yet to be jaded to travellers by criminals and conmen?

What surprises Arthur is that winter still lies some weeks worth of travel away. While a blanket of fallen leaves crunched beneath his boots, the trees are still flush with red and gold foliage, their shades distinguishable even in the low evening light. They won’t be seeing snow until at least late November he reckons, but he certainly ain’t the type to complain about settling down in one place for a good few months, though he can’t guarantee that certain others wouldn’t find themselves quickly growing restless.

“How goes the watch, boy?” Arthur drawls, picking his way out the trees to an old forgotten wagon atop crippled wheels at the forest’s edge. A slim figure perched on the end of the wagon bed sits up sharply, but the nose of the rifle in hand remains pointing upwards.

“You checkin’ up on me?” John rebuffs him, sounding annoyed at the accusation manifested in his own head..

Arthur snorts. “Should I be?” he asks, “Or d’you just not want this food I brought you?”

“You bought food?” John’s tone shifts immediately, his gruff demeanour perking up at the prospect of dinner. He sets the rifle aside, brushing off the damp leaves from the wagon and patting the wood next to him in invitation for Arthur to sit. With a shake of his head, Arthur passes over the bowl and spoon he’d brought along and leans back against the wagon, John’s leg a faint warm pressure against his hip and thigh.

“You’d think you’d learn to bring enough food to see you through the night,” he remarks, to which John scoffs through a mouthful of stew, chewing obnoxiously on a particularly grisly bit of meat.

“Y’know Grimshaw only lets me take so much,” he mutters, “barely lasts me half the night.” “Y’ever think to not eat it all in the first few hours?” “Whats’it Hosea says? I’m a growing boy?” he grins, to which Arthur can’t help throwing back his head with a barking laugh.

“You’ve been a ‘growing boy’ for near on ten years now, y’greedy bastard.” He tilts his head to follow the already empty bowl that John sets down on the wagon - damn near licked clean - before looking out over the fields below.

There’s a perfect harvest moon hovering large and gold in the twilight sky, casting light over freshly cropped wheat fields dotted with haystacks and abandoned tools. The town of Weststead is a point of illumination in the pitch landscape, warm with the glow of fires and lanterns. Even distant as they are, he hears the ever so faint sound of commotion; the peals of shrill childish laughter the easiest to be heard, innocent and joyous.

“What do you think’s going on?” John asks, kicking his feet idly as he follows Arthur’s attention to the town. John has yet to visit, so knows nothing of the decorations that line the streets; scarecrows pitched in patches of grass and pumpkins lining peoples’ porches with carved grins and grimaces. Little ghosts fashioned from old handkerchiefs hanging in shop windows and paper bats dangling from the ceiling by lengths of string.

“Harvest festival,” Arthur supplies, to which John hums.

“Didn’t realise it was that late in the season…” He feels John’s eyes on him before the younger man opens his mouth. “Got any snacks?” Arthur snorts. “-for later, I mean!” John insists, “C’mon Arthur, I’ll be here hours, and you’ve always got somethin’ in that purse.” 

“Ain’t a purse,” Arthur shoots back, affronted, eyebrow twitching when he spots John’s shit-eating grin. “You got a funny way of gettin��� what you want, boy,” he mutters, but nonetheless dutifully fishes out a handful of candy from his bag and drops it into John’s lap.

“Holy shit,” John responds, rifling through the mixture of hard candies and chocolate drops, even a toffee or two. He shoots Arthur a smirk. “You been handin’ out sweets to the town kids? You mean ol’ outlaw!” He laughs, rough and gravelly, when Arthur shoulders him, head ducking down so his hat shields his eyes and his ruddy cheeks. “Don’t worry, Morgan, y’already bought my silence,” he teases, popping a toffee between his lips. “Well, make sure t’stay silent,” Arthur huffs, despite the smile traitorously twitching at the corners of his own mouth.

Their conversation lapses and Arthur opts to listen instead to the distant sounds of the town and the gentle fall breeze rasping through the wheat fields. The whisper of the leaves that drift down from the treetops and the creak of the old rotten wagon as John shifts and resettles. The rustle of foraging critters in the undergrowth, accompanied by the unfaltering chores of crickets hidden away in the weeds and thicket

The perfect fall night; set to welcome winter yet defy it all the samel with the warmth of the fires and tangible joy of the season’s end, shared in a long, companionable silence beneath the harvest moon.

[trippin-over-my-fandoms]

Spectre, Horseman, Roots, Graveyard, Witchcraft

for @rdrevents halloween bingo

[rdrevents]

These look great! 👻

Spectre, Horseman, Roots, Graveyard, Witchcraft

for @rdrevents halloween bingo