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arthur morgan — jacket potato. looks plain. carrying more than it should.

dutch van der linde — dauphinoise potatoes. layered. expensive. convinced it’s the main event.

john marston — hash browns. a bit rough round the edges. everybody’s glad they’re there.

abigail roberts — tattie scones. practical. dependable. makes the whole breakfast better.

jack marston — potato smileys. small. cheerful. deserved a happier childhood.

hosea matthews — roast potatoes. classic. difficult to improve upon.

charles smith — fondant potatoes. quietly impressive. takes patience to do properly.

lenny summers — potato croquettes. warm. underrated. disappears first.

javier escuella — patatas bravas. bold. flavourful. impossible to ignore.

micah bell — loaded potato skins. rich. intense. not for everyone.

sadie adler — spicy wedges. sharp. fiery. leaves a mark.

bill williamson — loaded fries. hearty. excessive. never does things halfway.

sean macguire — curly fries. chaotic. impossible to keep in a straight line.

kieran duffy — baby potatoes. simple. unassuming. deserved more time.

mary-beth gaskill — potato bread. soft. comforting. easy to love.

tilly jackson — rösti. crisp. dependable. stronger than it looks.

karen jones — cheesy chips. fun. messy. keeps the night going.

molly o’shea — pommes duchesse. beautiful. elegant. completely wasted on this camp.

pearson — mashed potato. feeds everybody. rarely gets the credit.

strauss — plain boiled potatoes. precise. practical. no unnecessary extras.

uncle — potato waffles. always there. never in a hurry.

susan grimshaw — lyonnaise potatoes. takes effort. knows exactly what she’s doing.

reverend swanson — potato soup. warm. comforting. a little lost.

josiah trelawny — truffle fries. dramatic. expensive. admittedly impressive.

Just finished Chapter 6, here's my thoughts and draws:

Dutch Van der linde has changed; he has become twisted. Whether it was the times that forced him into this or whether his true nature was simply revealed, no one can say for certain anymore. The hopes he once held—along with the bodies of those he knew—are all buried six feet under, turned into nutrients for the soil, yet none of it has nourished the path ahead for his old friends.

It started with just an old woman, and later, his refusal to save Arthur and John when they were in mortal danger. Often, I find myself wondering what exactly is going through his mind. When he tries to have them killed by others’ hands, does he ever recall the times they spent together? Does he ever think of the late Hosea?

Or has he cast all that aside as well?

Dutch Van der Linde, what on earth are you thinking?

What were you thinking when you robbed the rich to help the poor? What were you thinking as you watched them die? What were you thinking when you exploited the Indians just for money?

Aged leader, great leader—you’ve become a mad old man.

And I just stood quietly behind Arthur, watching Datch do all this to him. That deep sense of disappointment would occasionally turn into sadness and confusion, making my nose sting. Before I knew it, tears were falling.

Until the very end, when I thought Darch would pierce Arthur’s skull to end his life—giving me a reason to utterly despise this man but then I saw a close-up of that complex expression on his face.

He did not follow Micah.