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"You must be Mr. McLaughlin," the man said, his voice a smooth baritone. "A pleasure. I am Alphonse Reynard. I have the… distinct honor of ensuring Mr. Bronte's floating enterprise runs smoothly tonight."
Caleb shook the offered hand. The grip was firm, dry. "McLaughlin. I'm sure Mr. Bronte has briefed you."
"Extensively," Reynard said, his smile never wavering. "Your role is unique. And as such, you operate under unique rules."
He leaned in slightly. "The guards have been instructed by me. Your… customary accessories are welcome. We find it prudent to have a set of hands to help, even at a such occasion." He straightened. "Now, let us get you situated. A drink first."
He guided Caleb to the bar, snapping his fingers. Two glasses of top shelf whiskey appeared instantly. Reynard handed one to Caleb and took the other, leading him to a pair of vacant stools.
"The tournament begins in two hours Mr. McLaughlin," Reynard explained, sipping his whiskey. "Time for our guests to lubricate their fortunes and their tongues. For you, it is time to observe."
He produced a small, ornate brass key from his waistcoat pocket and slid it across the bar to Caleb. "Stateroom seven. Top of the stairs, left, end of the hall. A place to rest, should you need it. Or to… secure any findings you found."
Caleb pocketed the key, the metal cool against his fingers. "My thanks."
"The buy in is 1,000 dollars which Mr. Bronte have secured for you for the rest of the tournaments," Reynard continued. "Present yourself at the cage when you're ready. Your seat is reserved. Table three, seat one. Quite the good position, as you can see the entire room."
He finished his whiskey. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must attend to a minor crisis involving a case of allegedly 'too warm' champagne. Mingle, Mr. McLaughlin. Listen. The game has already begun."
With a flourish, Reynard melted back into the crowd. Caleb remained at the bar, turning his glass slowly, letting the amber liquid catch the light. He was a stone in a swift stream, observing the flow.
His heightened Perception and new Business skill parsed the room into overlapping circles of influence. He saw the state senator from Bronte's list holding court near a potted palm, accepting a glass from a sycophant. The man's smile was too wide, his eyes darting nervously, a man living on borrowed money and borrowed time.
He saw the cattle barons from New Austin, their rough hands looking out of place holding crystal tumblers. They were being circled by a sleek man in a pinstripe suit, a commodities broker, Caleb guessed, looking to lock in a meat contract.
In a corner, the severe representative of Leviticus Cornwall stood like a disapproving statue, his two bodyguards forming a human wall. He spoke to no one, but his eyes tracked every movement, especially those of Bronte's men. The enemy's scout.
Caleb's Poker skill, maxed and humming, was not just about cards. It was about reading people, about sensing bluffs and truths in conversation. He heard snippets from these conversations.
"…and the railway board is adamant the spur line goes through Caliga, not Bayall…"
"…absolute robbery, the tariff being put on cotton, but what's to be done of it?…"
"…heard the First Bank of Saint Denis is overextended on mortgages in Lagras and Bayou…"
"…my wife, bless her, she has no concept of what things cost and just spends my money…"
Each fragment was a piece of a puzzle, a potential pressure point, a future opportunity. He stored them all away.
After twenty minutes of silent observation, he decided to move. He finished his whiskey and walked to the cashier's cage. The clerk, a pale man with green eyeshades, looked up. "Name for the ledger, sir?"
"McLaughlin."
The man's pen paused for a fraction of a second. He didn't ask for the money. He simply made an entry and slid a tray of polished colorfuls clay chip across the counter. It was larger and heavier than the others, engraved not with a dollar amount, but with a single, elegant letter, B.
"Your seat is reserved, sir. Good luck."
Caleb pocketed the chip, the weight of Bronte's implicit credit substantial in his hand. He moved away from the cage, drawn to a quieter secondary bar in an adjoining lounge.
It was here he saw one of the Lemoyne plantation owner he'd spotted earlier, a man named Thibodeaux according to the overheard introduction. The man was alone, staring into a glass of bourbon with the hollow eyed look of a man facing ruin.
Caleb ordered a bourbon for himself and took the stool next to Thibodeaux. "Rough life?" he asked, his tone neutral, not prying.
Thibodeaux started, then offered a weary smile. "You could say that, monsieur. The market… the weather… it is a partnership with God and the devil, and both are demanding their share this year."
Caleb nodded sympathetically, his Business skill intuitively assessing the man's posture, the quality of his now slightly frayed suit, the desperate hope in his eyes. "Sometimes a man needs a new partner. One who deals in funds, not curses."
Thibodeaux looked at him, truly looked at him for the first time. "You are a banker monsieur?"
"An investor," Caleb corrected gently. "I specialize in undervalued assets with… solid foundations." He let the implication hang. "Perhaps, when the cards are done, we might speak. I'm McLaughlin."
A spark of desperate hope ignited in Thibodeaux's eyes. "Thibodeaux. Jean Thibodeaux. I… yes. I would like that very much."
Caleb left him with a nod, the connection made. A drowning man would cling to any rope. He could buy Thibodeaux's land for a song, or use his debt as leverage for other ends.
As he circulated, he felt eyes on him. The senator's calculating gaze. Cornwall's man's cold assessment. The curious glances of women who sensed new, dangerous money. He was no longer anonymous. He was a player, and the board was taking note.
An hour passed. The crowd began to coalesce around the tables. A soft chime sounded, and Reynard's voice carried over the din. "Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests… please take your assigned seats. The tournament… commences."
Caleb felt a familiar calm settle over him, the pre combat focus he knew so well. He made his way to Table Three, Seat One. As he sat, he scanned his opponents.
A state senator was to his right, trying to project calm. Across from him was one of the boisterous industrialists, already red faced and talking too loudly. To his left was a silent, hawk faced man he didn't recognize, a professional gambler, perhaps.
And two seats down, watching him with intense interest, was a stunning woman in an emerald gown, her smile knowing and sharp. She held her cards like she held secrets.
The dealer, a man with dead eyes and flawless hands, began to shuffle. The crisp riffle riffle bridge sound was a starting pistol.
The first riffle of the deck was a call to arms. Caleb's mind, already a precision instrument, sharpened further. He activated his Poker, Acting, and Persuasion skills not as separate tools, but as a single powerful tool to help him win.
His face became a placid lake, reflecting nothing of the calculations beneath. His body language spoke of a man mildly interested, perhaps a bit out of his depth, a wealthy amateur testing the waters.
The dealer finished his shuffle, squared the deck with a precise tap, and glanced around the table.
"Gentlemen. Buy ins are confirmed. Let's begin."
The first hand was dealt.
Caleb picked up his first two cards, his face a mask of polite interest. The ghost of a smile touched his lips. The hunt for information, for leverage, for power, was on. And it was played not just with chips and cards, but with every glance, every word, every calculated reveal.
The early rounds were a masterpiece of controlled loss. He folded strong hands, called with mediocre ones, and lost a series of small, believable pots.
He allowed the state senator to puff up with a cheap victory, let the industrialist, a man named Harrington, bellow with triumph after bullying him out of a pot.
He even lost a hand to the silent gambler, a man who went by "Hawks," earning a flicker of dismissive respect in the man's cold eyes. The woman in emerald, who introduced herself as Evangeline, watched him with a faint, enigmatic smile, saying little.
Between hands, Caleb turned the conversation with the subtlety of a master angler. His Persuasion skill lowered guards, his apparent losses making him seem harmless, even sympathetic.
"The railway spur to Caliga seems a sure thing, Senator," Caleb remarked after folding, his tone conversational. "A boon for your constituents."
The senator, flushed with cheap victory and cheaper whiskey, leaned in. "A sure thing, my boy, because I made it so. The Bayall route was… logistically unsound." The way he said it implied palms greased, not surveys studied.
Harrington, the industrialist, was a font of brash intelligence. "Logistics! That's the future! You know what we need? Standardized freight car couplings. Every damn railroad has its own. It's waste! But try telling those boardroom dinosaurs…"
He ranted about inefficiency, revealing not just his business focus, but his frustrations and potential vulnerabilities, a man ripe for backing a disruptive venture.
Hawks said nothing, but his tell was in his stillness. He was too still. A man who controlled every micro expression, which meant he was working hard to control them. Caleb filed him away as dangerous but predictable.
Evangeline, when she spoke, did so in riddles and insights. "Everyone at this table is selling something, Mr. McLaughlin. Even those who are only buying chips." Her eyes held his for a beat too long. She was an observer, like him, but her agenda was unclear.
Five rounds passed. Caleb's chip stack was down by a respectable, unremarkable twenty percent. The predators at the table had categorized him as prey.
Then, the tide turned.
It wasn't a dramatic shift in posture or expression. It was in the cards. Caleb's Poker skill, maxed to a supernatural degree, began to be orchestrated by him.
He began to see not just his own hand, but the ghost of the deck's memory, the weight of probability bending ever so slightly around his will. He started winning. Not every hand, but the key ones.
A well timed bluff against Hawks, backed by an imperceptible shift in breathing Caleb alone detected, broke the man's stack. A calculated call against a trembling Harrington on a river card sent a mountain of chips skittering to Caleb's side of the table.
The table's dynamic shattered. The amused condescension turned to wary respect, then to dawning alarm. Caleb was no longer losing believably, he was literally dismantling them.
His Acting skill now projected an aura of inexorable, calm inevitability. He didn't gloat. He didn't smile. He simply collected chips, his movements economical, his gaze moving to the next hand as if the last victory was already forgotten.
The money piled up. The initial 1,000 dollars in Bronte's credit swelled to 5,000 dollars, then 10,000 dollars, then 15,000 dollars. Harrington was eliminated, cursing under his breath. Hawks departed with a silent, venomous glare. Evangeline bowed out gracefully with a knowing nod, preserving a decent stack.
Soon, it was just Caleb, the state senator named Pendleton, and a sweaty, desperate Harrington who had rebought in and was now on the brink again.
The final hand at Table Three was a spectacle of tension. Pendleton, his political mask crumbling under financial pressure, went all in on a flush draw. Harrington, fueled by ego and ruin, mirrored him. The pot swelled to an astronomical sum.
Caleb looked at his cards. He had engineered this. The odds, the psychology, the fall of the cards, it had all led here. He called. The dealer laid the river card. Pendleton's face lit up with desperate triumph. He slammed down his cards, a queen high flush. "Read 'em and weep, gentlemen!"
...
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: 3,465 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 192,892 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 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
Bank: -