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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Caleb looked at the leaving back of the man, watching him until he turned the corner. Morgan at this ti snorted loudly, shaking her mane, and let out several sharp neighs. She stepped sideways, nudging Caleb's shoulder with her nose forcefully.
"The audacity!" the translation filtered through Caleb's mind. "He didn't even acknowledge I was here until the end, and then it was just 'fine horse.' Fine! I am magnificent! I am 1,200 pounds of majestic muscle, I am the finest horse in this entire filthy city and he says fine, and that little greased back human didn't even say goodbye! How rude!"
Caleb of course understood her aning perfectly. He patted her neck, soothing the indignation radiating from the animal.
"I know, girl, I know, You are magnificent." Caleb said, his voice full of mock sympathy. "So people just have no class. Saying sassily how rude this man is not saying goodbye to her as well... honestly, the manners in this town are going to the dogs."
He looked into her dark, intelligent eyes. "You have to know that only I could understand what you are saying in this world," Caleb whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. "To everyone else, you're just a horse. To ? You're a queen."
Morgan just snorted, blowing warm air into his face. "Flattery will get you nowhere," she seed to say, though she leaned into his touch. "Whatever. I doesn't care as long as you took care of like usual. Feed , brush , and don't let the bad n shoot at . Everything will be fine for you."
Caleb just chuckles, shaking his head at the creature's pragmatic narcissism. "Deal. I'll make it up to you."
"You always do," she conceded, nudging his shoulder. "That's why I tolerate you."
He smiled, a genuine expression that softened the hard edges of his face, then he said his goodbye, giving her a final pat before hitching her to hitching post near the entrance.
Caleb then entered into the Bastille. The heat and noise of the saloon washed over him, but he bypassed the bar this ti. He gave a brief nod to Ezra, who was busy mixing drinks, and headed straight for the staircase.
He goes to his room upstairs, his boots heavy on the steps. He unlocked his door and stepped into the sanctuary of his rented room. He stripped off his coat, his gun belt, and his vest, feeling the weight of the day slide off him.
He goes to have a good sleep. He needed it. Tomorrow was going to be theater.
As he lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling where the shadows danced from the streetlights outside, his mind began to race. Tomorrow he will be eting with Bronte and discussing a very important ambush on the docks for Cornwall's n.
He would have to invent troop movents, supply lines, and tactical vulnerabilities for an enemy force that haven't arrived yet to the city, prowling outside.
He was escalating this conflict between the two sides even further. Every lie he told Bronte was a shovel digging a deeper grave for the Italian mobster.
Every report he forged was a nail in the coffin of Cornwall's operations. Cornwall's rcenaries would die on the docks, Bronte would feel triumphant, and the Van der Linde gang, far away in their peaceful hostead, would remain invisible, irrelevant, safe.
A small, dark smile played on Caleb's lips.
He was thinking of the reaction Bronte actually have when he found out his specialist he hired, the dreaded Ferris, the man Caleb had supposedly "neutralized", was already dead. Not just neutralized, but assassinated by Caleb himself, days ago, right under their noses.
Bronte was terrified of a ghost. He was marshaling his forces to fight an rcenary army he was manipulated to believe led by a specialist commander who actually already dead. And the only man who knew the truth was the one sleeping in the heart of his territory.
It was the ultimate inside joke. Ferris was dead. The specialist from New York had been erased in a quiet room in Annesburg, and yet, his shadow was about to tear Saint Denis apart.
The image of Ferris's face surfaced unbidden, not the man as he died, but as he had been on the train platform. Alert. Competent. A genuine threat, neutralized before he could take his first step. The man had probably had a family, or at least a life, a history. He had been good at his job.
But he had chosen the wrong employer. And the safety of a quiet hostead west of Valentine, of a woman with kind eyes and a gentle laugh, was worth more than any specialist's future.
And with that thought, wrapped in the comfort of his own competence and the thrill of the ga, Caleb goes to sleep.
The morning ca gray and humid, the typical Saint Denis prelude to another day of oppressive heat. Caleb dressed with care, his best coat, his polished boots, the two Navy Revolver freshly cleaned and loaded. He was the bounty hunter McLaughlin, a hidden trusted new right hand man to Angelo Bronte, and he needed to look the part.
He descended the stairs, nodded to Ezra, and stepped outside. Morgan was already alert, her ears forward, ready.
"Where to today?" she asked. "More skulking? More boring waiting while you talk to unpleasant n?"
"The unpleasant n first," Caleb said, swinging into the saddle. "Then, if we're lucky, maybe so apples."
"You always say that."
"And I always deliver."
She snorted, but it was a fond sound, and she stepped eagerly into the morning traffic.
They rode through the awakening city, past the flower sellers and the bread carts, past the policen yawning on corners and the Bronte soldiers already in position. The mansion gates opened at their approach, the guards nodding with familiar respect.
Enzo was waiting at the door of Bronte's mason. "Signor McLaughlin. The boss is in his study. He is... very eager."
"Good," Caleb said. "So am I, I'm also eager."
He walked through the cool, fragrant halls, his boots silent on the marble, and pushed open the doors to Bronte's inner sanctum.
The morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of the study, casting long beams across the Persian rugs. Angelo Bronte stood by the window, a silhouette of refined cruelty, before turning fully to face his guest.
Bronte's smile widened as Caleb entered, his arms spreading in that theatrical Italian gesture of welco that seed as natural as breathing to him.
"Ah, Signor McLaughlin!" Bronte exclaid, his wide open arms looks like he was welcoming a long lost brother. "It is good that you co to answer my summon so swiftly. Benvenuto, my friend."
Caleb stepped further into the room, the heavy doors clicking shut behind him. He removed his hat, holding it against his chest with a practiced humility that masked the predator beneath.
"Of course, Mr. Bronte," Caleb replied, his voice steady. "I have sworn that I will co when you call. Sono... qui per servire."
The Italian words felt foreign on his tongue, deliberately so. He had activated his Italian Language Skill, but instead of speaking with the fluency of a native Roman, he throttled the skill back. He shaped the vowels with care, pausing slightly as if searching for the right conjugation, mimicking the earnest effort of a beginner learning the language of his superior.
Bronte paused, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. He stared at Caleb for a heartbeat, and then let out a delightedly surprised laugh.
"Incredibile!" Bronte chuckled, clapping his hands together. "You speak the language of the Caesars? I didn't expect that you, Signor McLaughlin, a man of the... rugged west... could speak Italian."
Caleb offered a small, self deprecating smile. "I have been learning so basic words, Mr. Bronte. After all, I am part of your outfit now. It seed only right that I know a couple of Italian words at first so I can ingratiate myself better. I intend to learn more, to be proficient in it."
Bronte laughed out loud again, a genuine sound of pleasure that was rare for the cynicism soaked cri lord. "Magnifico! Magnifico!" he cried, walking over and patting Caleb on the shoulder. "This! This is why you are a great man, McLaughlin. You are skilled, yes, but you are smart. You are civilized. You know your place and you seek to elevate yourself."
He gestured vaguely at the door where his guards stood. "Most of these animals, they only know how to grunt and shoot. But you... you appreciate the finer things. I appreciate your effort in learning, truly. But now," Bronte's expression shifted, the mirth replaced by a cold, reptilian focus, "we should speak of other business first. The matter of language could be spoken at a later date."
Caleb nodded his head at that, his face settling into a serious mask. "I agree, Mr. Bronte. Business first."
"Co," Bronte commanded, turning on his heel. "Follow ."
He led Caleb toward a massive oak table in the center of the study. A large, detailed map of Saint Denis was already laid down there, the corners weighed down by crystal decanters and a silver cigar box. The map was marked with red and black ink, showing patrol routes, police stations, and the sprawling network of the docks.
Bronte leaned over the map, placing his manicured hands on the edge of the table. "So, McLaughlin... you should have been told by Enzo about the situation. Cornwall's rcenaries."
"I was," Caleb confird.
"They are roaming on the outside," Bronte hissed, tracing a finger along the outskirts of the city map. "Waiting to enter Saint Denis and launch their assault on the docks. They think they are wolves circling a sleeping sheep. They do not realize that their plan has already been found out, and that they have been under surveillance when they thought they were still hidden."
Caleb of course nodded his head, playing along with the narrative he himself had constructed. "Yes, I have heard, Mr. Bronte. I have confirm it myself last night. They are massing."
"Then it is ti," Bronte said, looking up with eyes that burned with anticipation. "Ti for us to create the plan of ambush. We will not just repel them; we will break them."
Caleb studied the map, his high perception stats instantly helped him highlighting choke points, lines of fire, and escape routes.
He then activated his Max Level Persuasion and Acting Skill, ensuring that his next question landed with the perfect weight of innocent concern.
"Mr. Bronte," Caleb asked, looking around the empty study. "Where is Mr. Guido Martelli? After all, he is your second in command and right hand man. His input on this matter would be very valuable, wouldn't it? As after all, he knows the city's outline and underbelly much better than I do."
Hearing Guido's na, Bronte let out a dismissive "Bah!", waving his hand as if swatting away a fly.
"Guido..." Bronte sneered, his accent thickening with disdain. "I do not have need for such incompetenza, such an incompetent man, on this eting. He is good for breaking kneecaps and frightening shopkeepers, yes. But strategy? War?"
Bronte shook his head. "No. The two of us are enough. I believe in your skill much more compared to Guido. You saw the threat before it arrived. Guido only sees the coin in front of his nose."
Caleb hearing that put on a flattered act, lowering his head slightly. "I am honored by your trust, sir."
Inwardly, however, his smile beca brighter and significantly more sinister. The wedge was driven deep. Bronte had begun alienating his second in command and right hand man, preferring a newcor to handle the most critical security matter of the year. Jealousy was a powerful poison, and Caleb was dosing Martelli with it by the gallon.
"Then shall we begin, Mr. Bronte?" Caleb asked.
"Yes, of course, please," Bronte gestured to the map. "What idea do you have, Signor McLaughlin?"
The discussion on creating an ambush for Cornwall's rcenaries on the docks began. Caleb of course planned this very seriously because the war between Cornwall and Bronte needed to continue. It needed to be bloody, expensive, and demoralizing for both sides.
"Here," Caleb said, pointing to a cluster of warehouses near the main pier. "Cornwall's n will likely co in via the rail line here, using the cargo trains as cover to infiltrate the dockyard. They'll want to secure the import warehouse to burn your stock."
"Precisely," Bronte muttered. "They want to hurt my wallet."
"So we let them in," Caleb proposed. "We leave the outer periter seemingly weak. A few guards, looking lazy. Bait."
Caleb traced a line with his finger. "We position your main force here, in the overarching gantries and the second floor of the packing house. When Cornwall's n move on the warehouse..."
"We rain fire on them," Bronte finished, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"Exactly," Caleb said. "However, to make sure they don't retreat back to the trains, soone needs to close the trap from the ground level. A vanguard force to cut off their escape and force them into the kill zone."
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Na: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life mory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- ntal Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,350 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 253,192 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, & 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern
Bank: -
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