Letter - Arthur Morgan to Gilgamesh

Arthur Morgan

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[An envelope arrives in the mail, visibly scoured by the brownish-red sands of Mesa Roja. It has been handled so many times and by so many unkind fingers that the envelope is crinkled, worn and brittle. Unfolding it, grains of sand fall out and spill onto the ground, the faint stench of tobacco filling the air.

The letter itself is written on a piece of cheap parchment in silvery graphite. The hand-writing is a fluid, spidery scrawl, the cursive letters seeming like a river carving its way across the page. There is some smudged evidence of several words being erased and rewritten.]

Dear Mr. King,

Can’t rightly recall your name at the moment, but I reckon you’ll know that this letter’s meant for you once you get to reading it, all the same. You seem like a smart man.

Strange as it may seem, I figured I'd apologize for shooting you, even though I suspect you'd agree it was justifiable, given the circumstances. It was an unlucky thing that we came across each other on that island, and I tend to not be too terrible of a shot. You have my genuine condolences for that, mister.

That being established, I'm sure you know that I ain't only writing to you to offer an apology. Since we last exchanged words... and bullets, I'd say I've come to learn quite a few interesting things about these Crossroads. You might also be surprised to learn that I value civility and pleasantries as much as the next man, when there's the occasion for it, and I wanted to invite you for a nice sit-down over drinks, if it would please you. Whenever I make it out your way, in any event.

You ever been in a saloon, partner? Don't reckon that'd be the kind of place a king such as yourself would visit often. Might be a novel experience, I guess.

Yours truly,
Arthur Morgan
 

Gilgamesh

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[After what must've been many months, a letter finally arrives. The courier dressed in the royal colors of the Babylonian court, a satchel attached to his hip. He pulls a letter out and hands it over. A dollop of wax sealed the envelope together, a symbol of a lion carefully placed in the center. The courier hands the letter and promptly leaves.

The paper was a pristine white, with a silky feel to the paper itself. The writing was in cursive, with each letter seemingly hand-selected. This was too much effort for a busy King. It was likely done by a notetaker writing what Gilgamesh was dictating. Inside the envelope was a small golden key.]


To the esteemed Arthur Morgan,

I am tickled by your letter! Never before has someone apologized for so brutally murdering me. While I do sincerely appreciate the apology, I have come to understand that there cannot be any hard feelings when it comes to Karl's game. I, after all, was trying to stab you. I am delighted to hear that you wish to continue our previous conversation, with less bloodshed on the mind. Though I must admit, I would prefer you to come without your...unsavory accomplice.

I have quite the selection of liquor from us to peruse if you so desire. However I may be amenable to drink at a saloon, provided it supplies only the highest quality of alcohol. I would be more than happy to arrange such a festivity, at your earliest convenience.

The key that I am now entrusting in your care, serves as a guide and key to Uruk. I truly hope that I see you soon.

Sincerely,
Gilgamesh, King of Babylonia.
 

Arthur Morgan

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[A worn and battered envelope arrives in the mail with the returning courier, its edges frayed and stained with what appears to be rusty, dried blood. Dark dirt coats its surface, making it look like it has been unearthed from a grave. The material is crumpled and faintly greyish-yellow, the result of being exposed to moisture for far too long. Opening it, one is met with a familiar sight: the same pristine white paper that Gilgamesh once used, folded crudely in the opposite direction, now marred by Arthur Morgan's spidery handwriting on the back.

This time, the letter itself is written in grey, faded graphite. The handwriting is reminiscent of Arthur's usual cursive scrawl, but hastily composed, the words bolting jaggedly across the silken page. There is less evidence of erasures and revisions being made, as if the writer had little time to pen their missive.]


Dear Mr. Mesh,

I'd ask you to be more specific about which unsavory accomplice you referred to in your last letter, getting down to particulars, but I reckon I know the one.

Maybe a saloon ain't to your taste. I figure they wouldn't serve the kind of liquor you prefer. Though I'm afraid I'll be tied up for some time anyhow. Have you ever crossed paths with a General Althaus? I've been living on his ship for a good while now, but we're on a moon these days.

You ever been to a moon? It's awful cold, on a moon.

I appreciate the key. I'll take real good care of it until such a time that I can visit your place. With any luck, it's warmer than this damn moon.

Yours truly,
Arthur Morgan

[A second page is folded inside the envelope behind the first, tucked in with tender care, familiar in its inexpensive quality. On the folded paper, a skilled hand has traced the outline of an Appaloosa horse in soft graphite, its spotted coat rendered in perfect detail along its flank. It stands proudly next to a simple, broken-off wooden fence, surrounded by a field of tiny wildflowers, each bloom sketched with just enough components to be discernible as different species. In the background, rugged plateaus and wispy clouds complete the quaint, picturesque scene.]
 
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