I am completely shocked by the lack of fans this magnificent bastard has. The minute I finished the quest on Point Lookout, I came to this site hoping to find a nice little story involving the great Desmond Lockheart and a Female Lone Wanderer, only to find one single story that hasn't been updated in quite some time.

I attend to change that.

Please Read and Review, even if anonymous, any little critique or compliment is much appreciated.

| Chapter One – Prologue - Desmond Lockheart |

Murky waters rolled up to the shore. The fog that settled atop slowly thinning as the glow of the Five o' Clock sun slowly peaked out from somewhere behind the waves. Patches of dried grass were wet with morning due, lazily hanging to the side as if the small patches of moisture were weighing them down.

A curse from somewhere behind the hills was hissed, before the sound of boots slapping into the wet ground underneath could be heard.

He was panting and the man did not dare turn around to look behind him. The frantic sounds of barking had been quickly closing in on his frame, and he had to get the fuck out of sight before they pinned him down. The door to his safe haven was only a couple feet away, he was thankful, for the first time in a long time. But that quickly changed when he could practically feel the jaws of the dogs of war hungrily snapping at his heels.

Many different thoughts raced through the man's skull as he dashed for the mansion. Boney hands were outstretched in front of him so that he would be able to push in the large wooden doors and get himself in before one of the vicious dogs finally got to him.

'Shit, shit, shit! I'm not going to make it! I refuse to get eaten by these fucking mutts!'

Cloudy eyes with the uncanny hue of faded blue and gray widened as he quickly stumbled into his property, twisting his body out of the way of the sound that his mind interpreted was a gun shot before lunging toward the doors that were finally in reach.

'Almost there…'

The thoughts were flying through his head as fast as his hand flew to the knob of the door, getting a firm grip on it before flying through them. Spinning around in the process to shut the doors as fast as he had opened them. The door latched in place, securing his safety from the dogs which had been chasing him. He wheezed, face contorted in discomfort and a sharp pain in his stomach and knees from the running. Leaning against the doors and taking quick short breaths to try and composure himself. But even through out the dull pain, a slight grin appeared on the man's rugged face. Chuckling slightly at the futile attempts of the dogs trying to claw themselves in against the sturdy wood of the mansions walls.

"Safe. Fucking mutts nearly got a hold of me there…"

He spoke in a hushed tone to no one in particular, eyes reopening, only for the relief of the sudden safety to evaporate by the greeting of another terrifying surprise. The sight of mudded footprints were painted messily across the wooden floor, leading to somewhere behind the stairs, and the uncanny steel cock of a gun, which seemed to come from something heavy, was poking out from behind them. With out hesitation, he quickly dashed toward it, turning his body around to see the host of the fucking thing, only to see a demented stare looking back at him.

Backed with a gruff, and thick British accent, the man spoke to the impostor.

"And that is why I fucking hate you American filth, you don't even have the goddamn common fucking courtesy to wipe your damned feet!"

Although sounding as if the discovery of the Tribal somehow getting into his goddamn home seemed to not phase him, fear actually enthralled the man's lithe frame, before he acted out on instinct alone and pulled out the holstered .32 Pistol that had been wrapped securely around his waist.

The impostors thicker body also twisted as he tried to align the barrel of his Hunting Rifle to the mans head, but the ghoul proved to be much faster as the trigger of his pistol sent lead flying at the hired hand's wide chest. The man gave a pathetic squeak of pain, as he flew backwards from the impact of the shot, smashing into the wooden floor beneath him. He looked down at the bullet wound that was embedded in his chest, face paling at the sight of blood leaking from within it. After staring for a moment, he looked pleadingly back up at the man, only to be met with his shooters cold and expressionless face.

"Desmond Lockheart. And I am damned pleased to make your fucking acquaintance, now, do me a favor and try to die without bleeding all over my fucking carpet."