Wild Things (Arthur Morgan x Female Reader)

A Strange Encounter

As the smell of gunpowder wafts in the air, you jaunt over to your kill. A deer, large enough, that once you've skinned it, it will make a nice pelt and a few good meals.

Swinging your rifle over your shoulder, you bear down and pick up the deer, using the strength in your legs as you carry it to your horse, a gray mustang which you've named Skipping Stones. He remains calm and steady as you swing it onto his back and with some rope you always keep in your saddlebag, you secure the deer good and tight. You exhale fully, relieved to have something to bring home this time.

Lately it seems as though there is less and less wild game to hunt. Most would attribute it to the time of year, but you know better. There are more people moving into these mountains and woods. You had moved up here into the peace and quiet, with only a few native tribes as neighbors. You mind your business and they tend to theirs, but even so there has been a tension in the air.

You soon hear a rumble in the clouds and lightning strikes in the distance. You best be getting back, as it won't be long before the storm rears its head in full force. You mount Skipping Stones and nudge his barrel with your heel and he takes you home, as he too, senses the weather's threatening gaze.

As you ride home, you think about the life you're living. You've been in these mountains for years now, most of it in solitude. It's not like you had a choice. Well, the choices were to stay and die, or leave and live, and the first option was not appealing, despite the attachments that you had made. In fact, it was those very same attachments that got you nearly killed in the first place. You had sworn that you would never make that mistake again.

So you changed your name and changed your life, and you've been the better for it.

The weather has picked up and it is now pouring in sheets. You think that it is the worst storm you've seen in many years. You urge your horse on, and tilt the brim of your hat forward to let the water run down. You look forward to a warm fire and a new change of clothes.

You come around the bend and in the distance, you see home. A small cabin hidden built into the side of a hill. The front walls are covered in moss and fungi, it takes a well trained eye to spot it, especially in this weather. Skipping Stones picks up the pace without your encouragement.

But as you near the cabin, you see something is off.

A brief flicker of light comes from within the cabin. You just saw it from the window.

You pull back on the reins quickly and the stallion comes to a halt. You wait a moment, and eye the window carefully.

There it is again!

No one, aside from the natives, knows you're out here. But you figure that they would eventually find you. You couldn't hide in these woods forever.

But you're ready.

Riding Skipping Stones into the shelter of some nearby trees, you dismount and tie him off a few feet from the cabin. You crouch down, pulling out your knife that you carved from a wolf's jaw bone. With a calm and steady breath, you carefully make your way to the cabin, eyes focused on the door.

Once you've reached the door, you see that it is ajar. Whoever this is, it angers you that they had the audacity to be this sloppy. If they think they have the drop on you, they need to think again.

You place the back of your hand on the door and listen. You hear one of your chairs move, whether they had brushed up against it as they ransack your house or to sit down, you know they aren't expecting you.

You ready your knife. You grip it firmly and exhale slowly through your nose.

In a rush, you swing open the door and charge at the figure from within. Your movements are a blur and you hardly cry out. The figure, who turns out to be a man, is pushed to the floor as you charge him. His back is still turned to you and you loop your arm around his neck, resting the blade on his throat.