Chapter 12 - Encounters

"I don't know, but we've got enough on our plate without adding tree-kissing lunatic," Marie comments, her tone a mix of amusement and annoyance.

You nod in agreement with Marie, watching as the local riders fade into the distance. "Best to keep moving," you say, turning your attention back to the task at hand.

"Agreed," Shelley says firmly, urging his horse into a canter. "We can't afford any more delays"

As you and the Bandidos continue riding towards Saint Denis, you can't help but discuss the powers Juan and Pure have obtained from their artifacts. You talk about Juan's ability to control the wind and how she used it to safely land the ground. Then there's Pure, whose love for fire and explosions seems to have intensified since acquiring his artifact, making him a formidable force in combat. The conversation is a mix of awe and apprehension as you ponder the extent of their newfound abilities and the potential risks involved. You all agree that understanding and mastering these powers will be crucial in the battles ahead, especially for the upcoming rescue of Juan and Pure.

"Pure's always been a bit of a pyromaniac," Raven says with a laugh, glancing over his shoulder at the recovering sergeant. "But now, he's like the human version of a dragon's breath."

Pure grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "And Juan, with her wind," he replies, nodding towards the quiet soldier who rides slightly behind them, "she's like the storm that calms before it hits."

Juan, noticing the attention on her, gives a small, shy smile, her eyes never leaving the horizon. Despite her newfound power, she seems unchanged by it, maintaining her gentle demeanor.

As Shelley suggests that you all split up to gather intel on the manic named Tobin, the gang nods in agreement. You can feel the tension building as you approach the bustling city of Saint Denis. Each of you will need to be cautious and disguise your yellow ponchos to avoid detection by the enemy. You dismount and tie your horses to a nearby tree, making sure they are well hidden. You pull out the yellow poncho and exchange it for a nondescript brown coat that you had packed in your saddle bag. The others follow suit, transforming from the bright yellow-clad Bandidos to a group of inconspicuous travelers. Shelley gives a curt nod, confirming the plan. "We'll meet back here in a week," he says firmly, pointing to a spot near the Saint Denis post office. "Keep your eyes open and your wits about you." With a final look around to ensure no one is watching, you set off in different directions, blending into the city's chaotic flow.

As you walk through the city of Saint Denis, the sun begins to dip below the horizon, and the gas lamps lining the streets flicker to life. The once bright and bustling streets slowly transform into a mix of shadow and artificial light, the warm glow casting long shadows and illuminating the cobblestone paths. The air cools, and the hustle and bustle of the city's residents changes to a more leisurely pace. The smell of cooking fires and the distant sound of a pianola drift through the air, mingling with the clatter of horse-drawn carriages and the murmur of evening conversations. You weave through the crowd, your steps deliberate, your eyes scanning for any signs of trouble or information regarding the whereabouts of the manic, Tobin. You note the various shops and saloons, considering which ones might be more likely to have heard rumors of his actions or hideouts. The buildings, once vibrant with daylight, now appear more mysterious, their facades painted in shades of gold and shadow. You keep your hand close to your gun, ready for anything the night might throw your way.

You make your way through the dimly lit streets of Saint Denis, searching for a general store or tailor that might have suitable clothes for you to blend in. After a short while, you spot a tailor shop with a flickering light in the window. You enter to find a variety of garments, from simple peasant attire to more extravagant outfits. The shopkeeper, a portly man with a thick mustache, looks up from his sewing machine, eyeing you curiously. "What can I do for ya, stranger?" he asks, setting aside his work. You explain that you're looking for something less... conspicuous than your current outfit. He nods, understanding the need for discretion in a place like this, and points out a few options that should help you blend in. You select a plain, nondescript set of clothes: a black duster coat, a white shirt, and a pair of dark trousers. The transaction is quick and quiet, and you pay with some of the gold bars you've accumulated. As you slip into the new attire in the changing room, you feel the weight of the yellow poncho being lifted from your shoulders, both literally and metaphorically.

As you walk out of the tailor shop in your new attire, a young boy bumps into you, sending a jar of buttons clattering to the floor. You look down to see a familiar face, the kid bears a striking resemblance to Arthur Morgan, a character from a game you played. You stare for a moment, trying to reconcile the reality of the situation with the fictional world you've just left behind. The boy, seemingly unfazed by your reaction, quickly gathers the spilled buttons and apologizes. "Sorry, mister," he says, handing the jar back to the shopkeeper with a shy smile. "I didn't see ya there."

You kneel down to meet his gaze, trying to keep your voice steady. "It's okay, kid. I was just lost in thought." You can't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for the game that brought you here. "What's your name?"

The boy's eyes light up at the question. "I'm Arthur, mister," he says, holding out a hand to shake. "Arthur Morgan."

You stare at him, the implications of his name sinking in. "Arthur," you repeat, your mind racing with questions. Could this really be the same Arthur Morgan from the game? "You wouldn't happen to have any family around here, would ya?"

Arthur nods, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "My ma passed and pa's gone missin'. I've been stayin' with my uncle in a camp outside of town."

You pull out a handful of gold bars and press them into Arthur's small hands, looking him dead in the eye. "Take this, Arthur," you say firmly. "And remember, if you ever hear the name Micah Bell, that man is not your friend. He's the rat you're lookin' for." Arthur's eyes widen at the sudden influx of wealth and the seriousness of your tone. The shopkeeper, who had been watching the exchange, coughs awkwardly, trying not to draw attention to the scene. Arthur nods solemnly, the gravity of your words sinking in. "I'll remember, mister," he says, slipping the gold into his pocket. He then hurries away, disappearing into the gathering night. You watch him go, your mind racing with the implications of what you've just done. You've interfered with the game's storyline, and you wonder how this will affect the outcome of Arthur's fate. With a heavy heart, you turn and continue towards the Saint Denis saloon, knowing that you must find more information about the manic tobin.

As you enter the saloon, you notice a few patrons eyeing you warily. You realize that even though you've changed your clothes, your actions still carry the reputation of the Bandidos. You order a whiskey and lean against the bar, scanning the room for any signs of the man you're after. A bartender with a greasy mustache slides the drink over to you, eyeing your patched eye and the gold coins that clinked on the counter. "You're not from around here, are ya?" he asks, wiping down a glass with a dirty cloth. "Nope," you reply, taking a sip. "Just passin' through." You casually bring up the name "Tobin," watching the reactions of those around you. Some flinch, others pretend not to hear, but you can feel the tension in the air thicken. Clearly, this man's presence is known and feared.

The beautiful woman in the elegant white dress gracefully sashays into the saloon, turning heads with her poise and beauty. As she approaches the bar and takes a seat next to you, the atmosphere seems to brighten for a brief moment. However, this tranquility is soon shattered by the persistent advances of an intoxicated patron. He leans into her space, slurring his words as he tries to charm her. She politely declines, but his insistence grows more obnoxious with each rejection. You, noticing her discomfort, decide to step in, The intoxicated man's hand hovers over the woman's shoulder as he leans in, his intentions clear. Without looking away from your drink, you swiftly draw your gun and press it against the back of his head, silently commanding him to stop. The man's eyes widen in terror, and he stumbles backward, knocking over a chair as he flees the saloon. The woman in white, startled by the sudden turn of events, looks over at you with gratitude "Thanks,Name's maggie . What brings you to Saint Denis?"

As you pick up the drink and down it in one go, your voice is gruff and unyielding as you tell Maggie, "It's none of your business." The saloon's silence stretches taut, the only sound the clinking of glasses and the crackling fireplace. Maggie's smile never falters, though there's a hint of challenge in her eyes. She takes a sip of her own drink, then says, "Fair enough," setting her glass down with a click. The tension between you two is palpable, but it's clear she's not easily intimidated. She pulls out a camera from her bag and says, "I'm a photographer. I've been traveling the West looking for interesting folks to capture. Maybe you'd like a portrait?" She holds the camera up, ready to snap a picture if you agree.

Raven laughs at Maggie's offer and introduces himself. "Name's Raven," you say, extending a hand. She takes it firmly, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so elegantly dressed. "Pleasure to meet you, Raven," she says with a smirk, clearly enjoying the exchange. She tucks her camera back into her bag and leans back in her chair, watching you with a curious eye.

Maggie's gaze sharpens with interest as you tell her your name. She tilts her head to the side, eyeing you thoughtfully. "Raven, huh?" she muses. "A bird of ill omen in some cultures. But here, in the wild west, it could just mean you're a free spirit, untamed by the laws of man or society." She takes another sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving yours. "So, tell me, Raven, what kind of girl do you fancy? One with a bit of fire,or a sweet, quiet type?" She winks, the question clearly rhetorical, but you can't help but feel like she's trying to gauge your character. The saloon's ambiance shifts slightly as the tension between you two turns playful.

As you lean closer to Maggie and say "You," she blushes, her cheeks coloring a soft pink. She looks away for a brief moment, then back at you with a coy smile. "Is that so?" she murmurs, her voice low and playful. "Well, I'm flattered." She takes a moment to study you, her gaze lingering on your patched eye and the yellow bandana around your neck.

As you lean closer to Maggie and complete your sentence with "are not," she blinks, momentarily taken aback by your directness.

Maggie laughs, a light, melodious sound that fills the space between you. She leans back in her chair, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Well, you've certainly got a way with words, Raven." She takes a sip of her drink, her gaze never leaving yours. The saloon's tension relaxes slightly as the atmosphere shifts to one of flirtatious banter. The other patrons, having witnessed the encounter, seem to find the situation entertaining. Some exchange knowing smiles, while others return to their drinks, content to let the moment pass. The bartender, still peeking over the counter, shakes his head in disbelief.

You can't help but grin at Maggie's response, enjoying the sudden lightness in the room. "I've got a way with a lot of things," you reply, your tone teasing. "But I'm guessing you're not here for a portrait of an outlaw."

Maggie's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Maybe I am," she says, "Or maybe I just enjoy the company of those who live life on the edge. It's a photographer's dream, capturing the untamed spirit of the West."

You chuckle, recognizing the allure of your gang's lifestyle. "Well, you've got an interesting taste, Maggie." You gesture to the empty chair next to her. "Why don't you tell me about yourself? I'm sure there's more to you than just snapping pictures."

Maggie's smile broadens as she takes a moment to consider your invitation. She nods, then gestures for the bartender to bring another round. "Alright, Raven," she says as she crosses one leg over the other. "I've been traveling these parts for a while now, documenting the lives of the people here. It's not all shootouts and bank robberies, you know. There's a lot of beauty and heartache too." Her eyes wander around the saloon, as if searching for the right words. "But I suppose that's what makes it so fascinating. Everyone has a story, and I've got the privilege of capturing a piece of it."

You nod thoughtfully, your gaze following hers as you listen to the soft hum of conversations and the clinking of glasses. The fire in the hearth casts a warm glow over the worn wooden floorboards, and the smell of tobacco and whiskey fills the air. The Bandidos' mission hangs heavily over your head, but for now, you're content to enjoy this brief interlude.