OOO

He had been walking through Bowerstone Industrial purely to watch the worthless peons and smelly rabble run away from him as he approached, his white suit was a universally recognized symbol of fear and nothing was more entertaining than placing oneself on a pedestal above everyone else at the end of the day.

A begging woman scurried away from his oncoming footsteps, withdrawing her outstretched palm when she saw the top hat and cane. He felt absolutely no guilt in nudging her a little further away with the end of his cane as she did so. The gall. The audacity. It drove something very much like a shiver up his elegant spine. How dare... it.

"How are you ever going to get ahead in life sitting on your worthless duff and asking for handouts?" He sneered cruelly, watching the fear in the woman's eyes turn into humiliation, and then anger. She spat at his feet and swore at him, her words drunkenly slurred and accented with a lilt from some faraway land. He wondered if he had ever fucked a woman from this mystery land, but before he had ever come to a conclusion, his hand had already acted of its own accord and shot the piteous being in the face. Pity. With a bath and some new clothes, she might have been nice to play with. He supposed he just didn't have it in him to care today, as he put away his ornate pistol, lovingly nestling it in the holster at his hip.

"You don't get anywhere without a little bit of respect either, dahling." And without a second thought he resumed his walk, leaving the woman's piss-stinking corpse to cool in the shadow of the brick building she came to rest upon. His cane rhythmically clicked rhythmically against the cobblestone road as he went a small sound adding to the assortment of industry related noises, belching a filthy symphony into the hazy sky. He passed by the pub, instantly noticing it was much louder than the usual hum of depressed factory workers, spending half of their two daily gold on beer.

Nonchalantly he turned his head as he passed by, peering subtly into the grimy windows. There was music being played, and the pub was much fuller than he had seen it in recent memory. Curiosity piqued, he carefully pushed his face up against the glass.

She was by the fireplace, sitting at one of the roughly hewn wooden tables, surrounded by all manner of men, young and old. There were women too. Tavern slatterns and common whores, pregnant women, their huge bellies carefully shielded from the crowd by their arms. A lute was in her hands and as she made merry and conversed with the common rabble, she plucked away at it expertly. Everyone hushed for a moment as she spoke briefly and then the pub filled with uproarious laughter which poured out of the door and onto the cobbled street to meet Reaver's ears. A smile lit her own face as she drank to her own joke. He had never seen her in anything other than clothing befitting nobility, but there could be no mistaking her.

Reaver followed her shape up from the floor, shaming the entire world for keeping such a luscious creature prisoner in a bodice and layers upon layers of silk and lace for so many years. In many ways, the leather trousers and well worn leather jerkin she wore over a dark blouse were considerably more forgiving than all of the finery she had been decked in until this point in her life. Her clothing made no lie of the fact that she lived rough, nor did the sword at her belt or the pistol on her hip. He wondered for a moment if perhaps he was mistaken and this creature was nothing more than a hauntingly familiar looking mercenary. The wheels started turning in his head, and he took the distraction of another well told joke as an opportunity to quietly let himself into the pub, hardly believing his spectacular luck.

He removed his top hat and stuck to the shadows, avoiding any unwanted attention from patrons or the woman with the lute. He sauntered effortlessly around the other side of the bar and put his hat under the counter, wrinkling his nose at the sticky spots of spilled ale that had dried there.

"What're you doing back here?" The bartender snapped, wiping a mug with a filthy rag, his eyes widening when he recognized the industrialist without his trademark hat.

"Now, now." Reaver coaxed, slowly reaching into the inside pocket of his fur lined jacket. "No need to be frightened sir." He withdrew his hand and the barman nearly jumped out of his skin until it dawned on him that there wasn't a gun in the gloved hand, but rather a small satchel of coin. "I've just bought this establishment out from under your nose, now if you'd be so kind as to vacate the premises immediately, you are certainly not the sort I want running the place." He looked around and tutted a bit, dropping the satchel onto the bar. "So dreary in here. But as they say, out with the old and in with the new. Tatty bye!" He called after the rapidly exiting bartender.

Once the door slammed behind the extremely fortunate man, he shrugged off his fine, bear fur trimmed jacket and pulled off his gloves, storing them both in the smelly little office behind the bar. He rolled up his silk shirt sleeves and tousled his neatly styled hair; he couldn't just stand there looking exactly like himself, could he? No, that would be far too easy to figure out, being the striking being that he was. He licked the tip of his index finger and smudged away the heart doodled on beneath his eye. Why did he do that every day? Well, after living for so long, you might as well, he reminded himself, tying a grubby apron around his waist, loathing the fact that such a filthy article was even touching his clothes. And now to get a closer look.

"You there, girl." He called to one of the slatterns. "Be a love and turn down the lights, will you. I daresay we are in need of a touch more ambiance."

The girl looked at him, her blue eyes confused. "Sure, but where did Mister Timmins go? I saw him not five minutes ago."

"He has decided to pack up his things and move to Mourningwood. A sudden choice, yes, but most thankfully I happened to be stopping in for a pint at just the right moment and am now in charge of this... what would you call this desperate hovel exactly? Establishment. Yes. Now pip pip my gel." He finished, giving her arse a squeeze just for good measure.

He waited for the lights to go down before catching the serving wench again. "I'll mind the busy table, if you don't mind. I say, after watching you work for all of ten minutes, you really have some brushing up to do if you want to keep working for me." He dress had been buttoned up to the neck until he stuck his fingers in the collar and tore the buttons off down to her chest, exposing a pale and ample bosom. "That's definitely a start. Off you go now."

He set to work pouring a flagon of ale for each of the men seated at the table, including one for their exuberant female companion. He was no good at pouring ale and had to drink quite a few half full glasses himself before he finally got it right. He had no taste for malty beer, but regardless, the room was beginning to turn slightly. Wasting alcohol was a most grievous sin. He wiped the side of the last mug, and arranged them neatly on a tray, hoisting it with ease onto his shoulder and making his way across the pub.

They said she was a hero now. This was no hero. This was desire embodied Reaver decided, as he elbowed through the crowd of people surrounding her and began setting drinks on the table. This was also an enormous amount of gold in his pocket and possibly some silly title, if things went his way. If things went his way, well, there would be no losing for Reaver. He watched the flickering lamp-light dance across her face and knew without a doubt he was looking at no other than the heir apparent of Albion. She had her brother's eyes, cold, and sharp, but apart from that, had stolen most of her looks from her father; they shared the same long face and slightly crooked nose. The princess's lips were thick, and constantly turned up to one side, where Logan's were thin and frowning. She was a comely, female to be sure, but she was dark and intense looking, even as she laughed and made merry with the men around her.

"What are these for?" She asked, letting go of her lute and grabbing his wrist as he set a cup of ale in front of her. She looked up at him and for a moment he thought she might recognize him, but the light was dim, and she was already well in her cups.

"On the house, miss." He said, avoiding all proper convention. Had he dared to call her "m'lady" or "my lady" she would have known that he knew who she was, or that he was not who he made himself out to be. Her pale green eyes, chilly and calculating despite the half smile on her face, studied all of him that she could see. "Did you just begin work? I hadn't seen you here earlier."

"Yes miss, the bartender took ill, so he got a whelp to run down the lane and wake me up."

"Well then, as I told him before you, I'm having a little private party of sorts here, and I'm not looking to be disturbed, so if you would be so kind as to keep any riff-raff away, I will make it more than worth your while."

"I'll see that not a single soul intrudes on your little soiree." He said, his lip curling slightly as he snuck a look down the front of her jerkin, and a quick glance at the men around the table; upon close inspection, a motley crew indeed. Factory workers and mercenaries, and even a few wickedly armed bandits who looked to be from up north. "Do let me know if there's anything you need."

He returned to his place behind the bar, helping himself to a bottle of wine. It was of a horrible vintage, but he couldn't help but pour himself a celebratory drink; Logan had been searching high and low for this whelp since that bloody soldier of his that was supposed to find her had seemingly dropped off the face of the earth four months earlier.

Reaver watched as she spoke for a moment to a large dark-skinned man beside her and made a lewd joke as he passed her a fresh bottle of wine from under the table. She took it with a grin and treated herself to a large swig. He found himself wondering how much she had already had that night, as a thin line of it dribbled down her chin and she wiped it away with her sleeve and continued to chat loudly.

"Let's play a game!" She announced, her rich voice carrying over the noise. "It's called black and blue..." She leaned into the center of the table and began to explain the rules, which escaped Reaver's ears, but he soon found out what the game entailed.

She undid her jerkin and removed it along with her open fingered gloves. She took another draw of wine before she stood from the table and took another man to an empty table, the group followed and crowded around, leaving Reaver just enough space from his dark corner of the bar to see what was happening. Talah had produced a deck of cards from seemingly nowhere; her father was a gypsy after all, no doubt some of the odd inclination to trickery had passed down the line. She shook hands briefly with the man who stood across from the table; a mercenary by the look of it, bald headed and stubbly with a massive hatchet on his back.

She drew a card from the deck. Reaver could see it was a six of spades. She took a long pull of wine and set the card down, waiting for the man to draw his card. Two of clubs. He drank as well.

He saw her lips pull slightly at the sides when she came up with her next card; a queen of diamonds and the next thing he knew, the sound of skin hitting skin filled the bar as the mercenary slapped her across the face with all his might. Her head whipped to the side and her dark hair cascaded in motion with the impact, but she didn't fall, or bury her face. She laughed, said something Reaver heard to be, "Good one." And waited for the mercenary to take his card, which also turned out to be red.

If the mercenary had slapped her hard, she returned him doubly in kind as their game continued and the bar patrons cheered them on. He could see people passing coins back and forth, making wagers on who would surely lose first. He assumed the point of this game was that you either got so drunk you passed out, or you relented after being struck in the face too many times. How uncivilized, he mused, his mouth hung open in disbelieving laughter: Was this actually happening? The princess of Albion actually carried on like this? She was a physically strong woman to be sure. Nothing compared to that behemoth, Hammer, but even a fool could see the coiled power in the slaps she threw when it came her time to hit. And when it was her time to be hit, she took it bravely. It was clear that it hurt, but she didn't relent. Reaver shrugged, probably because she was so drunk. But could it also be that she has inherited dear daddy's side of things? Could it be that she really was a hero? Logan certainly wasn't. He made a good enough soldier, but he didn't possess that borderline freakish talent for hurting and being hurt that people like Reaver did. All Logan was good for was the hurting people part. He feared pain unlike his sister, who had just had her neck wrenched by another blow and turned back around with a smile, wiping the blood from her lips.

Her opponent looked tired, and also a lot more drunk. Blood was running from a cut on his cheek, and his eyes looked glazed as he leaned heavily against the table. He pulled a jack of spades and with an outstretched arm, swept his flagon off the table with a clatter. "No more." He drooled. "I can't drink, or get hit no more."

The man stumbled from the bar, and Reaver busied himself with pouring a tall cup of gin for the winner, as was only polite. He had certainly bet on the wrong horse to win that one. He looked up momentarily and then back down, and then back up; Talah had torn her blouse off at the same time as the woman she had winked at earlier had. The two waved the discarded items of clothing above their heads like flags, wearing only their corsets. It didn't take long before everyone else, man and woman alike started removing their shirts too.

Had he been expecting this to happen, Reaver would have been right on top of the trend, for as far as he was concerned, a room full of half naked people was one of the best kind of rooms to be in. Instead, he just watched her carrying on, rallying the patrons of the pub as clothes flew through the air and glasses continued to fall.

A low growl escaped his lips as he watched the candlelight waver over her sweat slicked, freckled shoulders, her hair still swinging around her head, now a tangled, damp mess. To brilliant applause she smashed the still partially full bottle of wine against the table, splattering everyone within ten feet of her with red.

"Tell me you want me!" She declared, jumping down from the table as every hand in the pub clapped and every voice cheered for her exploits. "I will lead you all if you only let me!" She roared. A familiar feeling grew in the root of his stomach as he felt possessive attraction sweep over him. In part because in her absolutely vulgar displays of inebriation, she stroked the narcissist within: How like he she must be... she was hard. She was tough. She was clearly a deviant.

She disappeared into the back room of the pub, and the crowd slowly began to dissipate, murmuring their approval and collecting discarded and booze stained shirts and soon he was the only one left. He slipped to the back room where he had seen Talah close the door, gently, he knocked, aware of a conversation taking place on the other side.

"Who is it?" Came her voice.

"A most adoring fan." He replied, smirking darkly.

"Just a moment." She replied and he heard her hushed voice through the thin wood. "I'm so sorry, darling, it'll have to be another night, okay?" The door opened and instead of the princess a flushed girl with strawberry blonde hair emerged, barely even glancing at Reaver before hurrying off.

He pushed the door open, and beheld the princess sitting in a red armchair, in front of a fire, lacing up her jerkin. More curious than the strawberry blonde strumpet, however, was the pistol she had aimed imposingly at his face.

Even more curious though, was that she didn't lower it when he saw the glimmer of confirmation run through her eyes.

"Girls shouldn't play with Daddy's guns." Reaver tutted, closing the door behind him, and finally doing away with the filthy apron, throwing it carelessly on the floor.

"I'm a wanted woman." She said pointedly, "And you are renowned the world over for having a nose for gold."

"You suspect I would turn you in to your dear brother?"

"I know for a fact that you would turn me in to my dear brother." Talah asked. "Now unless you grace my presence with a business offer, I suggest you leave, and this need not get messy."

Reaver took a seat across from Talah in the twin to her own chair. "My dear," he began "truthfully that was my intention upon stumbling upon your little exhibition here this evening. However, upon witnessing the particularly stunning assets you bring to something so mundane as a game of cards, I daresay my mind has been changed. Why, I was so intrigued I even purchased this pub on the spot."

Talah watched him with a chilly, distrustful gaze for a few moments before lowering her pistol, resting it on her lap. "I am the most wanted woman in Albion. You would dare to commit treason by being in the same room with me?"

"It depends on what we're doing in said room." Reaver chuckled, pouring them both a glass of wine from the bottle he had taken earlier. "Silly girl, you should always be suspicious of Reaver. For you can be certain that nothing that has my hands involved in it is done without primary benefit to my own well-being."

"So they say." She replied plainly, accepting the glass from him, merely blinking when he trailed his fingers over hers before they parted. She was a walking, talking winter, this one. "How did you end up here?" She asked. "A shitty pub in the industrial district seems like the last sort of place that would draw the attention of men like you." she set down her wine and picked up her slightly damaged lute which was leaning against the chair beside her. Her eyes turned down and she set to the task of tuning the instrument. Reaver couldn't help but notice that she had not put her blouse back on and was still wearing only the jerkin.

"I was going for my evening stroll and heard a ruckus." He said dryly.

"A ruckus, hey?" Talah smiled; it was a cold smile, devoid of any humour or joy. She looked up to meet the pirate's eyes. She plucked a string experimentally and made a face. "Well then, I'm glad I could draw your from your echoing halls in Millfields, instead to a quaint little pub for an evening of frivolity amongst the common folk." She smirked a little, taking a sip of her wine before placing it down once again.

"It was an evening well spent." Reaver said politely, also sipping his wine. "Inspiring in fact, which is why I waited around until everyone cleared out. And bought the pub."

"Hmm. You mentioned that bit already." Talah hummed, as she continued tuning the lute. "Get on with it."

She certainly was royalty, if anything else. Not many people told Reaver to "get on with it." and lived to tell about it. He gritted his teeth and forced a smile. "I have a proposition for you, my love." He said, standing from the chair and walking to hers, holding out his hand. "May I?"

She looked from his hand, to his face, to her lute, and thought for only a moment before handing the instrument over with a smile. "If you must."

He returned to his chair and sat, fiddling with the pegs on the sides of the lute. He was more of a piano man, but if it meant getting what he wanted at this point, he'd cut his losses and appeal to the woman's vanity; she had clearly developed more than enough of it over the past four months. No longer was she the quiet, inwards woman that roamed the courtyard and spent her days in the library, unsure of what the world would think of her, and painfully avoidant of any mention of her glaring status as a maiden.

"I'm planning on hosting a party in the near future. A very secret party for very secret people..." he winked, tapping the side of his nose before continuing. "Your unique brand of entertainment is precisely what I'm looking for to tantalize my lovely guests. So to you, I'm extending the offer to come play for me."

Talah tilted her head, considering the offer. "I want a throne, not a bloody masquerade."

"Come now, Tessa-"

"Talah." She said absent mindedly, "Think of 'talon.' "

"Talah," Reaver started over, "It'll be a wonderful party. Your brother will never know you were there, and there will be all the wine and... pleasant feelings you can handle. Think of it this way; you're a busy little usurper, and I'm a busy business man. We can hardly meet for lunch on a Thursday if we both want to get what we want out of this."

Talah smiled softly. She knew exactly what was going on. No woman tore their shirt off in front of Reaver without catching his attention as a prospective bed mate. Another game of cat and mouse... I wonder if he realizes exactly how unlike the other mice I am? She wondered. "And what exactly do you want out of this?"

He watched her silently as he finished tuning the last string on the lute. He strummed it and every note came out clean and pure. Without getting up, he held the instrument out to Talah, wearing a hungry grin. "I want a hero on the throne."

"How do you know Logan's not?" She asked, not moving to take the lute.

"Because I know things." Reaver said, allowing the slightest hint of venom to take his voice; he wasn't about to allow some little neophyte rugrat walk all over him like he was some sort of idiot, nor would he spill his secrets. "All that matters is that I know what you are, and it just so happens that removing Logan's woefully inept backside from that cushy throne is in the best interests of both of us."

"He seems to like you." She said. "He seems to like you more than I do, if that counts for anything."

"I'm offering my assistance, you insufferable woman. Why do you keep evading an answer?"

"Because it would bring me great joy to not only topple Logan, but take you down at the same time."

Reaver felt the corners of his mouth lift; she was a clever beast. She didn't show all of her cards at once, nor did she make hasty decisions. Very well and good... he was a patient man, after all.

"Play me something then. If you can tune it, surely you can play it."

Reaver sighed in a world-weary way, knowing this game, and grateful for the fact that it wasn't Black and Blue. "Alas, my dear, it has been such a long time I fear I cannot even play you the simplest of ditties." Despite his admission, he sat back in his chair and placed the instrument on his lap. "Perhaps you could help me remember?"

Standing and sipping from her wine again, Talah said, "Of course." Before crossing the room and standing next to where Reaver sat. "Do you remember any chords?" She asked, looking down at the neck of the lute, her eyes made sultry by the fire in the hearth.

"No, unfortunately." Reaver said, barely able to hide the smile bursting to creep onto his lips. "It has been a very, very, very long time."

"Hmm." Talah hummed thoughtfully. She left Reaver's side and dragged her chair over, its legs scraping against the wooden floor. She sat down with her wine and looked at Reaver. "Alright, put your fingers here, here, and here." She leaned over and tapped each place on the neck of the lute with her finger. He did as she said, "Now strum." She ordered. "That's your A chord."

"Mmmm... you make a delightful teacher Talah." Reaver purred, the lust behind his eyes growing when he saw her blush slightly. "Show me another?" He whispered, enjoying the wonderful view he got of her breasts as she leaned over to indicate another finger placement. "I see..." He muttered as he played the E chord. "May I request something of my future liege that may just help me learn this better?"

Talah barely cracked a smile "Sure."

"Come behind me and show me with your hand how to do it. It's a much better perspective." He breathed, half expecting her to ignore him, as she had so previously demonstrated she was exceptional at.

Wordlessly she stood, walking to the other side of the chair, her boots clicking on the floor. She knelt down beside him, the light of the fire making her eyes blaze as she looked at him, her face quite unreadable.

"I never took you to be a man so interested in the arts, Reaver." She said softly, the fireplace crackling behind her. "There are so few who have a genuine passion for such things." She said, pulling herself up so that her elbows rested on the arm of the chair.

"I'm a man who appreciates beauty, in all forms." He said silkily, looking into her eyes, wanting nothing more than to take the would be Queen right then and there.

Her reply was nothing more than a wry smile, and the slight lifting of an eyebrow, as she wrapped her left hand around the neck of the lute, her fingers in a new position, this time. "C chord," she said, removing her fingers and taking Reaver's left hand in her own, gently placing each finger where hers had just been. The skin on the tips of her fingers was hard and thick, and Reaver wondered if they were that way from years playing the lute, or if they were proof of the heroic escapades of the recent months. He wondered if she had scars under her clothes. She wondered if she ever cried when she got hurt, and how many men she had lain with since she left the castle. He wondered who the strawberry blonde was. "Well, are you going to play it or not?" She goaded.

A low moan fell from Reaver's lips, "I'm finding it increasingly hard to be a gentleman." He purred, turning his head to face Talah; they were both rather close to one another.

"This is a lute lesson." Talah said huskily, "not an exercise in seduction."

"Let's make it both, shall we?" He prompted, leaning close enough to her that he could feel her breath on his face. The closeness he hungered for. He saw a shiver ran up her spine and she held her eyes to his dark green ones. His fingers left the lute and went to trail up her collarbone, coming to rest on her long neck as the room fell to the near silence of wood crackling in the fireplace. Let's fill it with moans and sighs...

"My goodness, you do work quickly, don't you?" Talah joked.

"You were going to fuck that wench tonight, weren't you?" He asked quietly, holding her gaze, delighting in the fact that indeed he had caught her at her dirty game. "Come play at my party." He invited again, not giving her a chance to answer his other question, coaxing her closer with his fingers on her chin. "It would make me very, very happy." He breathed, savouring the moment when his lips finally brushed hers teasingly. "We'll have a cup of wine after the guests leave, or maybe before. We'll talk about your future, and how Reaver Industries can help."

"I'll have to think about it." She whispered against his mouth. "Being a hero, and a usurper, and possibly a murderer, I'm terribly busy you know."

"Ohhhh princess... I'm not asking." He groaned, grasping the side of her face with one large hand and pressing the barrel of his gun to her temple. "...Because if you decline, then unfortunately you will be returning to dear Logan sooner rather than later. This monarchy has grown old, and if no one is going to help change go along its natural course, I will."

"You dog." Talah muttered,"When I am queen, I'll have you hung for this." Although there was far more lust than wrath in her voice.

"Always be suspicious of Reaver." He reminded her, taking her lips to his again. "Now what does my pet have to say?"

"When?"

Reaver's eyes glinted as a smile crept onto his face. "Why is the game called Black and Blue, if cards are black and red?"

"Because you either pass out in a field somewhere, blackout drunk, or you wake up in the morning looking like a fisherman's wife because your face has been bruised so blue." She wadded up her blouse and tucked away her pistol and stood, sweeping a dark woolen cloak over her shoulders.

"The party is next Wednesday at nine sharp. Come to the mansion for six, however and I will provide you with a meal. I can tell just by looking at you those are hard to come by these days."

She neither accepted or declined, merely nodded her head before exiting through the back door, leaving Reaver to wonder what in bloody hell he was going to do with his newly acquired pub.