A Red Dead Redemption story.
A seasoned bounty hunter, you've buried your past beneath the weight of your work. But a brush with the notorious Van der Linde gang unravels everything. Amid bullets and bloodshed, you discover love and a sense of belon...
"Oh—Miss (y/n), I figured you.. probably wouldn't be stayin' with the girls no more so I put y' up in Arthur's room." Miss Grimshaw's soft yet commanding tone surprised you.
"Just opposite John n' Abigail—and the boy, when he's found, of course." A cigarette dwindling to the filter clenched between her yellow-stained finger tips.
"Miss Grimshaw—I, uh—thank you." Instead of insisting she needn't have done you the favour, you opted for gratitude.
"This don't mean y' don't be pullin' y'r weight 'round here, missy." Ah, there it was.
"Of course, Miss Grimshaw." You smiled, rolling your eyes.
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The gang found refuge in Shady Belle, an old, crumbling plantation house tucked deep in the south-eastern swamp-lands of Lemoyne. The property sat like a forgotten relic amid the humid, suffocating heat, surrounded by thick, gnarled cypress trees dripping with moss. The house was isolated, hidden away in a boggy marshland that teemed with the eerie stillness of the Bayou Nwa, its dark waters slithering like serpents along the shoreline of the Lannahechee River. The air was thick with the pungent scent of rot and decay, the swamp alive with the constant croak of frogs and the occasional guttural bellow of distant alligators lurking just beneath the surface. Spanish moss hung from the trees like the tattered shrouds of long-forgotten ghosts, swaying slightly in the rare breeze.
Shady Belle's architecture was a relic of old Southern wealth, built on the backs of enslaved labour. The once-proud columns that lined the front porch were now weathered and chipped, barely holding up the sagging balconies that overlooked the swamp, reminiscent of the opulence found in the upper-class mansions of Saint Denis. The white paint that had once gleamed in the southern sun had long since cracked and peeled away, revealing the raw, splintering wood beneath. Vines crept up the sides of the house, their tendrils finding purchase in every crack and crevice, as if the swamp itself was trying to reclaim what time had already begun to take.
The marshland surrounding the property was a labyrinth of sinking mud and stagnant water, choked with reeds and lily pads. Ever-present humming of insects filled the air, while the shadows of the trees stretched long and menacing, casting dark shapes that played tricks on weary eyes. If the Pinkerton's didn't find the gang here, the swamp certainly would. The Night Folk prowled these waters under the cover of darkness, moving as silently as the mist that rolled in at dusk. And then there were the alligators—their eyes gleaming like sinister jewels, waiting for anything to venture too close to the water's edge.
Inside, Pearson and Grimshaw had done their best to bring some order to the decaying house. Clearing the musty rooms of broken furniture and debris, they made use of the few rooms that were still structurally sound. The interior, though sagging and dimly lit by flickering lanterns, had a haunting charm, with its high ceilings and the remnants of old, ornate moldings lining the walls. Dust lingered in the air, catching in the beams of weak sunlight that filtered through the shattered windows. It was far from comfortable, but it was shelter—an island of sorts, surrounded by the treacherous, living swamp that seemed to close in tighter with each passing day.
