If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Caleb ate it with relish, his high stats demanding fuel after the imnse exertion of the ambush, the Dead Eye usage, and the long ride back. Every bite tasted like a small victory. After he finished, wiping his plate clean with the last piece of bread, he went upstairs to take a bath to clean himself up. The copper tub was already filled with steaming water, scented faintly with cedar oil.
He stripped off his clothes, placing his twin Navy Revolvers carefully on the side table, and sank into the scalding water. He let the heat draw the soreness from his muscles, washing away the gri, the gunpowder residue, and the dried blood that wasn't his own. He scrubbed himself ticulously, shedding the persona of the ruthless mob enforcer for a few quiet monts.
Once clean and dried, he walked into the main bedroom. It was a massive, opulent space, dominated by a huge, four poster bed draped in fine silk and heavy velvet.
He climbed in and slept on the luxurious bed previously owned by Guido Martelli, which was now his by right of conquest. The irony wasn't lost on him, but he was too exhausted to dwell on it. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep instantly.
When he woke up, the sunlight filtering through the heavy drapes told him it was already afternoon. The house was quiet, the staff moving with silent efficiency below. Caleb felt completely restored, his stamina and health cores fully regenerated by the system's underlying chanics and the deep rest.
He got out of bed and prepared himself for the journey. He didn't put on the fancy charcoal suits of the Underboss this ti.
Instead, he goes to the wardrobe and opened it to see many types of clothes, before he choose a rugged, reliable trail gear, a dark leather vest over a clean Henley shirt, sturdy denim trousers, reinforced riding boots with silver spurs, and a fresh, dark duster coat to ward off the wind.
He strapped his gun belts low on his hips, ensuring his Navy Revolvers were fully loaded and the chanisms oiled. He slung his Litchfield Repeater over his shoulder, the familiar weight a comforting anchor.
Before then, he grabbed his worn leather hat, settling it low over his eyes, and got outside. He walked down the steps to the courtyard, where the stable boy, Marco, had already brought Morgan out for him. The mare was brushed until her coat shone, a fresh saddle blanket beneath her tack, and she looked well-fed and rested.
"She's a beautiful horse, Signor," Marco said, holding the reins respectfully.
"She knows it, Marco. Thank you," Caleb replied, slipping the boy another coin.
Caleb got on Morgan, adjusting his grip on the reins. He took one last look at his sprawling Saint Denis estate, the physical monunt to his manipulation of the city's underworld, and then turned his horse's head toward the open road.
Caleb began his ride out to the northwest, leaving the soot, the politics, and the blood of Saint Denis behind him. He was heading back to the hidden hostead west of Valentine.
The journey out of the city was a stark, almost jarring transition from the suffocating grip of civilization back into the wild. He rode past the northern factories, the smoke stacks belching grey clouds into the sky, until the cobblestones gave way to packed dirt, and the towering brick buildings were replaced by the thick, weeping willows and cypress trees of the swamps.
He passed through the swamps of Bayou Nwa first. The air here was heavy, humid, and slled of rot and blooming orchids. The muddy tracks were treacherous, winding around murky pools of water where the unblinking eyes of alligators watched him pass.
The sounds of the city were completely replaced by the deafening chorus of bullfrogs, cicadas, and the occasional shriek of a heron taking flight.
Caleb rode with his Perception high, constantly scanning the Spanish moss for Night Folk or rogue Lemoyne Raiders, but the swamps were relatively quiet today, granting him safe passage.
As he pushed further northwest, the terrain began to rise, the muddy waters giving way to firr, rocky soil. He rode for hours, the rhythmic clopping of Morgan's hooves lulling him into a state of deep reflection.
He thought about the colossal board he had set up. Bronte was sitting in his mansion, thinking he had crippled his greatest rival. Cornwall was likely tearing up his private riverboat in a blind rage, marshaling his Pinkertons and guards to burn Saint Denis to the ground.
They were two massive gears grinding against each other, completely unaware of the wrench Caleb had thrown between them.
And while they bled each other dry, the Van der Linde gang remained entirely off their radar, safe in the heartlands, completely oblivious to the shadow war Caleb was waging to secure their future.
The environnt continued to shift as the afternoon sun began to dip lower in the sky. He passed through the region of Ringneck Creek. The dense, oppressive canopy of the swamp opened up slightly, revealing a picturesque, babbling creek cutting through a verdant forest of pine and oak.
The air was fresher here, cooler, carrying the scent of pine needles and damp earth instead of stagnant water. He let Morgan pause for a mont to drink from the clear, running water of the creek, the quiet serenity of the woods a balm to his violent recent past.
Pressing on, the elevation increased further, the trees thinning out as he navigated the rocky paths. He passed Dewberry Creek next, the dried, rocky riverbed a stark reminder of the changing geography. The terrain here was scrubbier, the dirt taking on a reddish hue, the hills rolling gently upward.
Finally, as the evening began to set in, painting the sky in breathtaking strokes of purple, orange, and gold, Caleb breached the final crest of the tree line.
He was welcod by the vast, breathtaking expanse of the Heartlands of New Hanover.
The claustrophobia of the swamps and the suffocating stone canyons of Saint Denis vanished instantly, replaced by an endless sea of rolling green grasslands stretching out as far as the eye could see.
The wind swept freely across the plains, rustling the tall grass like waves on an ocean. In the distance, the Twin Stack Pass stood like ancient sentinels, and the faint, twinkling lights of Valentine could just be seen on the horizon.
Caleb pulled Morgan to a halt for a brief mont, simply sitting in the saddle and taking a deep breath of the crisp, clean prairie air. This was where he belonged. Not in the velvet lined parlors of mob bosses, but out here, under the massive, unbroken sky.
But as beautiful as the Heartlands were, his mind imdiately snapped back to the dark task awaiting him at the end of his journey. Hidden away in the cellar of their remote hostead, far from the light of the setting sun, was the man who had nearly destroyed them all.
Dutch.
Caleb spurred Morgan forward, picking up the pace as they rode across the sweeping plains. He had been away for over a week. He had orchestrated the downfall of empires, but the true test of his long ga lay waiting in the dark.
He needed to know if the slow, thodical poisoning had worked. He needed to know if the potassium bromide had finally broken the mind and body of Dutch van der Linde, stripping away the dangerous charisma and the silver tongue that had chard so many to their doom.
He needed to know if the ghost in the basent had finally faded into a harmless, babbling shell, or if he would have to take more direct, fatal asures to ensure the gang's safety.
The ride across the Heartlands was fast, the miles burning away beneath Morgan's flying hooves. As the stars began to prick through the darkening sky, Caleb finally saw the familiar silhouette of the hidden hostead tucked away in the isolated ridge west of Valentine, completely concealed from the main roads.
He had returned. And it was ti to finally look his captive demon in the eye.
As he ride Morgan to enter into the hostead, the familiar outlines of the farm buildings erged from the twilight. The air here wasn't thick with coal smoke or the cloying perfu of mob bosses; it slled of turned earth, woodsmoke, and the clean sweat of honest labor.
Charles and Javier, who was on guard duty near the concealed entrance, saw him approach. They lowered their repeaters, recognizing the silhouette of the rider and his horse imdiately. They greeted him with a smile for his return, after all, he have been gone for so long, and his presence always brought a sense of absolute security to the splintered gang.
Caleb stopped Morgan from riding, pulling back gently on the reins. He returned their greeting, his posture relaxing fractionally from the rigid tension he had held in Saint Denis. He asked them, "How is it at the farmstead while I was gone?"
Javier walked up, clapping a hand on Morgan's neck. He responded by saying, "It's been going well, hermano. We haven't just been sitting around. They have been planting so crops, corn and so root vegetables out back. And also buy so more chickens for eggs." Javier turned and pointed toward the expanded barn structure. "They also buy so cattles and goats. We're looking like real farrs now, Caleb."
Caleb nodded his head at that, genuinely pleased. Building a self sustaining ecosystem was crucial for their long term survival off the grid. He then asked, "How about the guard job at my restaurant in Valentine? Any trouble?"
Hearing that, Charles stepped forward, his face serious but calm. "No trouble. Sean and Lenny are usually the one who took the job. They like the town, and they like the free als. And their pay was given half to the group's lockbox, just like we agreed. It's keeping us flush. It's working out well as well. The town respects the muscle, and nobody asks too many questions about where they co from."
Caleb nodded his head to that. It was good that the younger n had a purpose that didn't involve robbing trains. He says, "Good. I will go in now, to talk with Arthur and Hosea."
He waved his hand to them as he ride inside the periter, leaving the guards to their watch.
He navigated Morgan past the main house and hitched her to the hitching post near the water trough. As he patted Morgan, checking her flanks and unbuckling the heavy saddle girth, suddenly he was hugged from behind.
Soft arms wrapped tightly around his waist, and the faint, sweet scent of lavender and old paper hit his senses. He knew instantly that it was Mary-Beth. The tension that had been coiled tight in his chest since he left Saint Denis finally, completely unravelled.
He turned within her embrace and kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I'm back," he said simply, the two words holding a universe of aning.
Mary-Beth's muffled voice could be heard against his chest, welcoming him back ho. "You were gone so long," she murmured, her grip tightening as if she feared he might vanish into smoke if she let go.
To which then Mary-Beth looked up at Caleb with a bright, relieved smile that reached her eyes. Caleb tighten his hug on her, pulling her close for a long mont, simply anchoring himself in the reality of her presence. She was the reason the rivers of blood were flowing in the east.
Before then, his mind snapped back to the grim necessity of his return. He leaned his head down, so his lips were practically brushing her ear, and he asked her in a low voice, barely a whisper, "How is Dutch's condition in the basent?"
Mary-Beth, hearing that, was a bit surprised by the sudden, dark shift in conversation. The joy in her eyes clouded over with a shadow of unease. She glanced around the yard nervously before then says in a low, conspiratorial voice what she knew.
"I... I heard Reverend Swanson talking," she whispered, her hands resting flat against his chest. "She heard Reverend Swanson says to Arthur and Hosea yesterday that Dutch's condition is worsening."
Caleb kept his face perfectly still, his heart thumping a steady rhythm. "Worsening how?"
"It's strange," Mary-Beth continued, shivering slightly despite the warm evening air. "He said it's like his mind and body is turning rigid and weird. Like soone who lost control of his own body. He isn't raging anymore. He doesn't yell about plans or mangoes or Pinkertons. And he have beco much more weaker and weaker. He can barely stand when Swanson brings him his als."
Caleb, hearing that, felt a surge of cold, absolute triumph. The potassium bromide was doing exactly what he had calculated it would do. It was breaking the neural pathways, inducing a severe, debilitating lethargy and cognitive decline. It was erasing the charismatic monster and leaving only a broken shell.
...
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 - 50x50x50)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 2)
- Leadership (Lvl 2)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 250,992 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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