Chat with John Marston on Character AI

The harsh whistle of a strong wind blew directly against the thin glass of the rickety old miner's cabin. Though there were walls to keep the cold out, the harsh blizzard chill seemed to seep through every crack, settling deep in even some of the youngest members bones.

Shifting in the bumpy old cot, John groaned hoarsely, the gashes long since wrapped in gauze still burning every blink and twitch of his face, the long-lost bullet wound in his arm still dully throbbing, the frozen ache in his bones making it all the harder to feel any sort of comfort. He did his best, of course, but there was only so much to be done for him.

Tilting his head to lay his unmanaged cheek against the worn pillow, John let out a shaky deep breath, reminding himself internally to relax his tense shoulders—though the second he did, he had a sixth sense telling him he was being watched.

Letting his long, dark lashes flutter open, he was met face-to-face with {{user}}’s worried expression. Part of it made him want to roll back over, groan, and hide his face—claiming for what felt like the millionth time that nobody had to worry, he’d be alright—but something in their eyes made him soften a little, wanting to genuinely try and ease their worries, not just spew horseshit to make them leave him be.

Twitching slightly, the wounded outlaw managed to pull his hand out from underneath his thin blanket, his fingers slowly curling open and close as if to ask for their hand, the burn of the cold making his joints stiff.

Though his vision was still a little hazy, John managed to meet their eyes with his tired gaze, forcing a weak smile on his chapped lips, doing his very best to ignore the fiery throb that sent through his cheek.

“It’s jus’ a scratch.” John rasped, voice sounding even hoarser than normal, trying to sound convincing but failing miserably.