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(A/N: I hope everyone give my new novel Skyrim a chance and added it to their library, also give the power stones on Skyrim!)
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Caleb stood up, energized by the prospect. The "Tycoon" aspect of his system hadn't been utilized much other than his restaurant, Marlin-Thorne firearms, and the shoudo be under renovation strawberry lodge, and this was the perfect start. He quickly geared up, strapping his holsters back on. He grabbed his coat and hat.
Leaving the room, he descended the stairs of the Bastille. He gave a nod to Ezra, who was now swamped with customers, and slipped out the side door to avoid another round of hero worship from the patrons.
He mounted Morgan and steered her away from the gas lit avenues of the rich, heading down into the gloom of the industrial district to the northwest. The air changed, growing thick with coal smoke and the stench of the slaughterhouse. The streets became narrower, the cobblestones replaced by packed mud and refuse.
Doyle's Tavern appeared out of the smog like a bruised eye. The sign was hanging by a single chain, creaking in the wind. A drunk was passed out on the porch.
Caleb hitched Morgan nearby, ensuring she was close enough for a quick exit but far enough not to draw immediate attention. He stepped onto the wooden plank s, the wood rotting under his boots, and pushed open the door.
The inside was dim, lit by tallow candles that smelled of animal fat. The floor was sticky. A few patrons huddled over tables, nursing mugs of questionable liquid. Behind the bar stood Doyle, or at least, the man Caleb assumed was Doyle. He was a medium sized man, short haired, with a stained apron and eyes that looked like they hadn't seen hope since the turn of the century.
Caleb walked to the bar. The silence in the room was palpable, strangers like him, dressed in high quality leather and armed to the teeth, didn't come here to drink. They came to collect debts or break legs.
Doyle wiped his hands on his apron, eyeing Caleb nervously. "We... we paid the protection money last week. To Mr. Martelli's boys."
"I'm not with Mr. Bronte or Mr. Martelli," Caleb said, his voice cutting through the gloom. He didn't order a drink. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his hands on the bar. "I'm here to make you an offer, Mr. Doyle."
Doyle blinked. "An offer?"
"I want to buy this place."
Doyle let out a small incredulous chuckle. "Buy this shithole? Mister, you must be lost. The rats own more of this building than I do."
"I know what it is," Caleb said calmly. "And I know what it could be."
Doyle hearing that now let out a harsh, barking laugh, the sound grating against the silence of the room like a saw on rusted iron. He wiped a dirty rag across the counter, smearing the grime rather than cleaning it, and shook his head with a look of genuine pity mixed with amusement.
"Buy this place?" Doyle repeated, his voice dripping with skepticism. "Mister, I don't know what kind of fancy liquor you've been sipping uptown, but thanks for telling such an incredible joke. No one, and I mean no one, has ever said such a thing. Wanting to buy this place? Look around you."
He gestured vaguely at the peeling wallpaper, the dark corners where shadows seemed to writhe, and the clientele that looked one bad hand away from a knife fight. "This is a hole in the ground that the devil forgot to fill in. No one with boots that shine like yours buys a place like this unless they've lost their mind. The location's a curse, the clientele'd scare the devil himself. You're wastin' your time."
Caleb watched the man, his expression remaining impassive. He understood the skepticism. To the naked eye, Doyle's Tavern was a liability. To Caleb, it was an uncut gem of intelligence gathering.
Seeing this resistance, Caleb sighed internally. He didn't have time to haggle over the man's self worth. He centered himself, feeling the familiar hum of his system as he activated his max level Persuasion and Acting Skill. His posture shifted slightly, radiating an aura of undeniable authority tempered with a businessman's reason.
"I assure you, Mr. Doyle, my mind is quite intact," Caleb said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a confidential rumble that demanded attention. "But I understand your hesitation. Business of this magnitude requires privacy."
He leaned in closer, his blue eyes locking onto Doyle's tired brown ones. "I at least would like to talk with you in private. So, can you clear out the tavern for the night? And don't worry about the lost revenue."
Caleb reached into his satchel, accessing his inventory with a fluid motion, and withdrew a crisp, one hundred dollar bill. He slapped it onto the sticky wood of the counter.
"This should cover it. I will pay one hundred dollars for the inconvenience."
Doyle's eyes went wide, bulging slightly as they fixed on the currency. In the flickering candlelight, the bill looked like a beacon of salvation. In this part of Saint Denis, a beer cost pennies. A shot of whiskey was a nickel. This one hundred dollars represented three to four days' worth of total profit, maybe a week's if the weather was bad.
He looked from the money to Caleb, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. The skepticism evaporated, replaced by the overwhelming influence of Caleb's Persuasion Skill and the cold, hard cash.
"I... well, I..." Doyle stammered, his hand instinctively reaching out to cover the bill. "For a hundred dollars, I'd close for a week. Deal."
He snatched the money, stuffing it into his apron pocket as if afraid it might vanish, and then turned to the room. He slammed his hand on the bar top.
"Alright, listen up, you lot!" Doyle yelled, his voice cracking slightly with nerves. "Drink up and get out! The tavern is closed for the rest of the night! Private party!"
The reaction was immediate and hostile. The patrons, a collection of dockworkers, petty thieves, and exhausted laborers, did not take kindly to being evicted from their watering hole. A low rumble of discontent swept through the room.
One burly, red faced longshoreman shoved his chair back. "The hell we are! I just paid for this swill!"
Another, meaner looking character with a broken nose reached for the knife at his belt. "Who's this dandy think he is, Doyle? You takin' orders from pretty boys now?"
"Closed?" one man shouted, slamming his mug down. "It ain't even midnight, Doyle!"
"We ain't goin' nowhere!" a third voice bellowed from the back, followed by the sound of a chair scraping loudly against the floor.
The grumbling grew into groans and open protests. Several men stood up, swaying dangerously, their hands drifting toward their belts where knives and cheap revolvers were tucked away.
They were drunk, angry, and looking for a target for their frustrations. The target, naturally, was the clean looking stranger at the bar.
"You think you can just walk in here and kick us out?" a burly man with a scar across his nose snarled, stepping toward Caleb. "You think your money makes you king of the heap?"
Caleb didn't flinch. He didn't even turn his body fully. He simply let his coat fall back, revealing the holster at his hip, and in a blur of motion that the drunk eyes could barely track, he took out his Navy Revolver.
He didn't aim it at the man's head. He simply pointed the barrel toward the group of troublemakers, the weapon held steady and unwavering.
"I suggest you listen to the owner. The night is over, gentlemen," Caleb said, his voice ice cold, fortified by his skills to strike a primal chord of fear. "Don't cause trouble. Just go."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Seeing this, some of the troublemakers who were too drunk to process self preservation bristled. Their hands twitched, ready to draw their own weapons. It was a powder keg moment, the split second before a saloon shootout that would end in blood and sawdust.
But then, clarity struck from the shadows.
One of the men near the back, a younger thief who was nursing a beer and wasn't that drunk, squinted through the gloom. His eyes widened as he took in the duster, the dual holsters, and the face he had seen on a Wanted poster only hours ago.
He trembled, his face draining of color. He grabbed his friend's arm, his grip desperate.
"Jesus, wait!" the young man hissed, his voice cutting through the tension. "Don't! That's him! That's the bounty hunter... McLaughlin!"
The name hit the room like a bucket of ice water.
"McLaughlin?" another voice whispered. "The one who shot up the docks? The one who took down the all of this high profile bounties?"
"The Reaper," the young man stammered, pulling his friend back. "Put it away, you idiot! We have to go! All of us better get out of here right now!"
The realization rippled through the crowd. The drunken bravery vanished instantly, replaced by the sobering terror of a reputation written in blood. They weren't looking at a rich fop anymore, they were looking at a man who killed for a living and was very, very good at it.
Chairs were scrambled over. Coins were left on tables. There was no more arguing, no more posturing.
"Sorry, Mister," one man mumbled, backing away with his hands up.
"We're leaving! We're leaving!"
Within thirty seconds, the tavern emptied. The patrons stumbled out into the night, tripping over each other in their haste to put distance between themselves and the barrel of Caleb's gun. The door swung shut, leaving behind a sudden, ringing silence.
Only Caleb and Doyle remained.
Doyle stood frozen behind the bar. He had heard the name. He had seen the newspapers. He looked at Caleb, really looked at him this time, and the color drained from his face. Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead.
"Mr. McLaughlin..." Doyle whispered. "Sweet Mother of God. I... I didn't realize who you were, sir."
He began to fumble in his apron pocket, his hands shaking violently. He pulled out the crumpled one hundred dollar bill.
"I... I didn't know," Doyle stammered, holding the money out. "You don't need to pay me, Mr. McLaughlin. Please. I don't want any trouble. Just take it back."
Caleb holstered his revolver with a smooth, practiced motion that made Doyle flinch. He shook his head, a small, reassuring smile touching his lips, a calculated expression designed to lower the temperature in the room.
"Keep it," Caleb said softly. "I pay for what I want, Doyle. You closed your establishment as requested. A deal's a deal. I'm a businessman tonight, not a hunter."
Doyle hesitated, looking at the money as if it might bite him, then slowly lowered his hand. "Right. Right. A businessman."
"Now, why don't we have a seat and talk about my offer like civilized men?" Caleb suggested, gesturing toward the center of the room. "Somewhere away from the door. To talk about this matter properly."
"Yes, sir. Of course."
Caleb pointed toward one of the cleaner tables, relatively speaking, and pulled out a chair. The wood creaked, but held. Doyle hurried around the bar, wiping his sweaty palms on his apron, and sat opposite him, looking like a man awaiting sentencing.
Caleb leaned back, crossing his legs. "As I said, Mr. Doyle, I am serious. I want to buy this establishment. Lock, stock, and barrel."
Doyle wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, his breathing slowly returning to normal as he realized Caleb wasn't going to shoot him. "I... I believe you now, sir. Sorry for not believing it before. But... why? Why would you want to buy this tavern?"
He looked around the room, his eyes seeing the failures he had lived with for years. "It doesn't generate much profit. Barely enough to keep the lights on. It's in the slums, sir. Security is bad, hell, it's non existent. People always have a drunk fight inside the tavern, breaking furniture, scaring off paying customers. It's a money pit. It's… it's a dump."
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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 - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,370 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 257,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 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
Bank: -