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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
...
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.
But he couldn't let Mary-Beth see the monster he had become to protect her. Caleb immediately hide his smirk from Mary-Beth, instantly turning on his max level Acting Skill. He let his eyes widen slightly and put on a perfectly surprised, slightly concerned face before saying, "Really? How could it happen? He was healthy when I left."
Mary-Beth shake her head, looking genuinely distressed by the mystery of it all. Saying she doesn't know, she stepped back slightly, wringing her hands. "It's awful to see, Caleb, even after everything he did to us. You better go ask Reverend or Arthur or Hosea to know more of it. They handle the basement. None of the rest of us go down there."
Caleb nodded his head at that, his expression grave. Saying he will, he gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll talk to them. Try not to worry about it, Mary-Beth."
He forced a lighter tone, changing the subject abruptly. "Now, why don't we get something to eat first? I am a bit starving after all that ride from Saint Denis."
Mary-Beth puffed her cheeks, playfully swatting his arm, saying, "How could you not have lunch yet in the noon? You don't take care of yourself when you're away."
Caleb chuckles, offering a half truth. "I was sleeping. I've done many things in the past couple of days, Mary-Beth. Tiring things."
Mary-Beth just shake her head, exasperated but smiling softly, before bringing him inside by the hand, leading him toward the main house and toward the dining room.
Inside, the atmosphere was warm and domestic. Arthur and Hosea was sitting at the heavy wooden table, drinking coffee there from tin mugs, poring over a ledger of farm expenses. Across the room, Pearson was cleaning up the kitchen utensils, whistling a tuneless sailor's shanty as he scrubbed a cast iron pot.
Seeing Caleb returned, they all looked up. The relief on Hosea's lined face was evident, and Arthur let out a low grunt of approval. They welcomed him back warmly.
"Bout time you showed up, kid," Arthur rumbled, taking a sip of his coffee. "Was startin' to think you decided to become a city boy permanently."
"Never," Caleb replied, pulling out a chair.
Mary-Beth told him to sit before then she goes to the kitchen area to took some stew for Caleb from the pot simmering over the stove.
As she moved out of earshot, the atmosphere at the table shifted instantly from familial warmth to grim conspiracy. Caleb leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. Caleb at this time asked Arthur and Hosea about Dutch's condition in a low voice, making sure Pearson couldn't hear over the clatter of his scrubbing.
"Mary-Beth mentioned the basement," Caleb whispered, his eyes darting between the two older men. "What's happening?"
The two men looked at each other, a silent communication passing between them, a shared burden of guilt and desperate necessity.
Hosea sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes, before leaning in.
They said to him in a low voice that Dutch wasn't as erratic as before.
"He's quiet, Caleb," Arthur murmured, his brow furrowed in a complex mix of sorrow and grim relief. "Too quiet. And he was weird. Not the usual kind of crazy."
Hosea took over, his voice a frail whisper. "Reverend was the one who told the two of us that Dutch was becoming weird. It's like slowly he is deteriorating. His body is weak. He can't try to break off his binds anymore. He just sits there in the corner. And his mind is also... slipping. Like speaking gibberish. Half sentences that don't make any sense, trailing off into nothing."
"Is he eating?" Caleb asked clinically.
"Yeah," Arthur confirmed. "And even if they have given him foods, he is still like that. It ain't starvation. It's somethin' else."
And after saying all of that, a heavy silence fell over the table. Hosea sighed again, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of decades of friendship turned to ashes. Hosea looked directly at Caleb, his eyes rheumy but sharp, and says, "Looks like whatever you gave him... whatever you told Reverend to put in his food before you left... is working."
Caleb didn't flinch. He didn't look away. He absorbed their guilt and reflected back absolute certainty. He smiled, a cold, reassuring expression devoid of any moral ambiguity.
Saying they just continue like nothing happened, Caleb leaned back slightly. "It's working exactly as intended. No need to feel guilty. He was going to get us all killed, Hosea. You know that. Arthur knows that. If your conscience is heavy, just blame everything on me. I understand the weight of it. I'll carry it."
Arthur shook his head slowly, staring into his coffee mug. "Ain't right, Caleb. Ain't right how a man ends up."
"It's survival, Arthur," Caleb countered softly. "And don't worry," he added, addressing Hosea's primary concern regarding the oblivious accomplice. "I will make sure Reverend also doesn't feel guilty. He doesn't know what he's administering, and he never will. I'll handle him."
Hearing that, both Arthur and Hosea sighed simultaneously. They looked at one another, the unspoken agreement sealing their pact with the devil, and nodded their heads slowly. The deed was done, and they were all complicit in the slow execution of their former patriarch.
Just then, Mary-Beth returned, carrying a steaming bowl of Pearson's famous, or infamous, beef stew and a thick slice of bread. She set it down in front of Caleb with a bright smile, completely oblivious to the dark conspiracy that had just unfolded across the wooden table.
"Here you go," she said cheerfully. "Eat up. You look half starved."
Caleb looked up at her, instantly dropping the cold persona of the orchestrator and returning a warm, genuine smile. "Thank you, Mary-Beth."
He picked up his spoon and began to eat. The stew was hot, savory, and undeniably grounding. He ate methodically, listening half heartedly as Arthur and Hosea shifted the conversation back to mundane farm matters, the price of feed in Valentine, a broken fence post near the south pasture, the need to repair the barn roof before the heavy rains came.
It was surreal. They were discussing crop rotation while the man who had raised them, who had led them through fire and snow for twenty years, was slowly losing his mind in the dark cellar directly beneath their feet.
But Caleb felt no remorse. The system didn't measure morality, it measured outcomes. And the outcome here was that the Van der Linde gang was alive, safe, and building a future, rather than bleeding to death on a frozen mountain or swinging from a gallows in Saint Denis.
When he finished the stew, he wiped his mouth and stood up.
"I need to stretch my legs," Caleb announced. "And I should probably go speak with the Reverend. See how his... flock is doing."
Arthur caught his eye, a silent warning passing between them, but nodded. "He's out by the chicken coop, last I saw him. Tryin' to preach to the hens."
Caleb nodded his thanks and stepped out the back door of the main house. The evening air was cooling rapidly, the sky transitioning from purple to a deep, starry indigo. The farm was settling down for the night.
He found Reverend Swanson sitting on an overturned bucket near the wire fencing of the chicken coop. The man looked terrible, as he always did, sweaty, shaking, his eyes darting nervously. He was clutching his worn Bible in one hand and a small, brown glass bottle in the other.
"Reverend," Caleb said softly, stepping into the man's field of vision so as not to startle him.
Swanson jumped anyway, nearly dropping his bottle. "Ah! Caleb! My boy, you've returned from the... the wilderness."
"I have," Caleb said, crouching down to be at eye level with the trembling man. "How are you holding up, Reverend?"
"The spirit is willing, but the flesh... oh, the flesh is so terribly weak," Swanson mumbled, taking a quick swig from the bottle. "I try to guide them, Caleb. I try to be a shepherd. But the darkness... it's everywhere."
"I know," Caleb said sympathetically, utilizing his Persuasion skill to soothe the man's fractured nerves. "You have a heavy burden, Reverend. Especially with the... special task I gave you."
Swanson's eyes widened, a look of profound sorrow crossing his face. "Dutch. Oh, poor Dutch. It's a tragedy, Caleb. A profound tragedy of the soul."
"How is he?" Caleb asked, his tone gentle, encouraging.
"He's fading," Swanson whispered, leaning closer, his breath smelling of stale alcohol and morphine. "The tonic you gave me... the one you said would calm his humors and soothe his manic episodes... I've been giving it to him every evening, just as you instructed. A few drops in his food."
"And?"
"And it has calmed him," Swanson said, looking down at his hands. "But... but it's as if the fire has completely gone out. He doesn't speak of grand plans anymore. He barely speaks at all. Yesterday, he just stared at the wall for hours, murmuring about... about a boat to Tahiti. But his voice... it was so weak. Like a child waking from a fever dream."
Swanson looked up at Caleb, his eyes pleading for absolution. "Am I doing the right thing, Caleb? Is the medicine truly helping him? Sometimes... sometimes I fear I am making him worse."
Caleb looked into the eyes of the broken priest. He felt a fleeting moment of pity for Swanson, a man so desperate for redemption that he was unknowingly acting as an executioner.
"You are doing God's work, Reverend," Caleb lied flawlessly, his voice resonating with absolute conviction. "You are easing his suffering. Dutch was a danger to himself and to all of us. His mind was a storm that was going to tear this family apart. The medicine... it gives him peace. It slows the mania."
Caleb reached out and placed a reassuring hand on Swanson's trembling shoulder. "You are the only one who can care for him down there, Reverend. You are showing him mercy. Do not doubt yourself. You are protecting the flock."
Swanson let out a shuddering breath, the tension leaving his shoulders as he absorbed the absolution Caleb offered. He nodded slowly, clutching his Bible tighter.
"Mercy," Swanson repeated. "Yes. I am showing him mercy. Thank you, Caleb. Your words... they bring comfort to an old fool."
"Keep up the good work, Reverend," Caleb said, standing up. "I'll go check on him myself now."
Caleb left the Reverend by the chicken coop and walked toward the kitchen door of the main house, entering inside. The entrance to the cellar was a heavy wooden slant door set into the stone foundation, secured with a thick iron padlock.
Caleb produced the key, one of only three in existence, the others held by Arthur and Hosea, and unlocked the heavy padlock. The iron groaned in protest as he lifted the heavy wooden doors, revealing a set of steep, stone steps leading down into absolute darkness.
He took a lantern from a hook near the door, struck a match, and lit the wick. The yellow light flared, casting long, dancing shadows down the stairwell.
Caleb descended slowly. The air in the basement was damp, smelling of earth, old potatoes, and unwashed bodies. It was cold, the thick stone walls insulating the space from the warmth of the summer evening above.
At the bottom of the stairs, the basement opened up into a surprisingly large, reinforced storage area. In the far corner, secured to a heavy iron ring bolted deep into the foundation stone, was a length of thick chain.
At the end of the chain sat Dutch van der Linde.
Caleb held the lantern higher, illuminating the corner.
The transformation was shocking, even to Caleb who had designed it. Dutch, the man who had dressed in fine waistcoats, who had commanded respect with a mere look, who had roared speeches of freedom and defiance that shook the mountains... was gone.
He was sitting on a pile of dirty blankets, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was wearing a filthy, torn undershirt and trousers. His hair, once slicked back and immaculate, was wild, greasy, and shot through with grey. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones protruding sharply, and his eyes...
His eyes were vacant. The fierce, burning intelligence that had defined Dutch van der Linde was completely extinguished.
As the lantern light hit him, Dutch blinked slowly, turning his head with agonizing slowness toward Caleb. The movement was jerky, uncoordinated, a hallmark symptom of advanced bromide toxicity affecting the central nervous system.
"Arthur...?" Dutch rasped. His voice was a weak, trembling croak, devoid of any of its former resonance.
"No, Dutch," Caleb said smoothly, stepping closer but remaining just out of reach of the chain. "It's Caleb."
Dutch stared at him blankly for a long moment, his brow furrowing as if trying to grasp a concept that was slipping through his fingers like sand. A line of drool escaped the corner of his mouth, which he didn't seem to notice.
...
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: 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: -