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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And so he went to take a bath first, sinking into the scalding water, cleaning himself up and letting the heat loosen the tight muscles in his shoulders. He scrubbed the grime away, and also he meticulously shaved his stubble beard, revealing a sharp, completely clean-shaven jawline that made him look even more aristocratic and dangerous.
Before then, he adorned one of the finest suits he got from Bronte's personal tailor, a charcoal grey three piece suit with a crimson silk tie that subtly mirrored the blood he was about to spill.
He strapped his shoulder holsters on, ensuring the twin Navy Revolvers were perfectly concealed beneath his tailored jacket, yet instantly accessible, and his Litchfield and Pump Action slung across his body.
Before then, he left the mansion. He walked out the front doors and stood on the marble porch.
Marco, the young stable boy, was already present at the bottom of the steps. He was struggling slightly to hold the reins of the horse that was gifted to Caleb.
It was a magnificent, breathtaking animal. It was a completely black horse, its coat gleaming like polished obsidian in the afternoon sun, with a stark, brilliant white mane and tail that fell like silk. It was leaner and slightly smaller than Morgan, but the sheer, coiled power in its slender legs was undeniable.
Caleb walked down the steps and asked Marco what horse this is.
To which Marco responded, looking at the animal with a mixture of awe and fear. "The messenger said it is the Black Arabian. One of the most expensive horses being sold in the Saint Denis stable. It cost a small fortune, sir. But... he is very high strung. I had trouble just getting the saddle on him."
Caleb, hearing that, was surprised again. An Arabian was the ultimate status symbol for the wealthy elite. They were incredibly fast, boasting elite acceleration and handling stats, but they were notoriously skittish and difficult to bond with. Bronte was truly pulling out all the stops to buy his devotion.
Before then, he approached the horse. The Arabian immediately side stepped nervously, tossing its head and rolling its dark eyes, the whites showing clearly. It didn't like the new smells, the stone courtyard, or the unfamiliar stable boy.
But as Caleb stepped closer, his max level Horse Mastery skill immediately activated. It wasn't just a stat boost; it was a profound, instinctual connection. It allowed him to know exactly what the stallion is saying through his snorts, his sharp neighs, and also his tense body language.
The horse wasn't just nervous, he was actively calculating. He is curious, Caleb realized, feeling the psychic projection of the animal's thoughts, and also intensely not comfortable with the new environment.
The stallion shifted its weight backward, muscles bunching. It was going to attempt to escape, to rear up and rip the reins from Marco's hands to flee the confining courtyard.
But Caleb's sudden, calm presence directly in its line of sight stopped him. Caleb didn't reach out immediately. He simply stood there, projecting an aura of absolute, unshakeable calm and dominance that the horse instantly recognized.
The Arabian froze, its ears swiveling forward. It was soon surprised, as much as an animal could register surprise, that Caleb could seemingly understand what he was saying. The man wasn't approaching with fear, or with the brutal dominance of a breaker. He was approaching as an equal.
And Caleb, of course, spoke to him in a low, soothing murmur that carried underneath the ambient noise of the city.
"Easy now," Caleb whispered. "I know this city smells like smoke and iron. But I won't keep you locked in a stall."
Caleb projected his intent, communicating through the mastery skill. He promised that he would bring him adventuring everywhere, out into the open plains and the deep forests, far away from the cobblestones.
While they can slowly get to know each other and make a bond forged in mutual respect, not fear.
The stallion, hearing that and feeling the absolute truth in the man's touch as Caleb gently stroked his muscular neck, slowly lowered its head. The tension bled out of its slender frame. The Arabian nodded his head slightly and let out some soft, fluttering snorts, saying his agreement to the terms.
Caleb smiled, patting the strong shoulder. "Good boy."
And Caleb gave him the name Salazar. It fit the dark, regal, and slightly dangerous look of the animal perfectly.
Before getting onto Salazar, Caleb noticed the tack. It's saddle was much fancier than the rugged, reliable leather one he had on Morgan. It was a high end Gerden Vaquero saddle, embossed with silver filigree and lined with expensive velvet, completing the look of a terrifying, wealthy aristocrat.
Caleb smoothly swung up into the saddle. Salazar didn't flinch or sidestep. The horse accepted the rider immediately, the system's mastery skill instantly forging a baseline level of trust that would normally take weeks to build.
"Take care of Morgan, Marco," Caleb instructed, looking down at the wide eyed stable boy. "I'll be riding this one for a while."
"Yes, Signor! Safe travels!"
And after that, they rode out of the mansion. Caleb guided Salazar through the heavy iron gates with a mere shift of his weight. The horse moved with incredible, liquid grace, its hooves dancing lightly over the cobblestones as they headed to Bronte's mansion on the west side of the city.
The ride across Saint Denis was short. As Caleb navigated the crowded streets, the citizens of the city instinctively parted ways for the man in the charcoal suit riding the magnificent, terrifyingly expensive Black Arabian.
When he arrived at Bronte's sprawling estate in the Garden District, the atmosphere was incredibly tense. Dozens of heavily armed mobsters were milling about the front courtyard, smoking nervously, checking their weapons, and looking over their shoulders. The air smelled of cheap cigars, gun oil, and impending violence.
Caleb rode right through the center of them, his posture rigid and commanding. He dismounted near the front steps, tossing Salazar's reins to one of Bronte's trembling guards without looking at him.
"Keep him steady," Caleb ordered, before striding up the steps and into the mansion.
Bronte's foyer was a chaotic command center. Capos were shouting at each other, messengers were running in and out, and the Don himself was pacing furiously in the center of the room, looking like a caged tiger.
When Bronte saw Caleb enter, the entire room fell dead silent.
Bronte stopped pacing. He looked at Caleb's pristine suit, his calm demeanor, and let out a long, shuddering breath of relief.
"McLaughlin," Bronte breathed, stepping forward and grabbing Caleb by the shoulders. "You have the plan?"
"I do, Boss," Caleb said smoothly, pulling the leather bound notebook from his inner pocket. He didn't open it, he just tapped the cover with a single finger. "It is perfect. We strike tonight."
Bronte's eyes widened. "Tonight? Are we ready?"
"If we wait, Cornwall's mercenaries will begin their sweep of the city," Caleb lied effortlessly, dialing up the urgency. "We have the element of surprise. The river fog is rolling in thick tonight. It provides the perfect cover."
Caleb turned to address the gathered capos, projecting his voice so everyone in the foyer could hear the absolute authority in his tone.
"Gentlemen," Caleb announced. "Tonight, we end this war. We are not going to fight his army in the streets. We are going to cut the head off the snake."
Caleb turned back to Bronte. "Boss, I need fifty of your best men. The ones who don't flinch when the bullets start flying. They will be the main assault force."
Bronte nodded eagerly, turning to his head enforcer, Silvio. "Silvio! You hear the Underboss! Gather the men! Thirty of the best! Give them the repeating shotguns and the dynamite!"
"And what will you be doing, McLaughlin?" Bronte asked, his voice dropping to a whisper as the capos scrambled to follow orders.
"While your men hit the lower decks and draw the Pinkertons down into a crossfire," Caleb explained, leaning close, his voice cold and hypnotic, "I will be taking a ghost team. Just me and one other man I trust implicitly. We will scale the exterior of the paddlewheel, bypass the security entirely, and breach Cornwall's private suite."
Caleb looked Bronte dead in the eye. "I will personally drag Leviticus Cornwall out of his bed and deliver him to you, Boss."
Bronte swallowed hard, a fanatical, terrifying smile spreading across his face. The vision of his greatest rival kneeling before him in the mud was too intoxicating to resist.
"Do it," Bronte whispered. "Execute the plan, my brilliant Underboss. Bring me his head."
"Consider it done, Boss."
Caleb turned on his heel and walked out of the mansion, the heavy leather notebook resting securely against his chest.
The courtyard of Bronte's sprawling Garden District mansion had been transformed from a manicured symbol of wealthy excess into a heavily armed staging ground.
The thick, humid air of Saint Denis was choked with the acrid scent of gun oil, cheap cigar smoke, and the nervous sweat of dozens of men.
Wooden crates of ammunition were being pried open with crowbars, and the metallic clatter of lever action repeaters and pump shotguns being loaded echoed off the high stone walls.
Caleb stepped down into the fray, his dark duster sweeping behind him. He needed these men organized, focused, and utterly committed to the meat grinder he was about to send them into.
As he moved through the chaotic milling of the mobsters, he consciously activated his Level 2 Leadership Skill.
It wasn't the overwhelming, absolute mind bending control of a maxed out system ability, but rather a subtle, undeniable aura of authority that draped over him like a heavy mantle.
Since the level was just 2 out of 5, the maximum, it didn't turn them into mindless drones, but it influenced them just enough. The mobsters, hardened criminals and thugs who normally chafed under strict discipline, instinctively paused when Caleb walked past. They listened to him without argument.
"Check those firing pins," Caleb instructed a group of young enforcers fumbling with their repeaters. His voice was calm, yet it carried a weight that made them instantly snap to attention. "A jammed rifle in the lower decks will be the last mistake you ever make. And you," he pointed to a capo directing the loading of the wagons, "distribute the dynamite evenly. I want two sticks per man on the breach team."
The men nodded eagerly, their previous chaotic energy focusing into a sharp, deadly efficiency under his watchful eye. He was the Underboss, the architect of their recent victories, and his mere presence settled their nerves.
When the preparations were finally done, the wagons loaded and the horses saddled, Caleb walked back up the marble stairs and stood at the porch. The fifty men gathered in the courtyard below, forming a loose, formidable semi circle, their faces illuminated by the flickering gas lamps mounted on the mansion's exterior.
At this time, Angelo Bronte came out of the grand double doors. The Don was dressed in his immaculate silk suit, though his eyes were wide with a frantic, desperate energy. He stepped up to the edge of the porch, looking down at his private army, and began to launch a speech.
"Listen to me! Ascoltate, i miei fratelli!" Bronte began, his thick Italian accent carrying over the courtyard, with Italian words inserted here and there during his speech to emphasize their shared blood and heritage.
He was trying to rouse up the spirit of the 50 mobsters that would be following the Underboss's plan. "Tonight, we take back what is ours! For too long, this fat, greedy pig in the north has thought he could buy our city! Tonight, we ride out to bring them the greatest enemy to this family! You will bring Leviticus Cornwall to his knees in front of all of us!"
Bronte paced back and forth, gesturing wildly with his hands. "We will end this bloody feud that has caused them, caused us, so many losses! We will avenge our fallen fratelli! And you are to not worry, my sons. You ride tonight under the banner of la famiglia, and you will be under the lead of the best gunslinger this town has ever seen! Your Underboss, McLaughlin!"
Bronte threw his arms wide, expecting a roaring ovation. The mobsters let out a small cheer. Some raised their shotguns, and a few whistled, but the response was tepid, hollow.
Bronte was an administrator, a politician of the underworld who sat in velvet chairs while they bled in the mud. His words lacked the raw, visceral connection of a man who actually stood on the front lines.
Caleb recognized the lukewarm energy immediately. If these men were going to fight hard enough to draw Cornwall's entire security force down upon themselves, they needed to be whipped into a fanatical frenzy.
Caleb stepped forward, smoothly taking Bronte's place at the edge of the porch. He didn't pace. He stood perfectly still, a terrifying monument of lethal composure. He utilized his max level Persuasion and Acting Skill alongside his Level 2 Leadership Skill to have his own short speech to influence the mobsters.
He pitched his voice to a low, resonant baritone that commanded absolute silence.
"You heard the Don," Caleb said, his eyes scanning the crowd, seeming to make personal eye contact with every single man. "But let me tell you what is really waiting for us in the dark. Cornwall has an army of Pinkertons up there. Men who are paid top dollar to put a bullet in your gut and leave you to drown in the river. They think you are street trash. They think because they wear a shiny badge and protect a billionaire's gold, that they are better than you."
Caleb slowly unholstered one of his twin Navy Revolvers, the silver cylinder catching the lamplight.
"But they are just mercenaries," Caleb continued, his voice rising, thick with manufactured passion and absolute conviction. "They fight for a paycheck! We fight for our home! We fight for the men standing to our left and our right! When we hit that riverboat tonight, you don't just shoot to kill. You shoot to send a message that Saint Denis belongs to us! You make them bleed so terribly that every rich man in this country learns to fear the Italian family! Are you with me?!"
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Name: 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 Memory (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)
- Mental 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: 275,992 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: -