#rdr2 rp

[red-dead-muses]

(Slaps cheese on Dylan's face)

Dylan gobbles it up, practically inhaling. I don't think he even really tasted it

[red-dead-muses]

(non canon) DYlan! Look, a giant cheese stick! *gives Dylan a surprise rabies shot*

❝...What the fuck was that.❞

[red-dead-muses]

YO DYLAN

*throws a cool stick*

fetch?

[doves-rpfinder]

Hi everyone! 22F 🍀 looking for some partners for the following fandoms

ALL WRITERS AND CHARACTERS TO BE 18+

My writing style is literate / mirroring. I’m a big fan of angst, drama and romance within roleplays. I love being able to talk ooc with partners and fangirl over our plots and characters.

I’m looking for the following fandoms. I am looking to do OC x CC pairs and I am down to double.

House of the Dragon

Red Dead Redemption 2

Hannibal NBC

If you’re interested, like this or send me a message on discord

DISCORD: Dead0fwrit3

.

[red-dead-muses]

[Huron was having a....well a horrible night, to be quite honest, he was shaky and anxious and sad. He slipped out of bed, wondering if he should take a walk but went to the boys room, it was around 1 so all of them were asleep, Dylan doing his usual twitching, Johnnie cuddled up to Fang and Oliver sleeping on his back, he ended up just....staring, for a while, for some long moments, of the three beds, the far right one unused because the boys insist on sleeping as close together as they comfortably can

Huron walked softly over, sitting down between the two beds, resting his head on the bed that Johnnie and Oliver were sleeping on, but still looking at all of them, his three boys.

He never thought he'd live to see the day he'd get married, let alone be a father and brother

His eyes closed and soon enough he ended up asleep, sitting on the floor]

{Johnnie woke up maybe 20 minutes after Huron came in the room and he looked around, he didn't want to bother the others but he couldn't help but sit up and look at his father

He looked exhausted}

Oliver felt the shift and his eyes slowly opened; a stark contrast to when he first joined the family, when his eyes popped open, scared to death. He saw Johnnie sitting up and rubbing his eyes sleepily. Ehst was happening??

He followed his brothers gaze, seeing their Dad sitting, asleep.... so.. tired... he frowned and gently slid down the bed to crawl up next to Huron.

Dylan was still asleep on the far side, twitching and even giving little snarls in his sleep, a bad dream having hold.

[mk-scrawlings]

Interest on a Hundred Dollars

The courthouse had never felt so small.

Ryan Walker had spent the better part of thirty years standing in rooms like this. He had watched killers sentenced to the gallows and horse thieves granted the mercy of a second chance. He had testified in trials that stretched for grueling days, watched juries deliberate until their eyes were bloodshot at dawn, and listened to grieving families beg judges for a brand of justice that no gavel could truly provide. Through every verdict, the righteous and the bitter alike, he had believed in the process. It was imperfect, often frustratingly slow, but it was the only thing that separated civilization from the howling chaos of the frontier. 

Today, for the first time in his life, Ryan questioned whether that belief had been a fool's errand.

The courtroom was stagnant, the air thick with the smell of old paper and floor wax. The judge's voice was a measured, rhythmic drone, reading from a stack of legal documents with a detachment that felt like a secondary assault. The words drifted through the room like cold smoke, formal and clinical, stripped of every ounce of humanity by the precision of legal Latin and statute numbers. Ryan heard every sentence, every citation. He understood precisely what the legal architecture was building toward.

He wished, with a sudden and violent ache, that he were an ignorant man.

Athena sat in the front row beside Hank. Her face was a ghost of its former self, hidden behind a damp handkerchief clutched in hands that wouldn't stop trembling. Weeks had passed since the funeral, yet she carried the sallow, translucent look of someone who had forgotten how to sleep. Beside her, Hank stared straight ahead, his jaw locked so tightly that the muscles beneath his beard twitched in a rhythmic, pained pulse. Neither of them looked toward the evidence table. It had been draped in a white cloth before court convened, a mercy of the court that felt like a burial.

Ryan had noticed. He had also noticed that the prosecutor had kept the photographs hidden. Even now, they sat beneath that cloth in the center of the room, an unspoken ghost that no one dared acknowledge.

No one had spoken his grandchild's name aloud during the trial. Not once. Instead, the lawyers referred only to "the deceased minor." The words were sterile, sharp as scalpels, and they cut Ryan deeper than any blade ever had.

"...the Court finds insufficient evidence to support the charge of malicious intent."

Ryan remained perfectly still, his breath held in his lungs like a secret.

"...while the defendant's actions were reckless beyond measure..."

Still.

"...the burden required for the original indictment has not been met."

Still.

The prosecutor lowered his eyes. Ryan knew the man, they had shared coffee on trail rides and whiskey in saloons for years. He was a man of integrity, a relentless seeker of facts. He had fought for every witness, every scrap of blood-stained evidence. It simply had not been enough to overcome the cold machinery of the law.

"The Court therefore enters judgment on the lesser offense."

A soft, jagged gasp escaped Athena. It was the sound of a heart finally giving up.

The judge continued, his voice never wavering. "The defendant is hereby sentenced to sixty days confinement in county jail and assessed a monetary fine of one hundred dollars."

One hundred dollars. Ryan repeated the number in the silence of his mind.

The sum echoed with a mocking absurdity. It was the price of a sturdy wagon wheel. A shipment of fine flour. A decent starter horse. That was the value the state had placed on the light of their lives.

The courtroom fell into a deathly, ringing quiet. The defendant exhaled, a subtle almost imperceptible sound, but Ryan caught it. It wasn't quite relief; it was the smug certainty of a man who realized he had cheated the hangman.

Ryan finally looked at him. The man was young, his life still stretching comfortably ahead of him. He was well-dressed, freshly shaved, and leaning in to catch a whispered word from his lawyer that looked sickeningly like a congratulation. Ryan felt... nothing. Not the hot flare of anger or the sharp sting of hatred. It was a cold, clinical awareness. He realized that this man would eventually walk beneath the same sun as all of them again and breathe the same mountain air.

The judge asked if anyone wished to speak. Athena didn't move. Hank simply placed a steady, heavy hand over hers.

Ryan remained standing, his hat pressed against his chest, his Marshal's coat as crisp as the morning he'd pinned the star to it. Every instinct of his soul urged him to scream, to object, to demand blood for blood…but there was no argument left. The law had spoken, and the law was final.

"Marshal Walker?" The bailiff's voice was a soft intrusion.

Ryan blinked, the room coming back into focus. "You all right, sir?"

He met the younger man's eyes and gave a single, practiced nod. "Yes." His voice was a surprise to him, steady and even, devoid of the tectonic shift happening inside him. "I am."

The lie passed without challenge.

Outside, the afternoon sun hung high over Blackwater. It was a beautiful day, a cruel indifference from the heavens. Children chased one another across the dusty street while merchants called out prices from beneath shaded awnings of docks. Wagons rattled over the packed earth and cobbled streets, and from a nearby cafe a guitar played a cheerful, lazy tune.

The world simply continued on.

Ryan descended the courthouse steps, Athena leaning heavily against his arm. She didn't cry until they reached the wagon. The sound that escaped her then was unlike anything Ryan had heard in his long career of witnessing tragedy. It wasn't a sob; it was a collapse, the sound of someone who had spent their last ounce of strength just to remain upright.

He wrapped a protective arm around his daughter and held her. Over her shoulder, his eyes wandered back toward the courthouse doors.

The defendant emerged moments later. He was laughing quietly with his attorney before climbing into a waiting jailhouse wagon. He never once looked toward Walker or the Vanderhuges. Perhaps he lacked the courage. Perhaps, more accurately and more chillingly, he simply didn't care.

Ryan watched until the wagon disappeared around a corner. Then he helped Athena into her own seat, climbed onto the driver's bench beside Hank, and flicked the reins. No one spoke during the long, hollow ride home.

-=====-

Life resumed because the world has little patience for grief.

Within days, Ryan was back in the saddle. He tracked horse rustlers across the Scarlett Meadows, mediated land disputes outside Rhodes, and escorted federal prisoners across the Dakota River. His reports remained immaculate. His arrests were surgical. Fellow Marshals complimented his composure, remarking that hardship had only sharpened his professionalism.

Ryan thanked them with a practiced, polite smile.

Every evening, he returned home, hung his coat by the door, and washed the trail dust from his hands. He smiled at supper. He bounced his surviving grandchild on his knee. Some nights, he even managed to laugh at the stories Hank told. It was a performance so convincing that, after a few weeks, the townsfolk stopped looking at him with pity. They believed he was healing.

Ryan knew better.

Sleep was a stranger. When it came it came in fragments, always ending with the judge's voice echoing in the dark. Sixty days. One hundred dollars. The words were carved into the inside of his skull.

One evening, after the house had gone silent, Ryan unlocked the desk he was using and removed the trial transcript. He read every page. Every objection. Every testimony. When he reached the end, he closed the folder and sat in the dark for an hour before extinguishing the lamp.

The following night, he did the same. And the night after that.

Eventually, he stopped reading the whole file. He turned directly to the final page. To the sentence. He stared at those numbers until the sun began to grey the horizon.

The next morning, before dawn had broken over the Heartlands, Ryan saddled his horse and rode out alone. He told no one where he was going. He told himself he only wanted to see where the man lived. Nothing more.

-=====-

Ryan never admitted to himself that he had begun following the man. He preferred smaller lies.

If his duties carried him through Valentine, it cost him little to ride past the hotel where the man had taken a room after he served his time, and if a prisoner needed transporting through the Heartlands, there was no harm in stopping for a drink at the same saloon where the man played cards most evenings. The Union was not so large that two men could not cross paths by coincidence, and Ryan had spent enough years chasing criminals to know the difference between observation and obsession.

Well, he believed that for a while anyway.

The weeks drifted by with an almost insulting normalcy. Summer settled over the territory, bringing long evenings filled with insects and the smell of dry grass. Merchants argued over prices, trains continued to arrive on schedule, ranchers complained about wolves attacking their herds, and the Marshal Service buried Ryan beneath a steady procession of ordinary work. He arrested cattle rustlers outside Emerald Ranch, escorted witnesses to Blackwater's Courthouse, and recovered a shipment of stolen rifles before they had the opportunity to disappeared across the boarder. Every report he submitted was as meticulous as those he had written for years.

His fellow Marshals remarked that it was good to see him throwing himself back into the work.

The man had resumed his life with terrifying ease. Ryan had expected to see shame, or at least a haunted look in the man's eyes. Instead, he found someone who laughed loudly at the saloon and complained to anyone who would listen about the "inconvenience" of his sixty days in jail.

One afternoon, Ryan watched from the Sheriff's office porch as the man knelt to scratch a stray dog's ears, tossing it a scrap of jerky with a kind smile.

The gesture haunted Ryan. How could a man show kindness to a beast while leaving a family hollowed out? Was evil truly this ordinary? Had he spent his career chasing monsters, only to find that they looked exactly like everyone else?

The question followed him home, where his surviving grandchild, Jonah, climbed into his lap. The boy chattered about fishing and showed Ryan a "lucky" river stone. Ryan listened with a heavy heart, smiling in all the right places.

Before climbing down, Jonah wrapped his small arms around Ryan's neck. "I miss them," he whispered into Ryan's shoulder.

Ryan closed his eyes, the weight of the badge on his chest feeling like a lead weight. "So do I."

That night, the discipline that had carried Ryan through thirty years of service finally snapped. He sat at his desk, staring at the silver star hanging beside his hat. For decades, a badge represented the belief that no man had the right to be judge, jury, and executioner. Civilization depended on restraint. The law was imperfect, but it was all they had.

He still believed those things. That was the tragedy. The law had functioned exactly as it was designed, and yet, a child was in the dirt while the man responsible was tossing jerky to dogs. The road of the law had ended. If justice was to continue, someone had to build a new path.

-=====-

The route wound through a lonely stretch of woodland between Valentine and O'Creagh's Run, a place where the trees grew so thick they seemed to swallow the sound of the world. Ryan didn't hide in the brush. He sat his horse directly in the center of the trail, a silent iron-grey statue framed by the dying light.

He hadn't chosen this place by accident. He knew the man's habits, his schedule, and the exact moment his wagon would crest the rise.

He reached into his coat and withdrew the folded drawing, a paper with four stick figures beneath a charcoal sun where five should have been. He didn't look at it. He simply felt the weight of it in his palm, a small, paper anchor keeping him from drifting away.

When the rhythmic clack-thud of the wagon finally approached, Ryan didn't move.

The man pulled back on the reins, the heavy wooden brake groaning as the wagon slowed to a stop a few feet away. He didn't smile this time. He looked at the silver star on Ryan's chest, then at the empty road behind him. He was a man who had narrowly escaped a noose, and he lived with the twitchy, high-strung nerves of the lucky.

"Marshal," the man said, his voice tight. He kept his hands visible on the reins, a survival instinct kicking in. "Something wrong with the road?"

Ryan didn't answer. He dismounted with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had done it ten thousand times. He didn't draw his weapon, but he didn't leave the center of the trail. He began walking toward the wagon, his spurs clicking rhythmically against the hard-packed dirt, a countdown in metal.

"I'm done with the law, Walker," the man called out, his voice rising an octave, trembling with a mixture of bravado and burgeoning terror. "The judge ruled.. I served my time and paid my fines. You got no cause to stop me."

Ryan kept coming. He wasn't reaching for his gun yet, which was more terrifying. He was just... coming.

The man reached for a hunting rifle propped against the seat, his movements frantic and clumsy. "I'll tell 'em! I'll tell the Sheriff you're harrassin' me! I'm a free man!"

"You are," Ryan said. The two words were flat, devoid of heat, sounding more like a court ruling than a threat.

The man's hand froze inches from the rifle. He looked into Ryan's eyes and finally saw it—not the Marshal, but the grandfather. The lawman's mask hadn't just slipped; it had been discarded in the dirt miles back. The realization hit the man like a physical blow, draining the color from his face until he looked like a corpse already.

"You... you can't," the man stammered, shrinking back against the bench. "You're a Marshal. You're the law."

Ryan stopped at the edge of the wagon wheel. He looked up, and for a second, he didn't see the coward in the seat. He saw a white cloth in a silent courtroom. He felt the vibration of Athena's broken sobs against his chest. He heard the price of a wagon wheel echoing in a judge's indifferent voice.

"I already did everything I was supposed to do," Ryan said, his voice scarcely louder than the wind moving through the pines. "I gave the law its turn."

The man scrambled to throw the wagon into gear, his hands shaking so violently he dropped the reins then lunged for the rifle again, a desperate animal flail for survival.

But Ryan was faster. He had spent years being faster.

He didn't feel the surge of adrenaline he usually felt during an arrest. He didn't feel the righteous spark of duty. He simply felt a cold, hollow necessity. He knew that what happened next would not bring the laughter back to his house. It would not heal his daughter. It would only finish the job the court had been too weak to complete.

As his hand closed around the grip of his sidearm, Ryan Walker, the man who believed in the process, the man who separated civilization from chaos, finally stepped off the map. Again, he knew that what happened next wouldn't bring his grandchild back. It wouldn't heal Athena. It would simply destroy what was left of his own soul.

He knew that. And still, he reached for his holster.

-=====-

The investigation remained open for months.

Marshal Ryan Walker assisted with the case whenever he was asked. He reviewed the reports, interviewed the few witnesses who had heard a distant shot, and followed every lead with the quiet professionalism that had defined his life. No one questioned him. No one suspected the man with the silver star.

Eventually, the trail went cold, buried beneath the dust of newer crimes and the file was closed.

Ryan continued to wear the badge. He continued to protect the Union. He still told young deputies that the law was the only thing holding the world together.

But every morning, as he fastened that silver star above his heart, he felt its weight a little more. He understood the terrible secret of the frontier: The law hadn't failed on that lonely road outside Valentine. It had failed weeks earlier, in a crowded room full of lawyers and logic, when a good man was told that his grief was only worth a hundred dollars.

Everything that followed was just the interest being paid.

[red-dead-muses]

𓃦

Crappy dylan doodle. I plan to do actual artwork for him coming up, just be patient xD

[red-dead-muses]

𓃦Dylan song!

You can't tell me this song isn't Dylan with his old gang, and with the devil