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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Tilly's new sweetheart, Pierre, already prove himself that he is actually a brilliant, ruthless corporate attorney whom Caleb had increased his wages so that he stayed in the syndicate's payroll. "Pierre has drafted the necessary injunctions, foreclosures, and state mandates to launch a massive legal battle in taking over the physical deeds to the lands of both the Grays and the Braithwaites," Caleb explained, ensuring his lieutenants understood the grand strategy.
"Taking over the Grays' land after we kill them makes sense," John frowned, crossing his arms. "But the Braithwaite land? The state seized that property after we burned the manor down. It's tied up in federal laws ain't it. How is Pierre going to win that?"
"Do not worry for the Braithwaites' land, John," Caleb smirked, reaching into a locked drawer of his desk and pulling out a thick, leather bound ledger. He tossed it onto the map. It bore the scorched, unmistakable crest of the Braithwaite family.
"I have possessed a very big, undeniable piece of evidence that could easily help him win the legal battle," Caleb revealed. "When we assaulted the manor to get Jack back, before the house completely burned down, I secured Catherine Braithwaite's personal accounting ledgers."
Hosea's eyes widened as he realized exactly what Caleb was holding.
"This ledger," Caleb tapped the book, "contains absolute, undeniable proof of massive federal tax evasion, illegal moonshining operations, slavery, and high treason against the state of Lemoyne. I have already quietly handed copies of this to my purchased politicians. The state is entirely willing to quietly sell the foreclosed, 'tainted' Braithwaite land to a legitimate corporate developer, meaning me, for absolute pennies on the dollar, just to sweep the scandal under the rug."
Caleb looked around the room, the absolute totality of his victory already written in the stars.
"By the end of this week, the Grays will be dead, their eastern backers will be exposed, and I will hold the legal deeds to the entirety of Rhodes and Scarlett Meadows," Caleb declared, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure power. "The South is ours. Now, get to the armory. We ride at dawn."
The next morning, the sky over Saint Denis was a bruised, cold purple as the sun struggled to break through the winter clouds. But the Garden District mansion was already alive with terrifying, synchronized movement.
The white gravel driveway was completely filled with the absolute, elite military might of the Thorne syndicate.
Sixty of the most hardened, vicious Italian capos were mounting their dark warhorses. They were dressed in heavy, dark woolen winter coats, their faces grim and resolute. Strapped to their saddles and slung across their backs were the gleaming, blued steel Vanguard bolt action rifles. Ten of the largest men carried the devastating Sweeper submachine guns, the heavy fifty round drum magazines fully loaded with high velocity hollow points.
Arthur, having said a quiet, incredibly passionate goodbye to Mary Linton, rode his massive horse up to the front of the column. He looked like the grim reaper himself, the gold inlaid M1911 resting heavy against his chest, his repeater resting on his thigh. John and Javier rode up beside him, their faces set in hard, unforgiving lines. Vincenzo and Silvio flanked the formation, barking harsh orders in Italian to ensure the ranks were perfectly tight.
And then, the heavy front doors of the mansion opened.
Don Caleb McLaughlin stepped out onto the marble porch. He was not wearing his tailored corporate suits today. He had dressed for war. He wore a heavy, dark leather duster, a black vest, and his custom, dual shoulder holsters. The twin, gold inlaid M1911 handguns rested perfectly under his arms, and a pristine Vanguard rifle was slung across his back.
He walked down the steps, the sheer, imposing aura of his max level Leadership skill radiating off him in waves. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to give a rousing speech. The men sitting on their horses looked at him with absolute, unwavering loyalty. They were ready to ride into hell itself if he commanded it.
Caleb walked over to his pure black Arabian horse. He pulled himself up into the saddle with fluid grace, taking the reins in his leather gloved hands.
He looked back at the mansion. Mary-Beth was standing in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly together. She didn't look afraid, she looked profoundly strong, offering him a silent, fierce nod of support.
Caleb nodded back, a promise that he would return victorious.
He turned his horse to face the gates, looking at the sixty heavily armed men waiting for his command.
"Gentlemen," Caleb's voice cut through the freezing morning air, cold, sharp, and deadly. "To Rhodes."
The massive column of riders surged forward. The heavy iron gates of the estate swung open, and the vanguard of the Thorne empire rode out into the streets of Saint Denis. The rhythmic, thunderous pounding of sixty warhorses echoed off the cobblestones like the beating of a massive war drum.
The local police officers and early morning merchants scrambled out of the way, staring in absolute awe and terror at the private army marching through their city.
They left the cobblestones behind, crossing the bridges and riding down into the humid, red dirt trails of Lemoyne.
The ride to Rhodes took several hours. The winter chill slowly gave way to the stagnant, heavy humidity of the southern plantations. The capos rode in perfect, disciplined silence, their eyes scanning the tree lines and the swamps for any signs of the Grays' increased patrols.
As they crossed the county line into Scarlett Meadows, the tension grew palpable. They could see the distant, sprawling fields of tobacco, and the crude, wooden barricades that the Grays had hastily erected along the main roads.
Caleb rode at the absolute front of the column, flanked by Arthur and Vincenzo. As they crested a small ridge, the sprawling, heavily guarded entrance to the Caliga Hall plantation finally came into view.
Dozens of ex Confederate mercenaries and local farmhands were milling around the main gate, gripping old repeaters and shotguns. They were laughing and smoking, completely unaware of the sheer, apocalyptic violence that was cresting the hill.
But as the thunderous sound of sixty horses reached their ears, the laughter died.
The Gray guards turned, their eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror as they saw the massive, disciplined army of men in dark coats riding down the road toward them.
They saw the gleaming, advanced weaponry. And at the head of the column, they recognized the terrifying, unmistakable figure of the Don of Saint Denis.
The sudden, thunderous arrival of sixty heavily armed, black coated Italian capos riding purebred warhorses was a sight that absolutely shattered the lazy, humid morning of Scarlett Meadows.
As the massive, disciplined column came to a perfectly synchronized halt right at the open, towering stone entrance of the Caliga Hall plantation, the sheer, paralyzing shock of the moment washed over the defenders of the estate.
The Grays' members who were stationed at the front gate were completely taken by surprise. For a split second, they simply stood frozen, their mouths slightly open as they stared at the immaculate, terrifying military formation that had just materialized out of the red dust.
Panic, raw and unadulterated, instantly took over.
One of the younger guards, his face entirely drained of color, dropped his half smoked cigarette into the dirt. He immediately turned on his heel and sprinted frantically up the long, oak lined dirt driveway toward the main plantation house, his boots kicking up clouds of dust as he ran to inform their leaders of exactly what was happening at their doorstep.
Meanwhile, the rest of the defensive force was thrown into absolute chaos. The ex Confederate mercenaries the Grays had recently hired with their eastern backers' money, the rugged local farmhands holding pitchforks, and the Grays' own uniformed plantation guards all simultaneously went on high alert.
They scrambled for cover behind the stacked wooden crates and the brick pillars of the entrance. Hands trembling with fear and adrenaline, they pointed their weapons directly at the large group. But as the mercenaries raised their rusty, heavily used lever action repeaters and old double barreled shotguns, they suddenly realized the sheer, horrifying disparity in firepower.
They were aiming at sixty of Vincenzo's most ruthless killers. The mafia capos did not flinch. They did not shout. They simply sat high on their dark saddles, their faces carved from stone, casually resting their hands on the grips of the brand new, blued steel Vanguard rifles and the fifty round Sweeper submachine guns.
The sunlight caught the flawless, machine milled steel of the Thorne-Marlin weapons, projecting an aura of mechanical death that made the ex Confederates' weapons look like antique toys.
Sitting at the absolute front of the formation, mounted on his, pure black Arabian horse, was Caleb.
Caleb did not draw his weapons. He didn't need to. He simply looked down at the terrified mob of guards blocking his path, his piercing blue eyes cold and devoid of any human mercy.
Caleb, of course, immediately spoke, his rich, booming baritone voice cutting effortlessly through the tense, humid air of the plantation.
"I am Don McLaughlin, from the city of Saint Denis," Caleb announced, the sheer weight of his max level Leadership and Charisma skills vibrating in every single syllable. The name alone caused several of the farmhands to physically take a step backward. "And I would like to meet with Tavish Gray and Leigh Gray. Bring them out here."
The silence that followed was agonizing. The guards looked at each other, none of them wanting to be the one to speak to the demon of the underworld.
Finally, one of the senior plantation guards, a man with a graying beard clutching a Lancaster repeater, swallowed hard. His hands were visibly shaking against the wooden stock of his rifle. He took a half step forward from behind a brick pillar, his voice trembling as he tried to project some semblance of authority to protect his employers.
"The... the two bosses have already been informed of your arrival, mister," the guard stammered, sweating profusely under his wide brimmed hat. He looked at the sixty armed riders and nervously licked his dry lips. "Now... now why don't you and your boys just back off a bit? Give them some space to come out."
Sitting on his horse directly to Caleb's right, Vincenzo, the scarred Italian Underboss, slowly reached into the pocket of his heavy winter coat. He pulled out a silver case, extracted a premium cigarette, and placed it between his lips. He struck a match against the saddle horn, the sharp flare of sulfur catching the eyes of the terrified guards, and took a long, slow drag.
Vincenzo exhaled a thick plume of gray smoke into the southern heat. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and, with a casual, incredibly dismissive flick of his wrist, threw the burning cigarette directly into the dirt at the trembling guard's feet.
"Listen to me very carefully, you piece of dirt," Vincenzo growled, his thick, heavily accented voice dripping with unadulterated menace and absolute contempt. He leaned forward in his saddle, his dark eyes locking onto the guard. "If you dare to do anything about where we are standing, you can try to do it by yourself. Because we wouldn't back off a single, solitary step from here if God Himself asked us to."
The sheer, unapologetic disrespect of the Underboss's words hung heavily in the air.
And after that, the tension broke, but not with gunfire. It broke with laughter.
The dozens of hardened Italian capos sitting on their warhorses all simultaneously let out a dark, mocking, and highly intimidating laugh. It was a calculated, deliberate provocation. They chuckled, shifting in their saddles, silently daring the mercenaries to pull their triggers and give them an excuse to unleash the apocalyptic fury of the Sweeper submachine guns upon the gate.
But no one dared to do anything. The ex Confederates tightened their grips on their rifles, their knuckles turning white, but not a single man had the suicidal courage to fire the first shot. They were completely, utterly paralyzed by the overwhelming superiority of the syndicate.
It was at this exact, highly volatile time that the heavy wooden doors of the Caliga Hall plantation house finally swung open in the distance.
Walking briskly down the wide, wrap around porch and stepping onto the dirt driveway came Tavish and Leigh Gray.
The two patriarchs of the Gray family were dressed in their finest, albeit slightly outdated, Southern aristocrat attire, light linen suits, expensive vests, and pocket watches dangling from gold chains.
As they walked down the long avenue of towering oak trees, the two men were actively complaining, their voices carrying over the silent standoff.
"What in the hell is all this commotion?" Tavish Gray barked loudly, waving his walking cane in the air, trying to project the image of an untouchable plantation lord. "I have important ledgers to review! What is all the ruckus we have been hearing from outside my gates?"
But as Tavish and Leigh finally cleared the line of trees and actually saw the scene unfolding at their front entrance, their arrogant complaints died instantly in their throats.
They stopped dead in their tracks, their polished leather shoes digging into the red dirt. They were, of course, absolutely shocked and profoundly surprised.
They had expected to find a few drunken drifters causing trouble, or perhaps some local Lemoyne Raiders demanding a toll.
Instead, they found a private, heavily gunned men occupying their threshold.
And when their eyes scanned past the vanguard of Italian capos and finally landed on Caleb's face, that was the exact moment their blood turned completely to ice. That is when they knew this was an unmitigated, catastrophic situation. Tavish's face drained of all color, his arrogant sneer completely washing away into a mask of pure, sickening dread. Leigh took a physical step backward, his hands beginning to shake.
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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 MAX)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)
- Bow (Lvl MAX)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl MAX)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl MAX)
- Leadership (Lvl MAX)
Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 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, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -