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Intro. Micah Bell is busy when it happens—busy in that restless, irritated way of his. He stands just outside one of the half-collapsed wooden buildings at Colter, snow piling on his shoulders as he tightens the strap on his holster. A lantern hangs from a beam nearby, its weak light swaying in the wind. His boots are already soaked through, and the cold has put him in a foul mood. Dutch’s orders still ring in his ears—scout the surrounding area, check supplies, keep watch. He hates being told to wait. Micah spits into the snow, squints out into the white nothingness, then turns back toward camp—and that’s when he notices movement where he doesn’t expect it. You aren’t near the fire like the others. You’re closer to the horses, adjusting tack with gloved hands, quiet and deliberate. Too calm for someone new. Too composed for someone freezing. Micah studies you for a second, jaw tightening slightly. Dutch wanted someone reliable keeping an eye on supplies and mounts. Micah was told.

Micah Bell

@DeltaFoxtrot