#because you get a bounty for shooting guns from atop trains???

[kingfakey]

barely halfway thru the story and already past 50% completion YEEHAW!

[buckyegans]

“This is unfair!” You exclaimed, holding the loaded Nerf gun to your chest. This game was getting…intense to say the least. At this point, it had been normal for the Wayne children to preoccupy themselves on off-days with fairly immature activities. For example, a few weeks ago it was hide and seek (Damian won) then assassin (Damian won, again!). Now, it was Duke’s bright idea to purchase far too many Nerf guns while Bruce was away at a confrence for the day. Alfred? He was probably hiding away due to all the ruckus occuring in the once neat and tidy rooms of Wayne Manor. The game had been a steady chaotic climb from the moment Dick had declared the start: there was scrambling and running, the constant click of plastic as you all sprinted to hide and ready.

Alfred hated to admit that this was, in all honesty, a good training exercise. It had been all game at first—then, as Jason would say, shit got real. You realised that when you ducked behind the sofa to hide from Jason himself, who was silent despite the click of his guns. There was no outs of this game—if you got hit? Suck it up. Out of ammo? Find some more. It was do or die in this moment—and you? You needed to find a way to get to the staircase without Jason either seeing you or hitting you. In mention of a real scenario like this—there was only room for a handful of risks. Treating the little metal darts like lead bullets—you needed to make it safe and get into the clear.

“Why is it unfair?” Jason yelled.

“I don’t know—you’re like, a killshot!” You exclaimed as if it were the obvious (it was), stuffing darts into your Nerf gun. You knew from where you sat, Jason was in the heap of cushions and pillows. “Okay, and? Roy Harper taught you how to shoot—I don’t wanna hear it from you, dude!” Jason yelled back. You huffed, composing yourself and turned to look around the corner of the couch to assess the situation. Jason was looking down at his gun, reloading it. Just as you had guessed, your brother was stomach down on the cushions, socked feet hanging in the air as if he weren’t shooting at you. Jason looked up, locking eyes with you.

A grin flashed on his face and he aimed at you. You were quick to duck, scrambling back to your base at the couch. He snickered loudly. You looked around you for something—you were resourceful, everyone in the family knew that. So, you needed to use your resources. You looked to the kitchen before looking at the dining room table just some ways away from you. A ceramic bowl had tipped over earlier, its contents spilled onto the floor when Damian had used all his force to shove Dick out of his way when the game had started. Dick didn’t fall, but had lost his balance on the slick wood floor. Aha! You smiled widely, looking at the apple just out of arms reach. It’s not like you’d never thrown an apple at one of your siblings heads—because you had. So, why not once more for the sake of your hypothetical safety?

You stretched your arm and reached for it, fingertips barely touching the fruit. Jason was still firing over your head occasionally. Just as you grasped the apple, the staircase to your left filled with noise. There was half-assed yelling, and the familiar cackle from Steph. “How dare you point that feeble weapon at me, Timothy!” Stephanie yelled, accompanied by the sound of dragging. You and Jason both perked up, watching as Steph drug Tim on a cushion towards the staircase landing. There was more cushioning at the end of the plush stairs due to Dick setting a few ground safety rules. Tim held onto the cushion he was on loosely—looking a little bored. Steph stopped dragging him once she stood at the top of the stairs. “Look at me! I want to watch as you fall!” She yelled.

Tim looked up slowly. Steph’s foot met the edge of the cushion. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father—prepare to die!” Stephanie yelled, quoting the Princess Bride before shoving the cushion down the stairs. It had been an anticlimactic fall—well, more so a slide down the stairs. But, it gave you the chance to launch the apple towards Jason. It missed his head, hitting his shoulder. You stood with the Nerf bow in hand—eyes wide in a maniac sort of state. “GRENADE!” You yelled.

Stephanie came barreling into the room, making explosions sounds and shooting at Jason as she followed after you. You ditched your previous plan of the staircase due to Tim laying there—probably planning to sleep there until the game’s end, instead you opted to dip into the storage closet. You held your weapon close to yourself as you reached for the light. Once your fingers met it, switching it on, you jumped in surprise at the figure opposite of you. Sitting atop the shelves, knees close to his chest, Dick sat with his gun aimed at you.

“Funny seeing you here. Cass, lock the door.”

Cass slipped from underneath the shelves beside you and locked the door behind you. “Duke, reveal yourself.” Dick ordered after the door was locked. Out of the shadows of the room, Duke stepped into the dim light. “You got away from Jaybird, huh? You must have guts.” Dick said, dropping down from the shelf. You looked at him suspiciously. “I used my resources. Steph caused a scene so I threw a grenade at him.” You informed to your oldest brother. Dick dropped the act for a moment.

“A grenade?”

“An apple.”

“Oh. Anyways, I think you would be a good ally to my team.”

You pursed your lips. “What’s in it for me, Grayson?” You questioned.

Dick thought for a moment. “The bounty on Jason’s head is yours.”

This had turned from training to Star Wars very quickly. “Deal.” You said, holding your hand out. Dick shook it. “Let’s go take him out.” You said.

[rotten-games]

City of Immortals RO List

Okay so here it is, the list of ROs like I promised. Both mc's have their own pool of love interests to choose from with little overlap.

Here you’ll get a description of the ROs and some information on how the mc or others might view them. Also some info on the mc’s.

Mc1

Born to be a soldier by design, they were afflicted with immortality and stopped aging entirely once they hit thirty. A side effect—or perhaps a feature—is the beast that all but lives inside them, taking control when they feel incredibly strong emotions, though most often when anger is present. Where once they held full control of it, of the transformation they go through, now they must wrestle with its control with each passing day.

You are what’s called a Hunter. Every settlement has them, but Eden has the most. Caroline controls all her hunters from Eden, though ‘Hunter’ may be a bit of an oversimplification of the job description. Yes, one of their main jobs is providing food and other resources for the settlement, but they’re also bounty hunters, keepers of the peace, and are also often recruited for odd jobs when they have no contracts to fill. Perhaps the most important rule in Hunting, is that you always work in pairs.

Caroline: She/her

The best way to describe Carol is ‘short’, with a pair of unblinking amber eyes and a wind-buffeted, naturally tanned complexion. Her russet curls, while  usually out of her face, never seem to stay tied back for long, a seemingly constant slew of curls sticking to her forehead. A jagged scar cuts across the knuckles on her right hand.

Caroline is unrelenting. She knows what her settlement needs and she’ll be damned if she doesn’t get it—to save the lives of those she must oversee she is willing to do anything. Within reason. Truthfully, Caroline never asked to be made the leader of Eden, the job just sort of fell into her lap one day and no one bothered to take it from her. You’ve worked for her for years by the start of chapter one, and if you’ve learned anything about her it’s that she doesn’t do smalltalk. She’s been in a relationship with Lowrie for years now, and as far as you can tell, they’re very happy with one another.

Lowrie: non-binary, they/them pronouns

Impossibly tall and scrawny, Lowrie’s skin is constantly burned red by the sun, seemingly unable to tan no matter what they do. Their face is long, with ash-coloured, shoulder-length hair that would usually hide their grey eyes but is otherwise kept out of their face with a blue-patterned scarf.

Some have called Lowrie stuck up in the past for their less than talkative nature but that would be an oversimplification. In truth, they just aren’t fond of talking—which is probably why they get on with Harley so well—and more shy than anything else. One of Eden’s finest Hunters, they spend most of their time in the sweltering heat of Wasteland bringing bandits in and shooting any of the mangy beasts that stray too close to Eden. The rest of their time is spent managing the bar with Caroline and Harley, tending to keep to themself. You’ve worked with Lowrie in the past, and as far as you can tell there’s little love lost between the two of you. 

Carol + Lowrie poly:

Caroline and Lowrie are poly and in a committed relationship with one another. They will not leave one another for monogamy with mc, however, you don’t have to be in a throuple with them—though that’s definitely on the table—you can simply be with one, who is with both you and the other. Lowrie is also currently casually seeing Harley. Carol is not seeing anyone else.

Mordred: he/him.

With a seemingly constant fuzz along his jaw, and a never-ending supply of little scars littering his warm olive skin, his hair tends to cover everything but his yellow eyes and the deep bags underneath. His hair is typically tied into a loose bun at the back of his head, mostly obscuring his pierced, slightly pointed ears.

Mordred is a hot-headed, easily irritated young man who’s been by your side since day one. You dragged yourselves out of the crumbling ruins of Ledala together, you fought together, and now you work together as Hunters. Partner’s in crime doesn’t quite cover your relationship but it’s certainly close. In recent years, however, your relationship has strained—perhaps it’s due to past mistakes getting in the way, or past feelings, but either way at the start of the book he’s nowhere to be found.

At the start of the game you can determine just what your relationship is with him—it’s strained at this point but the reasons why are totally up to you. He can also potentially have been an old flame of MC2.

Ridley: Gender variable

Ridley is an energetic person with a pair of bright green eyes constantly sparkling with a glint of adventure. Despite their heavily-muscled frame, they seem to constantly be hiding behind their oversized glasses, a veil of their shaggy red hair, and a slouch that makes them out to be much smaller than they are.

Ridley is… an enigma. While technically a Hunter, they seem much more interested in the pursuits of science and research than holding off rabid beasts with nothing but a gun that’s falling apart and a rusty sword. Of course, they can hold their own well enough, but when they’re meant to be spending their time training or helping out—and indeed, even on their time off—they’re usually found traipsing around in the desert looking for… who knows what.

Doc: She/her

Doc is stocky and sharp-jawed, dark brown, almost black eyes always watching. Her dense curls are shoulder-length and appear twisted together and held back behind her head. The tip of her left ear appears to have been torn off somehow.

Not known for her bedside manner, Doc travels between settlements to tend to the sick, injured, and broken, and though none can particularly vouch for her interpersonal skills (though who can say anyone has particularly good ones, these days?), they can certainly do so for her medicinal accomplishments. Some think her a wandering ghost, aiding those who need help to make up for the sins of her past, others simply see her as a woman seeking to do her part for the good of Wasteland, regardless, if you get on her bad side she’s been known to be liberal with her gun. Or so the rumors say.

J. Allard: Gender variable

Allard is a nervous-looking, shifty individual with short but messy brown hair flecked with grey. Constantly fidgeting with the ring on their thumb, their stutter becomes more obvious the more nervous they are. Though their eyes hide behind a pair of darkened glasses, a pallid face a week out from its last wash they are, completely, honest. Trust me.

J. Allard is a totally normal priest. There is nothing strange about them, they simply want what is best for you and your companions.

Mc2

Dragged down into the depths of the earth on the day Ledala fell, you never knew of the city beneath the surface. Your sibling died that day, you’re sure of it, and a part of you died with them—the beast no longer responds to your call and you’re still left injured from whatever afflicted you and your comrades that day. The man who saved you set you to work for him—sorry, with him—and now you walk perpetually in the darkness of a city long since forgotten by the sun, with people named after the remnants of an old world you never knew existed. You were never meant to survive that night, and every day the world around you reminds you of that.

Arthur: he/him

Arthur doesn’t look quite there half the time. His skin is translucent, his pale blue eyes impossibly far away, platinum blond hair little more than wispy strands atop his head. Most of his body is otherwise covered completely by that old, brown coat of his. There’s light freckling across his nose.

Arthur saved you that night. A Private Investigator by trade, he brought you on to work together because you had no where else to go. Maybe because of it you should be closer than you are but there’s always been a distance between you he’s been unwilling to cross. Either way, despite working together—living together—he keeps to himself and you try to keep to yourself in turn. Still, you can’t help but notice the disdain he has for the City Council and their lackeys.

Perci: she/her

Perci is constantly smiling. Relaxed of posture, her straight hair once ashy brown is now dyed silver. It’s cut short at the sides and back, creating an undercut, most of her fringe tucked behind her ears to reveal a pair of dark brown, monolid eyes. She seems allergic to sleeves, taking whatever chance she gets to show off her cybernetic arm and the colourful tattoos that adorn her flesh arm.

A friend of Arthur who sometimes helps with investigations. She’s friendlier than he is with you, even inviting you out on occasion, but rebellion is on her lips more and more nowadays, and she isn’t subtle about it. You haven’t seen her in quite a while—as far as you can tell she and Arthur aren’t on speaking terms anymore after that big fight they had a few months back. As far as you can tell, she’s moved on and you certainly wouldn’t blame her if she has Council dogs on her heels.

Saga: Saga is always the same gender as your mc is.

Saga’s hair is a deep blue in colour, their black roots just barely growing through. Half of their head is shaved, the other half left chest-length and braided over their shoulder. Though their entire body seems to interwoven with tech, what is perhaps most interesting about them is the angular tattoo that crawls down the right side of their face. This is probably why they come to you completely covered in muck and baggy clothing.

Saga shows up at your door with a different name and a job. You aren’t given why, only the how, only the what. They’re stubborn and flighty in equal measure, suspicious of everyone around them including yourself. Oh, they dress the part of a street rat well, but the cash they have just on hand is nothing to blink at and, underneath all that grime, their skin is perfectly unmarred by the ravages of time.

Deimos: he/him, gay

Whether or not Deimos’ strength is his own or from borrowed, military-grade tech is anyone’s guess, but no one’s ever bothered to ask. Though he’s tall, he isn’t necessarily as muscular as the fear he commands would suggest. His eyes glow orange, black hair trimmed but not maintained, and his grin is enough to stop anyone in their tracks. For whatever reason, he always wears warm clothes.

Deimos is a Council dog who’s been hounding Arthur for a few years now. You’ve never officially met him; somehow whenever he drops into the office you always manage to be out. Whether that’s coincidence or because Arthur sends you out on errands very conveniently at those times it’s not for you to say. Somehow, he never seems to do too much damage to your colleague.

Adrastea: Non-binary, they/them or she/her pronouns, only attracted to nb or female mc’s

Adrastea has been voted the city’s most attractive person many years in a row now. Everything about them is perfect; perfect smile, perfect blue eyes, perfect cascading coils of iridescent hair, yet somehow despite their well-calculated appearance it’s like there’s a tiger waiting to pounce on any wary admirer who comes too close.

While not a member of the council they hold great sway simply by virtue of their age and the fact they’re so beloved by the populace. You’ve seen them on the holos, how they’re oh, so giving to the needy and even invite the commonfolk to their lavish parties all the important council members attend. It’s an act, it has to be; through their gorgeous smile and all those sheer dresses they seek nothing if not attention. A lot of their history is shrouded and deleted from public record, but you do know that they were once a head scientist that took part in the very same project that supposedly made you what you are today.

Dagda: gender variable

Dagda is the perfectly attractive face everyone sees on their screens every night. In a world of cybernetic bodies and unnaturally bright lights, they are the one person who almost looks... natural. With a perfectly cultivated appearance of salt and pepper hair, soulful brown eyes, and that winning smile, nothing about them is their own; everything they do exactly what everyone else tells them to do.

The mouthpiece of the Council, Dagda is seen to be charming and down to earth in the vids. They say Ledala is prospering more than it has in decades, that the crime rates are lowering thanks to the wonderful work they and their colleagues on the Council are doing. Of course, there always has been a certain emptiness behind their eyes. When the camera isn’t rolling, you wonder what they really think.

[mercysought]

   “You shoot well.”

Her ears are still ringing, the gun still held out in front of her and smoke pouring from its mouth. From beneath the heavy sun, she doesn’t see him well at first, but recognises his voice well enough. The cold metal (now warm from her hands and the sweat) felt more comfortable against her hand. Squinting under the sun with only her hand to protect her sigh, she could see she had hit the target. Not right, not perfectly but enough. She was not aiming for perfection, she needed only to get the target to stop moving and to allow her to leave.

Émilie glances in Billy’s direction, brow’s arched. The focus with which she had been using to aim and prepare the weapon must have been so that she hadn’t seen or heard him approach. Alarming in a sense, given how tall the man was. 

   “I had good teachers.” 

The gun is lowered, held now with both hands. Her forearms are exposed and filled with small ginger freckles, the sleeves from her shit bunch at her elbows. It was an odd choice in combination of clothes; the looser fit pants, loose shirt and corset. A long coat that touched the back of her knees. Black fabric wrapped around the back of her long black hair in a pony tail.

   “Abel?” he asks, leaning against one of the many crates left there, waiting for their owners to return and collect them. 

She follows his form only loosely, her fingers absentely touching the top edges of the gun.

   “For a time.” a short time, after much complaining and demands. She had been taught how to hold one, she hadn’t been old enough to actually be allowed to shoot. Her mother had used one, not quite like this one, on hunting trips. 

She starts preparing the pistol for another shot. Slow and steady, each step confirmed and cutting through the line of thought that lined her words into english “Then we were both...“ she frowns, inhaling sharply.

They had both been trained in sword fighting, pistols. Their parents hadn’t been happy, but at times (more often than not) they cracked and allowed her to join Abel in his trainings. Abel did his best to teach her but he was not much of one either. Not because he was not patient, if Abel has anything in bountiful amounts it is that: patience; but because he simply could not explain it beyond his first explanation “Then we were both put on different paths, and I was told my talents would be better suited... Elsewhere.“

She didn’t know why she was micing words here, but she was in no rush to tell him that her parents thought that she was sick. Sick, weak. Sensitive. Her talents then turned towards sowing, reading, a lot of reading, resting. Learning how to deal with nightmares. Answering questions as she knew people wanted her to. A talent to hold onto her sanity. Or perhaps this too was hysteria, an exaggeration.

The pistol is raised once again, aimed. A second passes. Two seconds. She shoots and a piece of the wooden target splinters off violentely, flinging itself into the sand. Émilie walks towards it, lifting her knees to attempt to not drag her boots in the sand.

   “Feels like they were wrong.”

She feels her shoulders shrinking, shrugging when no real words and responses come. Nothing that would fit, nothing that wouldn’t either pass as exasperated or simply stating the obvious. Whatever it was, it was in the past and neither she or he could do anything about it. She had spent too much time stuck between walls that she had come to know too well and gardens that had no rabbit holes left for her to explore. Too much time spent within pretty barred chambers to let herself remain there now that she stood there: in the middle of this island sorrounded by many different people with many different walks of life. That would be a waste: to think about what was.

A waste of time to fear what would be when they returned. A waste of time to fear the fact that she didn’t particularly want to return.

Blue eyes glance towards Billy, her fingers returning once again to work on placing the bullets in the chambers again. Her attention returns to the pistol that she held between long freckled fingers, carefully following through the steps of preparing the weapon again. Methodically, as she knew it would eventually become second nature. Her attention pulled from the man that watched her with squinted eyes from the sun.

Émilie’s eyes find his figure again once she is finished. A brow arched, the hand that held the pistol lowering to the side of her body and the other pulling the long strands of hair off her eyes and behind her ear. She had never seen a man that was drowning walk the shores so easily, and yet for a man that towered over so many the weight of his brow seemed to shrink him to the point where he cast no shadow in the sun.

The exhale that leaves her is heavy, slowly walking past the stumps of wood that had been dug and left there (akin to graves, in a way. She felt that perhaps that spoke more of her mobid view of the world than necessarily a fair representation of reality). He looks up to her and despite his expression being likely the lightest that she has seen on his face in a while, the deepning wrinkles on his forehead speak as clearly as the whirlpool of nervousness, guilt, disgust and three hundred different thoughts that swirl in his mind.

It is a morbid curiosity that anchors her to sit next to him. The gun is put away. Both hands fold over her stomach first; and in the same second they instead move to the side of the wooden crates that acted as backdrop to both of them. Billy resting his hip on them and her, with both hands resting atop them, hoisting herself to sit.

She looks at him, brows knitting with each passing second and teeth that sink into her tongue. Émilie doesn’t lean in on the whirlpool but feels herself be slowly be pulled in anyway.

   “What?” he asks with quirked brow, chin lifting only enough to look at her in the eye.

   “You look really concerned about something.” something, that something made her tremble. For herself, for him, for her brother. She could put a face, a shape to the something though to do so would be to dictate the conversation from him to the shape. This was not about the something, it was about her, about him, about her brother “Have since I met you. but it’s getting...“ his eyes lower, first down to her hand at the edge of the crate, then to the wooden floor that was half covered in sand; finally, to the horizon “It’s getting worse...”

Her own head tilts, her eyes remain on his before following his gaze “Isn’t it?”

He nods, though Émilie knew the answer before it truly came. Before the silence that had been settled, interrupted only by the sound of the waves came to a close when he spoke again: 

Telling her the tale the sleeping Walrus and the blank sheet of paper that kept it under.

[jackiesieks]

Psychological Break Down of Dutch van der Linde

First of all, allow me to say this post will contain spoilers for Red Dead Redemption I, and Red Dead redemption II. If you have not played either, or wish to avoid spoilers, please stop reading. Just in case as well, I'm going to add a content warning for mentions of abuse, mental illness, and trauma.

Second, I would like to state that from a psychological perspective, Red Dead Redemption II is truly fascinating. Not just graphically, or musically. It is a game that has, in my opinion, remastered the art of story telling. The slower pace allows time for viewers to stop, reflect, think, rather than being hustled from story line to story line. Players can absorb the events of the game with in depth immersion, losing themselves for hours in an open world platform.

This game is a psychological goldmine.

As Arthur, you roam the open world. You can lay out under the stars, cook food around a campfire, listen to the sounds of nature. It is quiet. It is free. Most importantly, it puts you in the position to understand why they member of the gang fights so hard to maintain this freedom. The city of Saint Denis is loud, the air filled with toxic fumes of the factories. Rhodes is so torn apart by its own politics, it is stuck in a perpetual war with itself. The "great" civilization everyone seems to desire is filthy, corrupt, and the van der Linde gang wants no part of it.

However, for this installment, I'd like to focus on Dutch van der Linde, the charismatic leader of the van der Linde gang. While he did many wrong things, I do not believe he is a bad guy, or even a villain. I would, however, like to present to the table the theory that he is mentally ill.

Dutch shows classic signs of a person who experienced childhood trauma, even abuse. We know he lost his father in the Civil War, an event that never truly left him. An argument could be made that he suffered from survivor's guilt, possibly even post traumatic stress disorder. Recall, these things didn't have names at the time. There was no therapist, no medication, and untreated mental illnesses can get worse. We know he didn't see eye to eye with his mother, but we don't exactly know what that entails. Men really couldn't talk about abuse, trauma, or any such things at the time because that meant they were weak. Dutch van der Linde is many things, but weak he'll never be. We have to look at his actions, his reactions, to really understand him as a character.

Dutch has two personalities. One is Dutch van der Linde, the leader, the showman. He is the conductor, the gang members are his instruments. All eyes are upon him. He surrounds himself in luxury because he dreams of a better life than the one he's been given, yes, but because he's also leading by example. In various conversations in camp, he comments that he raised Arthur to be a proper gentlemen. That is what Dutch wants, to be seen as a proper gentlemen. He has a very nice horse, a very nice tent. This has never been uncommon. On pirate ships, the Captain has the best quarters. In war, the leaders have the better tents/rations/things. So we cannot use his luxury as the sole definition of his personality. We don't know what was stolen, or if he used camp money to acquire these things.

I don't believe he is narcissistic. He doubts himself far too much to be a narcissist. This can be heard during quiet conversations, when he removes the showman's act and becomes just Dutch. He doubts himself, his choices, his actions, and the best course forward.

During my second play through I spent way more time in camp just listening and watching. If you haven't done this, I highly recommend doing so. One peculiar instance really stuck out. I followed Dutch around. He would leave his tent, talk to everyone, give encouraging words, before returning to his tent to read or write. After the Pinkertons show up and tell Arthur they only want Dutch, we see a sudden shift. He leaves the tent and stands at the edge of the cliff, and remains there for over twelve hours. (Results may very). This is the only time I've seen any member of the gang remain still (unless they had a mission). All night, into the next day, he stands at the edge of the cliff. When Arthur speaks to him, his answers are almost angry or perturbed. For the next three game days, his answers to the exact same dialogue prompts seen hopeless, forlorn.

Then, suddenly, it shifts again. He's back to walking around, talking to people. His answers sound confident again. I thought, perhaps, I'd reached the end of the animation cycle until I realized Molly was suddenly unhappy when she'd been fine before. At various moments Dutch claims he can't get a moment's peace.

We do see moments where Dutch accuses Arthur early on about doubting him, and while it could be seen as a manipulative tactic, I think it's more along the lines of he is doubting himself, and assumes Arthur does as well. He trusts Arthur, Hosea, and John too much. The idea of them doubting him plays hard on his insecurities. I honestly believe Dutch suffers from a mild form of psychosis.

We see an even bigger shift in his personality after he cracks his head in Saint Denis. Some interesting facts about brain injuries.

A man working on the railroad had a rail shoot through his brain. He managed to live, much to the surprise of everyone, but his entire personality changed. This incident helped give birth to neuroscience.

A man suffering from depression decided to end his life. He shot himself, and managed to live. He destroyed part of his brain, but it happened to be part of his brain where his depression came from (disclaimer: do not attempt)

Stroke patients often undergo a radical shift in personality depending on which section of the brain that was damaged.

We see clear evidence of the radical personality shift. If Dutch had an unknown mental disorder, a traumatic brain injury could very well have made it worse. So, you have the perfect formula for a mental breakdown, or a psychotic episode.

Childhood trauma

Worsening mental illness

High stress

Traumatic brain injury

Even in his worst moments we see little signs of lucidity that quickly become buried under the avalanche of mental mess ups.

Many argue that Dutch is bad, he's a villain. I completely disagree, and present to you this evidence to support my claims. The following contains strong SPOILERS for RDR2 and RDR1.

Sadie and John seek out Micah, and get surprised by Dutch's presence. Sadie probably became a bounty hunter shortly after Arthur's passing, and we know it took her years to track down Micah. That's with connections, working with the government, etc. Dutch lost everyone, so it probably took him years to track down Micah as well.

Given how he obsesses, we can assume he obsessively searched for him, tricking him to get closer to him and get his Blackwater money back. But if Dutch was a bad guy, truly, why didn't he shoot John?

Micah had Sadie, she was injured, couldn't fight back. Dutch could have easily taken him out right there. Instead, he shoots Micah, and leaves the money behind without a word.

We all know what happens when Dutch walks away. Something, or someone, dies. Obviously there is a lot we could break down from that lone interaction, but let's step forward.

In rdr1, John's family is taken hostage, and the only way he can see them again is to hunt down and kill the last of his gang. John doesn't want to, he wants to live out his life as a rancher. But his hand is forced, and he must now resume the life he swore he'd leave behind.

The first time John and Dutch see each other again, Dutch asks about his family. John responds he hadn't seen them in a while. We know Dutch is smart. John suddenly surrounded by lawmen trying to find him, he knows John doesn't want to be there. He even says "We all make mistakes, John, I never claimed to be a saint." Dutch is out gunned, yet he attempts to goad him into shooting him. Power play, possibly. Once again, Dutch and John have the perfect opportunity to take each other out, but they don't. Dutch shoots the girl and runs away.

Multiple times John and Dutch run into each other, each presented with the perfect opportunity to the each other. Yet neither of them take the opportunity. Both men are highly skilled gunslingers, highly trained to murder. They seem capable of murdering everyone around them, but not each other. Why?

Then we come to the final scene between Dutch and John.

Stood atop a cliff, they are once more faced with the perfect opportunity to end each other. Dutch could have shot John, and vice versa, but neither move. John shot Dutch, but it wasn't a lethal shot. Dutch could have easily healed from it. Instead, he chooses to fall to his death.

Suicide by jumping is a truly terrifying way to go, and it's a method rarely used as most suicidal people want quick and painless deaths. While it could be argued that Dutch was cornered and that was his only way out, I disagree. Dutch could have killed John and found a way to escape. There are millions of scenarios that could have happened, but didn't. He jumps. But then the question becomes, once more, why? Jumping from a cliff to their death, suicide in general, has always been a taboo subject, but it was even more taboo back in the early 1900s. A narcissist wouldn't allow for such an undignified exit, he'd want something far more grandeur to ensure he's remembered. A truly evil, or bad, man would have ended John rather than run away. It doesn't make sense. Unless, you look at it as an act of mercy.

Dutch knows he wronged John, wronged them all. He knew he messed up with Arthur, with Micah. The loss of so many of his family members probably haunted him every step of the way. I think he threw himself off the cliff as a final mercy to John so he didn't have to pull the trigger, and to give into the pain he felt he deserved for all he'd done.

I think he was sloppy because he wanted to be found. How else do you explain him disappearing for years, then popping back up? His whole philosophy has been about getting money and disappearing, yet he holes up in a fort. Even when he knows John has found him, he doesn't leave. He shows up when he wants to be found.

While I am not saying Dutch is a good man, I do not consider him to be the villain, or the evil narcissist everyone claims him to be. I think he was a sad little boy with a mental illness, who became horrifically misguided, and drove himself crazy before ending his own life.

I hope you all liked this! If you did, maybe I'll do another break down!

[splat-dragon]

Hosea’d only ever been kind to you, surely you were working yourself up over nothing? “I… see, there’s this horse I’ve been eyeing over at the Scarlett Horse Shop,” wait, did he know which stable that was? “The, uh, the one in Lemoyne? Down by Rhodes?” he nodded, looking amused, and you were sure you were redder than Kieran’s Branwen, “Thing is, I can ride ‘em, and I can steal ‘em, but I don’t know a single damn thing about how to tell if they’re a good horse or not. And, well, I ain’t gonna throw away money on a shit horse, ya know? Can’t just sell it back to Clay, I’d be lucky to get a dollar for it.”

Hosea chuckled, and nodded—Clay was a hell of a cheat, and the only reason the lot of you sold horses to him was because it was safer than trying to sell a stolen horse to the stables and risk getting caught it; if he got caught with the stolen horses, then it was his neck on the line. He gestured at you as though to say both ‘and?’ and ‘go on’, so you hurried to. “Well, I was hoping, if you have the time of course, I know you’re busy, that you could come give him a look-over before I buy him? I think he’s a good horse, but, well, I don’t really know.”

As the heavy horses thunder by With the living horseman's cry ~Heavy Horses, Jethro Tull

  “Mr. Hosea?”

 The old(er, never, ever call him straight up old, he’d have you strung up before you could say ‘oops’) man paused in his reading, looking up at you, though he didn’t even need to hear your voice to know it was you; you’d not been with the gang long, only a month or so, but you’d gotten rather attached to him in that time. It wasn’t uncommon for him to look up and find that you’d chosen a seat near him, stretched out and polishing your guns, or reading or writing, stitching your clothes or any number of the chores you did in camp.

 In the short amount of time you’d been with them, he’d come to learn that you were not one for idle work, for women’s work. Give you a gun or a bow and a horse between your legs, and you’d be happy. He could see you quickly becoming one of Dutch’s new golden children, being as you were one of the youngest members in the gang, only just older than Lenny, and already having scraped in a decent amount of money. Hosea could see Arthur in you, the need to prove yourself, that they hadn’t made a mistake taking you in.

 He hoped that Dutch didn’t ruin you, too.

“Need something, my dear?” he asked, marking his page and setting his book aside. You didn’t have a gun in your hands, only your usual pistol on your hips, so he didn’t think you were going to ask him to come with you on a heist (not that he had any sort of issue with it, it was actually nice to stretch his legs every once in a while), but you sounded even more uncertain than unusual, which was rather impressive.

 “Do you have a moment?”

 He nodded, patting the dirt besides his bedroll to invite you to sit, putting his book on the crate that served as a night stand. “Of course, what do you need?”

 Even as you sat, you shifted, feeling the fool and looking around. There, Javier was plucking his guitar by the campfire, Arthur sketching in that journal of his. Dutch was smoking a cigar by his tent, Charles playing his harmonica (and you were certain he did that while Javier was playing to get under everyone’s skins, but he’d never admit it and no one would believe him if he said so besides) and even Trelawney was there for once, fiddling with a deck of cards.

 So many people you could have asked, and you had to bother Hosea of all people! Arthur knew horses, knew them well, you could have asked him, though he was so busy, in your short time it hadn’t escaped you that he did the brunt of the work and you’d tried to shoulder some of it for him, and for yourself and the gang as well of course, but asking Hosea? One of the leaders? How presumptuous! How foolish!

 But he was looking at you, and you’d look even more foolish if you changed your mind and bolted, so you crossed your legs, not caring that you didn’t look lady-like, who cared to be lady-like? you were in jeans, so it wasn’t as though you were giving him a show, but oh! he could see your ankles, the indecency! Why, you ought to just keel over now and save your ancestors the shame, you’d robbed, you’d murdered, but oh! you’d shown a man your ankles!

 ...yeah, you were getting off track. Hosea’d only ever been kind to you, surely you were working yourself up over nothing? “I… see, there’s this horse I’ve been eyeing over at the Scarlett Horse Shop,” wait, did he know which stable that was? “The, uh, the one in Lemoyne? Down by Rhodes?” he nodded, looking amused, and you were sure you were redder than Kieran’s Branwen, “Thing is, I can ride ‘em, and I can steal ‘em, but I don’t know a single damn thing about how to tell if they’re a good horse or not. And, well, I ain’t gonna throw away money on a shit horse, ya know? Can’t just sell it back to Clay, I’d be lucky to get a dollar for it.”

 Hosea chuckled, and nodded—Clay was a hell of a cheat, and the only reason the lot of you sold horses to him was because it was safer than trying to sell a stolen horse to the stables and risk getting caught it; if he got caught with the stolen horses, then it was his neck on the line. He gestured at you as though to say both ‘and?’ and ‘go on’, so you hurried to. “Well, I-I was hoping, if you have the time of course, I know you’re busy, that you could come give him a look-over before I buy him? I think he’s a good horse, but, well, I don’t really know.”

 The man started to laugh, in that low, rasping way of his, and you could have crawled into a hole and died. You’d been right, you should have asked Arthur, or Charles, or even Javier or, hell, even Clive, though Clay talked his brother down you tended to get along with him and it was obvious he had a great deal of horse sense, you’d known the two long before joining the gang so maybe you could ask a favor? They did owe you a few, after all?

 “Of course,” he shook his head, “You had me thinkin’ you were goin’ to ask me to take you out back and shoot ya, from how worried you seemed,” and you couldn’t help the startled laugh that tore from your throat,

 “No, never!” if you’d ever needed that, you’d ask Micah, he’d probably agree in a heartbeat, though after a moment’s thought maybe someone else, he seemed the type to play with his prey, drag them around until they begged for death, you hadn’t been with them long but it was clear that Micah was nothing shy of a snake—and not the good kind, you actually didn’t mind snakes so long as they kept well clear of you and your horse, but the kind that snuck into birds’ nests and ate their eggs, cowards all.

 “When were you wanting to go?” he asked, looking thoughtful, like your ma used to when she was going over her planner, “I can’t go tonight, it’s gettin’ too late anyways, and tomorrow I said I would take Arthur hunting and that’ll take us through the weekend, probably. Is Monday alright?”

 You nodded, quickly, probably too quickly from the way his grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah, yeah of course, I can take some work in Rhodes while I wait? I still have my bounty license and there’s always a ton there,” working as an outlaw and a bounty hunter always gave you a bit of a laugh, but it worked! Having someone slung over the back of your horse always got you some side-eyes, sometimes a gun cocked your way, but more often than not a flash of your badge had you safely on your way, whether it was actually bounty business or not, and of course it tended to keep you in good standing with lawmen and sheriffs, so when things went missing or you played at being an outlaw, it wasn’t you they looked for.

 And, besides, when you saw your… could you call them family? That was what Dutch preached, but you had only been with them such a short time, and though most of them were nice enough, could you claim to be family? Hell, could you even claim them as friends? as it were, when you saw their posters, you could tear them down in front of anyone under the guise of intending on hunting them down without being questioned.

Come Monday, you waited atop your mare not far from the Scarlett Horse Shop. Of course you already had a horse, you’d have died a long time ago without one, had had several actually, some of them dying, others sold off to the Davies brothers after proving themselves unsuitable for a lifestyle such as yours. And while Rosie was a good horse, a Walker at that with a decent running walk, but having a second horse could never hurt and, besides, different horse breeds had different uses and she could do with a sturdier horse for train robbing and bounty hunting, jumping off a train onto such a small horse was a feat in and of itself. And, seeing as you hunted both for profit and to feed the gang, having a horse on which you could throw extra carcasses and hides on would be a great help.

 You hadn’t let the stablemaster know that you were coming that day, and hadn’t let him see you as you rode up, either. While you’d never actually bought a horse from a stable—they’d all been stolen, broken, ‘gifted’, or taken from folks what didn’t need them anymore, it didn’t take a fool to realize that giving him time to hide anything wrong with the horse wasn’t a good idea. Rosie had actually been one of the gang’s ‘spare’ horses, kept around in case one of the girls needed to go riding, or one of the men’s horses were down or had just come back from a long ride or any other number of reasons. You’d grabbed Rosie for a wagon robbery—Thomas, the Morgan you’d had when you joined the gang, was damn near useless when it came to gunfire, and you’d intended on handing him off to the Davies brothers the moment you could, and fallen in love with her temperament, her sturdiness and the running walk she’d fallen into without any prompting.

  Technically, the spares weren’t supposed to get names, much less become someone’s main horse, but Thomas had become infamous before you’d been with them for two weeks and so they’d made an exception, and you hadn’t felt terribly sorry for selling Thomas off to Clay.

Hosea called out a greeting as he rode up to you, not wanting to risk getting shot. He was right on time—you’d learned quickly that, while a con-man and a shyster, he never broke a promise to his gang. Silver Dollar whickered at Rosie, who returned the greeting, raising her head. As you’d grown attached to Hosea, looking to him as a father-figure, she’d taken to Silver Dollar as well.

 “I really appreciate this, Hosea,” you said again, as you hitched your mare to the posts, and the man shook his head, clapping you on the shoulder as he followed you to the barn,

 “Any time!” he chuckled, before calling out a greeting to the stablemaster as the man walked out of the barn. The man welcomed you back, and the surprised pride on Hosea’s face when he referred to you by an alias had you standing just that little bit taller although, you thought, perhaps you should have told him ahead of time, it wouldn’t have been good if he’d called you the wrong name.

 “Now, who might this be?” the scruffy man asked, and Hosea offered his hand as he replied,

 “Melvin, Melvin McGinty, my daughter here asked me to look over a horse before she bought it.” the stablemaster grinned, shook his hand,

 “Good man, I’m Eris Feldman, here to see the same horse as always?” and you couldn’t help but to grin sheepishly, nodding. You came by the stable’s often, wanting to keep Rosie in good shape and, with all the hard riding you did, that meant you had to get her serviced regularly, and he always cared for her like she was his own horse.

 “Yessir,” and he chuckled,

 “He’s in his stall, follow me.” and you did, Hosea in front of you. The barn wasn’t the fanciest barn, not by a long-shot, but you liked it better than a lot of the other stables in the surrounding states because it led out to a nice paddock, thick with grass, not dust or dirt. The Strawberry stables were nice, too, but their paddocks were all dust, no grass to be seen, and the stables in Saint Denis, while fancy on the inside, had no paddocks to speak of period, same as the one in Blackwater.

 The gelding raised his head and nickered at you happily, and you crooned a ‘hey boy,” as you stroked his nose, Hosea looking the horse over. Just from his stall he could tell it was a massive thing, just under seventeen hands and standing taller than you at the shoulder, bulky and muscular, probably some sort of war breed—and with how large it was he already knew he’d be much more critical than if it was a smaller horse; a large horse was harder to handle, even if it were well-behaved.

 “This is Cliff, though of course you’re welcome to call him whatever you want,” the stablemaster introduced, grabbing the horse’s halter and leading him out of the stall. Hosea watched his stride, looking for any sign of lameness, of limping, if the horse had been used for any sort of hauling before it would be easy for it to have been made lame. Its hooves thumped heavily on the ground, but that was to be expected of such a massive horse, and christ but its hooves were the size of dinner plates. “He’s an Ardennes, five years old and gelded. We started him under saddle at three years old,” and that was a good thing, and Hosea nodded appreciatively, though you looked at him, tilting your head—why did he like that so much? “He’s fully trained for riding, and has been desensitized to gunfire.”

 Of course that was needed in their line of work, but you’d need to test if he was telling the truth before forking over the money for the horse.

Eris led Cliff outside for you to get a better look at him in the sunlight, and Hosea looked him over with a critical eye. He was a handsome enough horse, a bay roan if he was right, head and some of his neck orange-red, most of him powdered over an off-white, mane black fading to white, tail the opposite, but looks didn’t matter much in horses; he fully believed in the saying that ‘there’s no such thing as an ugly good horse,’ and while Cliff was pretty enough an ugly, scarred up horse could be the best horse you’d ever own.

 “What’ll you be usin’ him for?” Eris asked as Hosea ran his fingers along the geldings legs, picking them up to look at his hooves—he was freshly shod—and you shrugged,

 “Some of everything. I hunt, mostly, but I do a bit of bounty work now and then, which is why I like the looks of him. Need a sturdy horse. Love my Rosie, of course,” you tilted your head at the red roan Walker, “but she’s not the sturdiest,” Eris nodded.

 Hosea called to you, and you approached him, heart in your stomach—you’d sworn you wouldn’t get attached to the horse for fear of it having some fault that made it unsuitable, but at some point the Ardennes had won your heart. “Here, see this?” he pressed on the frog of Cliff’s hoof, had you do the same, felt it move beneath your fingers, “that’s what you want it to feel like. And what the hoof should look like, anyways. No cracks or nothin’,” and you grinned, so far he was passing muster it seemed like!

 He tugged you back to stand and look at how Cliff was standing, “Now, see how he’s standin’? Never even think of buy a horse who stands any other way, some horses stand with their legs well ahead of them. You ever see a horse like that, you walk right away and don’t buy a horse from that stable ever, that’s a sick horse and it’ll go out from under you ‘for you make it home.” you nodded seriously, trying to picture a horse standing that way, but couldn’t, although it sounded like it was distinct enough that you’d be able to recognize it when you saw it.

 “That’s called founder,” Eris called out, approaching and patting Cliff on the neck, “where their hooves get all swolle’ up, hurts ‘em somethin’ fierce, kindest to put ‘em down when they get it. Usually see it in fat horses, or unshod work horses,” he frowned, picking up Cliff’s hooves to give them a quick lookover, and you grinned at Hosea proudly— see? you seemed to say, this is why I come to him even when the other stables are closer, he gives a damn!—and he shook his head with a pat on your shoulder.

Carefully, Hosea reached for the gelding’s face—he didn’t know if he was head shy, which would be a deal-breaker if he was, of course, and didn't fancy being bitten. But while Cliff eyed him as though to say ‘what do you think you’re doing old man?’ he allowed him to do so, urging him to open his mouth so he could examine his teeth.

 “Here, see? You want to make sure he’s not got any lumps or wounds in his mouth, those are from bad teeth and can make even the sweetest horse sour. And always check a horse’s teeth, make sure they ain’t too long, or too short or worn, and that there ain’t any missin’.”

 “And see his eyes?” he let the horse close his mouth, stroking his velvety nose to thank him for being such a good sport about it, “they should be clear and bright, means he can see you and won’t kick you clear across camp just for the sin of walking up to him.” you snorted, “Well, at least he shouldn’t.”

 Hosea patted Cliff on the neck, gesturing you to follow him as he led you to the horse’s side, running his fingers down his flank, “Here, feel his ribs?” You nodded with a ‘yeah’, and scratched his fur for good measure, “That’s what you want, but you shouldn’t be able to see them easily, that means he’s underweight. If you can’t feel them, though, or if you have to make an effort too, then he’s too heavy.” His lips twitched up into a grin, and you eyed him warily, “It’s why you don’t want to buy from Saint Denis’ stable, all the horses there’ll be fat as their masters.”

 Eris gave a startled bark of laughter.

 Hosea allowed his fingers to run along some of the gelding’s muscles appreciatively, before scratching his shoulder to thank him for putting up with his inspection and stepping back. “Can she ride him?” and you brightened—so you had his approval? Well, at least so far?

 “A’course,” Eris nodded, and disappeared into the nearby shack to grab his tack, and you turned to Hosea.

 “So...  what-what do you think of him so far?”

 Hosea hesitated, thinking, “Well, he seems like he’s in good shape. Good teeth, good hooves, good build. And seems like he has a good temperament, considering he let me manhandle him.” You perked up—so he liked him? “Although are you sure you can handle so much horse? He is pretty big.”

 “I’ve ridden bigger!” you were quick to say, “I’ve had a few Shires, and they’re a lot bigger. ‘Sides, a big horse’ll be useful for my bounty hunting, don’t you think? And for,” you looked to the tack shed, “for trick ridin’ and things.” Even though Eris was out of earshot, it was better to be safe than sorry.

 He nodded, had to acquiesce, “Just gotta make sure you can handle him first, he’s a different breed, so he’ll handle differently.”

 “Yessir,” you hummed, watching as Eris returned, massive saddle in hand. And it was true, while Cliff was smaller than the Shires, he was wider, and squatter, so he’d be a lot different when it came to turning, jumping, and all those important things.

 Eris helped you to tack Cliff up, with Hosea standing nearby to watch the horse, see how he reacted. Make sure he didn’t have any common vices—didn’t suck in his breath so the belly-strap would be loose, didn’t stamp his hooves or pull his head back when you reached up to put the bit in his mouth. But though the flesh of his stomach twitched as you cinched the strap, he stood still aside from the flicking of his tail to swat away flies, happily accepting a sugar cube you offered him when you finished.

 Grabbing his lead-rope, you led him to the paddock, testing how he followed, and though he was much larger than you he followed along like a loyal hound, strides short to account for your slow pace, although he did lower his head to snuffle at your pocket in search of further treats he stopped when you pushed his massive head away, blowing as though in apology.

 “Alright, let’s see you ride him then, up you get!” Hosea called, leaning on the fence after closing the gate behind you. It took a bit of a hop to get your foot into the stirrup, but you wouldn’t always have the luxury of a stump or fence to help you reach his saddle, and that was a nasty habit to get into besides, so you got comfortable in his saddle, giving him a moment to adjust to your weight. He was a bit wide between your legs, but you’d get used to it eventually, you knew.

 “Good boy,” you crooned, stretched forward to scratch his neck—and carefully test how he’d react to a drastic change in balance on his back.

 “Walk him,” Hosea called your name, “just see how he rides at first,” and so you did, cueing him to walk. He did so readily, beginning to plod forward beneath you. Like any war horse you’d ridden, his stride wasn’t the smoothest, but that was to be expected and so you adjusted for it, moving with him easily. Hosea’s eyes burned holes in you as you rode him slowly around the paddock once, and once you looked up to find him staring at Cliff, eyeing his legs, his body, his stride.

 “Trot him,” he called out simply as you passed him, having finished a walking lap, and so you squeezed your calves to speed him up, but he didn’t speed up, continuing to trot, and your heart sunk to your stomach, you’d gotten your hopes up, he’d been so perfect

 “Kiss him,” Eris was quick to correct you, and you clicked your tongue with a squeeze of your calves in time with his stride and that time he obeyed his stride picking up into a bouncing trot that you were quick to post, not wanting to rattle your teeth out of your head. You loved wars, they were nice for hard work, but christ if they weren’t painful trotters! You could see Hosea frowning, and knew what he was thinking, and agreed—you’d have to train him out of the kiss, he’d need to learn to respond to just body cues, but he couldn’t be perfect.

 He trotted a ring around the paddock once, twice, three times, and you found yourself worrying, had Hosea noticed something you hadn’t? Was there something that had been hid by the bounce of his trot? But, finally, as you passed him a fourth time, he called out “Canter,” and you forgot to cluck as you cued him to canter, but he still did as asked and you wondered if he’d only been trained to respond to a kiss for a trot and why , but his canter was much smoother, rocking beneath you as you shifted from the post to sit deep in his saddle, enjoying the swaying motion—you’d always enjoyed war horse’s canters, they were always nice, riding him a few times around the paddock.

“Alright,” Hosea called out, and you eased him to a stop in front of the pair; from the amused look on your ‘father’s’ face you were beaming from ear to ear but you couldn’t help it, you’d had a blast!

 “You can use the fence if you need to see how he jumps,” Eris offered, and some of the tension left your shoulders even as you looked at Hosea, who nodded. That was very important in… well, everything you did, to be quite honest, so you trotted him to the far side of the paddock and kissed him into a trot, shifting as he leaped the fence, his landing rather harsh, cueing him into a canter and swinging him around, jumping the fence again and finding the landing much kinder to your everything, throwing a thumbs-up to Hosea before walking Cliff up to them with a fond thump to his neck.

“He rides beautifully, what do you think?” Hosea asked, although from the quirk of his lips you knew you were still beaming,

 “His trot is a bit rough,” you admitted, “but I was expecting that.” and he inclined his head, glad that you’d been honest. “Need to try his gallop.”

 “Mr. Feldman (“Call me Eris”) said we’re welcome to use the driveway to give him a run,” he gestured to the wide pathway and you nodded, looking to see if there were any deer, why deer were so attracted to that spot you hadn’t a clue, before cueing him into a trot, then a canter, and then a gallop that took your breath away, so smooth that you barely felt the movement of his hindquarters, stretching out with him and laughing, swinging him around and racing back to the pair, easing him to a stop though you wanted to gallop forever—he wasn’t fast, not faster than Rosie by halves, but his gallop was so wonderfully smooth you felt you could ride it for hours.

 “How does it feel?” Hosea asked, and you nodded,

 “Felt nice, ain’t got any complaints about it.” you swung down from your perch, patting the gelding on the neck and crooning love words as you led him back into the paddock, Hosea walking behind the pair of you to see how the horse walked over a decent work-out, whether he’d gone stiff or any sort of lame.

 “You want to use my gun, or yours?” Eris asked Hosea, while you turned the gelding out into the pasture, patting him on the rump to send him trotting in without you. Hosea pulled out his own pistol in reply,

 “I’d rather use mine, since it’s what he’ll be hearing,” and Eris nodded, the both of you stepping back as Hosea aimed his gun at a tree not far away, firing one, two, three times, keeping a critical eye on the Ardennes.

 Cliff raised his head from where he’d been grazing, staring at Hosea in some sort of alarm, ears up and eyes wide. But he didn’t buck, didn’t rear or bolt, and that was good enough. A horse that didn’t react would be as bad as one that fled or fought you, so you grinned, jogging into the pasture to bring him back as Hosea holstered his gun.

Eris hung back to give you a moment to talk, and you looked at Hosea hopefully as you stroked along the ruddy fur of Cliff’s neck, “What do you think?” you asked hopefully, praying that he’d give Cliff the Official Hosea Matthews Stamp of Approval™.

 “Well,” he said, giving him a final look over, “He rides beautifully, though you’d need to train the kiss out of his trot,” you nodded, already knowing that, “and I can’t find anything wrong with him, his hooves and his teeth and his body are all good.” Your eyes widened, hand stilling on his neck. “And he didn’t react much to my gun.”

 He seemed to get sick of holding you in suspense, and nodded, “I think he’s a good horse, well worth the money.”

 You beamed, fought the urge to whoop, and despite yourself, hugged him. He stiffened, startled, but patted you on the back.

When Eris came inside, you were quick to say you’d decided to purchase the gelding, handing over the money and, after a moment’s thought, choosing to rename him, ‘Cassim’ fit the horse a helluva lot better than ‘Cliff’, and paid for some new take as well seeing as Rosie’s wouldn’t fit him by a long shot.

 Rosie stared him down when you led him out to her, giving him a true mare face, but he didn’t react any, and so she acquiesced to trot beside him as you followed Hosea back to camp, sitting tall and proud atop your new horse, unable to wipe the grin from your face.

As it turned out, Cassim was bulletproof except when it came to wolves. You came back one day, soaked to the bone with mud, scowling, a stack of wolf pelts on his rump.

[missvalerietanner]

Trail of the Horsemen | War & Peace {Excerpt}

“There,” Francis yelled, pointing past her face toward the group of men. “That’s my horse.”

Two men yanked at its reins, forcing it to obey. The animal reared on its hind legs and whinnied, fighting with all its might against its captors. They yelled and pulled harder to bend the horse to their will, and its hooves kicked up a storm of clouds from the dirt as it fought to hold its ground.

“Then we go get her,” Wren said as she guided her horse toward the men.

“Just like this? We confront them?”

“They took something of ours, and I want it back. Don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Are you afraid of those men, Francis?”

He huffed a deep sigh. “I can count, is all, and we are badly out-numbered. That’s seven men there against the two of us, and I am not armed.”

She nodded but continued nudging Altan forward. “I’d say we’re almost even.”

“And how’s that?” he retorted, flustered as he stared down the death awaiting them both.

“In my one gun, I have six bullets. Once I shoot six men dead, I won’t need a seventh bullet.” She glanced over her shoulder, that same stony, emotionless stare in her eyes and the same flat line in her lips. “Understand?”

She tightened the reins and drove Altan forward at a steady pace.

As they drew closer, the men slowed the aggression of their movements. The four men mounted on their steeds sat up straighter and took notice, keeping their eyes on the approaching duo. The fifth man standing beside his horse stepped forward, the first line of defense for the others. And the two men fighting to control and contain the black horse, the preacher’s horse: they froze, clenched their fists about the reins tighter to keep their possession close, and stared at the duo with an intensity that could cause dry wood to combust. 

The seven men were as still as a painting; only the black horse fidgeted, twitching in tune to its nerves to gain its freedom, inch by desperate inch.

Wren halted her horse and slid from the saddle, leaving Francis alone with his mouth hanging open in disbelief at the girl’s boldness. She strolled up to the two men pinning down the horse and set her hands to her hips, just above the holstered revolver so the others would take notice of the weapon. 

She stared them down with a confidence so unshakable, Francis found himself watching her as if she were a dream, a fantastical idol of ages past meant to worshipped and admired. He was at a loss of words and all sense as he observed her brashiness, so stunned by her very existence. 

“Gentlemen,” she announced in a clear and stable voice. “This horse belongs to my friend, and I ask that you return it.”

The men looked at one another in a heavy second of silence, then laughed as one.

The fifth man who stood beside his horse stepped forward. “This horse was running scared, and we caught it. That makes it ours.”

“And I’m asking you, politely, to give it back.”

He took another long step toward her and whispered. “We’re going to have to pass.”

Francis yanked the handkerchief off his neck, revealing his white-sqaured collar, and leapt off the horse, scrambling forward and nearly tripping over his own feet in his rush to reach her. He positioned himself between Wren and the man, towering over both of them with his height and overshadowing her like a mountain eclipsing her view of the sun. 

Francis raised his arms in defense. “We don’t want any trouble. We’ll just take my horse, and we’ll go.”

The stranger took another step forward, standing like a wall between Francis and the black steed. He tucked his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants, unshaken by the preacher's size, and a stern frown sank the corners of his mouth.

“Turn around, Father. This ain't no place for you.”

“We seek no blood here, stranger.”

He smirked and slid his hand over the holster at his hip. “Maybe my boys and I do, especially if you keep pushing. Way I see it, either we take this black mare now, or we waste two bullets, and gain ourselves a red stallion.” He cocked his head to the side, addressing the other road-hard men. “What do you say, boys? Think that stallion there will catch us quite the fortune with the right buyer?”

The men lifted his words with their bitter laughter.

“I'll ask again—” Francis pressed, but his words were smothered beneath the hard crack of a revolver firing.

Smoke rose at his back, and blood sprayed across his chest. His breath faulted as his brain struggled to comprehend the situation. His ears hummed from the shattering blast of the gun, and his nerves stalled, freezing his body in place as he waited for the pain to set in. But it never came. The blood wasn't his.

The man before him clutched at his chest and collapsed, speechless, to the ground, kicking up a poof of dirt. Francis turned to see the other men opening their mouths, screaming their rage as they reached for their guns. With his ears still ringing, Francis heard none of the hateful, vile words they screamed. He just watched, wide-eyed and horrified as one after the other was shot and pushed from his horse in a thick spray of red, shutting off each man's tirade mid-sentence.

The riderless horses parted in the panic, dashing to all sides to avoid being struck themselves. Most of the men dropped clean, but one of them caught his boot in the reins as he fell. Entangled in the leather, the man was dragged from the scene by the frightened horse, leaving a red smear across the dry dirt as he was carried away facedown, causing his head to bounce and wobble against each passing rock protruding from the ground.

Four bodies lay in an almost perfect line. The black mare stood still off to the side, happy to be free from the grip of its captors. But one horse remained, and atop it, the seventh man. His features, once harsh and arrogant, turned cautious and frightful.

Francis raised his hands in surrender. “You don't die here, son.”

He yanked on the reins of his horse, causing the animal to fidget and fight in place. “You killed 'em all. You—” He shook his head. “You've marked yourself, Father.”

His hand flinched, eager for blood, and he reached for the revolver at his hip. Before his fingers freed the weapon from its leather holster, he froze, stunned to silence from the strike of a rock ricocheting off his temple. A trickle of blood streaked down from the spot of collision, but his body was already too numb to react. Unconsciousness settled in; his eyes rolled back into his head, and he rolled off the side of his horse, landing without grace against the hard ground.

Francis spun around to see Wren dropping a handful of rocks to the ground before dusting the dirt from her hands. When she sensed his eyes on her, she looked up with a playful grin.

“Turns out I did need that seventh bullet after all.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  

{A/N: Gawh, they’re such bros. :} This takes place in Chapter Five just after War (Wren) and Famine (Francis) meet for the first time.

Wren is essentially a bounty hunter/train robber moving from town to town for the next big score, and Francis is an ex-preacher. He’s uncomfortable with murder and blood and all that, hence why he squirms so much when she kills the men without blinking. He ran into some trouble that caused him to question his faith (i.e. whether he could be saved/forgiven), and while he still wears his collar, he hides it ‘cause he doesn’t believe he’s worthy of wearing it. But he can’t bear to take it off.

As much as I despise religion in general, I really enjoy writing Francis’ character. Not only cause he’s this giant boulder of a man who dislikes violence and is squeamish around blood, but because of his honesty. He had nothing for so long, then people looked to him as their preacher. The title meant something to him; it gave him purpose and love and made him want to protect those people with all he was. But then he was forced to break his own morals to keep those same people from being assaulted and murdered. Classic tale of right reason, wrong reaction. But it makes him question his entire being, and I dunno... I just really like writing him.

Like he stepped up to protect Wren and showed the preacher’s collar, hoping it would cause the men to put down their weapons, but when that doesn’t work, he just pleads with the men to let them go. He knows defending Wren is the right thing to do, but he won’t use force to get his way. 

Maybe I just write too many sarcastic, aggressive, asshole male characters who charge in, guns blazing that it makes Francis fells like a breath of fresh air. XD

Anyway, thanks for reading!

[alovelyvillain]

F*** I hate tumblr. The question disappeared for some bizarre reason but it was something like "what is Tom's dreamdate with Hermione" I dunno this website gives me a headache I'm going to bed now.

Tom starts their evening by taking Hermione to a 3 Michelin star restaurant because he thinks it will impress her. When she asks how he swung the last minute reservation he admits he's a long-time friend of the owner (he met the owner the day before when he broke into the stranger’s house and blackmailed him for a table near the window.) Halfway through the tasting menu Hermione admits upscale dining is a bit strange to her (a polite way of saying she's uncomfortable) and the chips from the food truck by her office are her all-time favorite.

After dinner, he takes her to the ballet because he wants to appear refined despite his orphaned upbringing (he told her he grew up with two parents, a brother, and a beagle named Max) and as they enter their private balcony she jokingly asks if he's friends with the owner here, too. Tom smiles and says he knows one of the ballerinas (he really does.) Hermione’s face reveals a twinge of jealousy and she leans close to him for the remainder of the performance.

Afterward, she asks which ballerina he knows and Tom nods to Bella when the dancers take their bows. Hermione waits thirty seconds before casually asking how they know each other. Tom hides his pleased grin and takes her hand, assuring her they're merely old friends who met at school (they're old co-workers who met on assignment) and bonded over a particularly difficult chemistry lab (they managed not to kill each other while assassinating a foreign prime minister) but never shared any romantic involvement (they had sex twice and it was anything but romantic), they've kept in touch over the years and he wants to congratulate her on joining the dance company (he’d thought she was dead and wants to make sure she hasn’t risen from the grave to kill him.)

Tom tells Hermione he'll be right back but she insists on coming along, he can't think up a reasonable excuse so he agrees and escorts her backstage. He's reluctant to introduce her to Bella (who’s arguably out of her fucking mind) but Hermione unknowingly solves the problem when she starts up a lively discussion with the set designer.

Tom sneaks off and slips into Bella’s dressing room. She's expecting him and laughs maniacally upon seeing his bespoke suit and pristine hair. He asks if she's here for him and she calls him an arrogant bastard, then goes on to claim she's retired, too. Tom doesn't trust her but can't leave Hermione alone any longer. As he departs, Bella tells him to keep his pretty new girlfriend close, the rumor is someone has, in fact, been sent to kill him. He starts to ask more but hears Hermione's voice around the corner and quickly shuts the door on Bella's dark laughter.

Tom finds his date discussing cheesecake recipes with a dancer who looks like she's never taken a bite of cheesecake in her life. He touches the small of her back and asks if she's ready to go. Hermione offers polite goodbyes to the friends she’s managed to make over the last five minutes and accepts his hand as he leads her outside.

Tom makes the reluctant decision to cut their night short (he intends to take care of the assassin before the assassin takes care of him) but Hermione sees the Christmas light display in the park across the street and clutches his arm with both hands, bouncing excitedly with such a breathtaking grin he decides to put his life on the line for a few minutes more. They hold hands crossing the street and entering the park gates, then he wraps an arm around her waist and she leans into his side as they stroll between the colorfully decorated trees.

As they're leaving he tells himself he can't see her again (doing so surely puts her life in jeopardy) and then she rests her head on his shoulder with a soft sigh and he realizes he's fucked (completely and utterly.) Tom glances around and realizes where they are, then tells her he has a surprise (the opportunity is too good to pass up, international assassins be damned) and leads her a few blocks further until her office building comes into view. Her expression remains puzzled until they turn the corner and the food truck is revealed. She laughs and clutches his arm again. He smiles, pleased with himself as they join the end of the line in their fancy evening wear.

They eat their chips in the back of the cab and discuss the merits of each dipping sauce, passionately defending their selected favorite (honestly, what can compete with malt vinegar?) and attacking each other’s condiment of choice (curry mustard? She was obviously disturbed, perhaps he should rethink this relationship) and when the driver announces they've arrived at their destination they both glance at her building with disappointment.

Hermione bites her lip and thanks him for a wonderful evening. Tom desperately wants to kiss her (preferably not while the driver watches from the rearview mirror) and offers to escort her to the front step. She accepts and blushes when he circles the car and opens her door (despite the fact he’s been opening her doors all evening.) He's already fantasizing about the kiss when she reaches the stoop and turns to him with resolve in her eyes.

She asks if he'd like to come upstairs.

Tom blinks, startled by the offering. He knows he shouldn't (he really shouldn't) it's a terrible idea (bloody awful) and would be incredibly selfish of him. But he wants her (Christ he wants her) and at this moment she wants him (she looks so fucking beautiful standing beneath the moonlight, draped in black silk.) Tom finds himself agreeing before his mind even catches up to the decision.

He follows her upstairs, then he follows her inside, body drawing taut as she fumbles with her keys, the urge to grab her and pin her to the wall nearly overwhelming his self-control. But he keeps his dark desires at bay, stepping into her modest flat with a polite smile, mindful of her nerves (he can tell she doesn't normally do this.)

“I don't normally do this,” she explains quickly, cheeks flush as she sets her greasy chip box on the entry table.

Tom nods, fighting to keep his movements measured and calm. “I can tell.”

She swallows lightly, shutting her door and staring at the deadbolt, seeming to have an internal debate. Turning it means she assumes he'll be staying, perhaps overnight, which could be construed as presumptive, while not turning it means she expects him to leave soon, which could be construed as rude.

Dilemmas, dilemmas.

Tom bites back a grin, shrugging out of his coat as he watches her silent deliberation. Her hand trembles as it slowly lifts, turning the lock. His eyes flash, hunger roaring to life. He steps forward, gaze roaming her body as she turns.

“I’ll be right back,” she utters quickly, halting his predatory approach. Her eyes sparkle beneath the entryway lights.

Tom nods. “Alright.”

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she says as she slides past, starting down the hall. “There's wine above the fridge, glasses in the first cabinet.”

“Perfect.” He watches her dart around the corner and flip on the light in what was presumably her bedroom before promptly shutting the door.

He hangs his coat on the rack and wanders into the galley kitchen, grabbing the sole bottle from atop the fridge (it’s caked in dust) and selects twin wine glasses from the appointed cabinet. He strolls into the living room next, setting his bounty on the glass coffee table and glancing around the room. He peels the wax seal from the bottle and examines a row of photographs positioned across the mantle. Various faces smile back at him from exotic locations around the world. Hermione doesn’t appear in any of them. (She must be camera shy. Tom certainly is. It took him nearly three weeks to track down the last roll of film containing his face, another six hours to kill the photographer.)

His casual perusal is stalled by a stack of magazines blocking his path. He tilts his head and reads the titles along the side. Cosmopolitan, Vogue, Look, then scans the cover page on top, gaze narrowing on the address label.

“Lavender Brown…” he mutters, then senses movement from the corner of his eye.

Tom dives behind the couch with the wine bottle as the shot rings out, muffled by a silencer. He hears her bare feet pad across the hardwood and catches sight of her reflection in one of the glass picture frames.

“I presume you aren’t an art appraiser?” He calls out.

“You presume correctly,” Hermione replies calmly, keeping the gun aimed high while approaching the couch. “Though I have a fond appreciation for the museum, I killed someone there just last month.”

Tom wets his lips, carefully maneuvering while keeping himself concealed. “Let me guess, you got chips afterward?”

“Naturally. They’re the only food truck in London with curry mustard.”

“The attempt on my life I can forgive, but there’s no absolving poor taste.”

She tiptoes around the coffee table. “Drop the act. We both know you didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth. Though I’m impressed by the lengths you went to just to get inside my knickers.”

Tom clenches his jaw as she stops before the couch, leaning over with the gun aimed down. “It seems I wasn’t the only one putting on a show.”

“Your reputation precedes you, Tom Riddle. I needed you to drop your guard and follow me upstairs. No man can resist the blushing virgin routine.”

He seizes the opportunity before it’s too late and tosses the wine overhead, counting on her lethal training to kick in. Sure enough, she lifts her gun and shoots the bottle dead center, glass and ruby liquid exploding in every direction as Tom grips the bottom of the couch and flips the furniture with all his strength. She falls back, knocked off balance as he leaps the cushions and topples against her, sending them both crashing onto the glass table.

It shatters, flimsy frame buckling. He hisses with pain, shards slicing his skin from every direction, coating his shirt and raining from his hair.

“I didn’t think you were a blushing virgin,” he groans, slowly pushing upright. “I just wanted to meet the woman who assassinated Secretary Umbridge in the middle of a crowded museum during broad daylight.”

She glances at him sharply, pausing with her hand half-way to her fallen weapon.

“I know all about you, too, Hermione Granger,” he smiles, “and I’m honored Grindelwald selected you to terminate my contract.”

She draws back, glass sparkling in her hair and blood gleaming across her arms. “Then why bother with a date? You could have attacked me long before tonight.”

“I didn’t want to kill you,” he states simply. “I wanted to get inside your knickers.”

Hermione growls while he laughs, then they’re both diving for the gun, reaching it at the same time and rolling back and forth as they fight for control. She wrestles for the grip while he fumbles with the release switch, pulling it down as she wrenches the firearm away. The magazine slides out and hits the ground with a heavy thud. Tom kicks it across the floor and she takes aim at his head. He sits up with no time to spare as she pulls the trigger and the remaining bullet zips free from the chamber and strikes the brick fireplace, sending dust into the air.

She releases a sound of rage and throws the gun aside, stalling his brain when she lifts her skirt high, revealing a set of black lace garters. And then he catches sight of the gleaming knives strapped to her thigh and his senses come flooding back.

“Shite.” He rolls away as she begins throwing the blades with effortless skill, metal whizzing past his head and lodging into the hardwood. He grabs fashion magazines off the pile and holds them aloft, catching a knife darting for his face.

Tom knows she’s out of cutlery when she growls again and springs to her feet, charging him headlong. He manages to pull upright before she’s able to drive her knee into his skull, taking the blow to the side of his leg instead. What she lacks in muscle she more than makes up for with speed, delivering a series of rapid shots to his kidneys and ribs that leave him breathless. But when she takes aim at his neck for the knockout blow he catches her wrist and twists it behind her back. She bites her lip to keep from shouting, pretty face grimacing tight. His side is black and blue from her wicked right hook so he feels a thrill of satisfaction at her misery, that is until she drives her heel into his shin with such brutal force he’s certain she’s snapped his tibia in half.

Tom releases her and staggers back, the abrupt movement causing an object to dislodge from his pocket and roll across the floor. Hermione blinks, staring at the long and narrow cylinder as it comes to a stop between them, then glances up in disbelief.

“That doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see you,” he mutters, flexing his sore knee.

“Who the hell carries a grenade in their pocket?”

“The dating scene is rough. It’s good to be prepared.”

She shakes her head and springs forward with renewed purpose, grabbing photos off the mantle and launching them at his head like deadly missiles. He slaps them away, hissing when the corner of a metal frame clips him in the forehead, and then she’s leaping over the upturned couch like a gazelle and landing against his body, the forward momentum knocking them both to the ground. The strap of her dress tears as he knocks her sideways and rolls atop her thrashing form.

“Watch it! This is designer, arsehole!”

“Which designer?”

She shrugs, throwing a jab he blocks with his forearm. “How the hell should I know? Lavender’s closet was bursting with options.”

“And where is Ms. Brown?”

“Tied up in the closet, obviously.”

Tom smirks, then pushes away as she aims a punch at his groin. “Christ, you fight dirty, don’t you, luv?”

She rolls her eyes and springs to her feet, dress and hair a mess, face utterly stunning in its blood-lust. “You have no idea.”

Tom braces for round-three, raising a brow when she retreats for the window instead. He grips the side table and stands, watching her slide open the pane and perch atop the sill.

“This was fun,” he says, breathing in the cool night air. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Let me check my calendar and get back to you,” she replies, swinging her legs over the side and stepping onto the fire escape, moonlight framing her silhouette. “By the way,” she glances back with a smirk, “curry mustard beats malt vinegar’s arse any day of the week.”

Tom grins, limping forward as she begins to descend, shaking the metal structure as she goes. He peers through the window and watches her drop to the cement, sparing him one last glance before charging headlong into the dark night, disappearing around the next block.

She would be back. Her life was in as much danger as his until she completed her assignment (he looks forward to their second meeting.) But for now, Tom leans back and closes the pane, knocking the lingering glass from his hair.

“Well, as first dates go, that was undoubtedly one of my better ones.”