This chapter is a lot shorter than the rest since I'm running short on time. Got finals coming up shortly! *screams loudly in head*
Ahem..
Anyway, I hope ye enjoy~
DISCLAIMER: ALL does not own Fable II or its characters. Her little OC is strictly her own.
"Sir, your gun."
Reaver's attention was brought back to the man before him. He had quite forgotten about the sculptor he had hired for the evening. The man was staring at him with an uneasy expression. He certainly had not expected to be brought to this man's home for a job. As he worked, his eyes glanced over Reaver's pose, chiseling the marble in the right places and making slow but steady progress, as well as the polished pistol in his hand. It was pointed at the ceiling at the moment for the sake of the statue, but the artist knew well enough what this man could do with a weapon such as that (not many people didn't know, in fact) and standing in the same room as him made everything all the more terrifying. He just prayed to the gods that he would get out of here with his life. His family was expecting him home for his daughter's fourth birthday...
Reaver raised the pistol a little higher. He was beginning to feel the muscles in his arm strain from being posed as such for several hours. Is he quite done? I'm getting tired. He was irritated, not only because he had been at this for longer than he had anticipated, he had also been following as many rumors on Harley as he could. No word yet of if she had been captured or not, nothing about if she had been brought to Lucien dead or alive. And that bothered him. If she were still out there, that only meant he still had competition for being the best marksman in Albion. He couldn't have that. There would have been no point in sending her out into the world with false information, then...
"Hey mate! You have business with Reaver?" Norman's grunt coasted in from the open doors leading straight into the front foyer. He had a visitor? Oh goody... Reaver thought bitterly. He hoped his guard would turn them away and not let anyone through. "He's through the back."
You absolute ignoramus, Norman... Reaver felt his eye twitch. Footsteps grew closer to his gallery and a very attractive man with black hair stepped inside. He had curious blue scars across his skint hat seemed to be glowing. He was well muscled and wore dyed gray and black adventurer attire with an intricately carved cutlass and yew crossbow strapped to his back. A smile curled the ex-pirate's lips. You absolute treasure, Norman!
"Well. Hello there," He greeted. The sculptor continued to move around the marble, hitting the chisel with the hammer in precise places. His uneasy expression had not budged. "Always a nice surprise to have company; I don't get many visitors to my little coastal paradise. Especially ones who might well redefine a man's concept of 'paradise.'"
"I suppose you're Reaver?" the man asked. The pirate grinned.
"Oh, I expect you've heard of me," he said. Then he chuckled. "Yes, yes and who hasn't? But it's you I'm most interested in. On the rare occasions that people make it through Wraithmarsh, they're lost, confused... scared," his mind flashed him images of Harley's face. She had always ventured out to the marshes of her own accord and returned victorious every time. I suppose she's an exception. He snapped out of his thoughts. Why should he care about her? She was long gone. He turned his attention back on his visitor. But not you. You're looking for someone. And if you're looking for someone in Bloodstone, let's be honest: you're looking for me."
"How could you possibly know that?" the other asked, his eyebrow quirked. The man crossed his arms over his chest.
"My dear boy, who else would you look for in a town like this? Harlots? Take your pick. There's more than a handful out there. Drunks? Sailors?" Reaver broke pose, holstering his pistol and turning to the man. "I'm the only one here of any importance."
Reaver looked this boy over. He hadn't the slightest idea who he was, but the scars on his skin seemed so familiar o him... Had he read about something like this before? Or was it possible he had known someone with the same affliction? Either way, he wasn't much use to Reaver if even he himself hadn't a clue about the visitor.
"But I'm afraid I hate wasting time on nobodies. That's you," he finally said sternly. But perhaps he could humor the boy - just for a moment. "Tell you what," he added. "Why don't you go out and rescue some travelers, or slay some beasts... or slay some travelers? The details are unimportant. But prove to me that you're worth dealing with and I'll give you my full attention."
The man stood there for a moment, staring at Reaver in disbelief. Was there something on his face? Was his hair out of place? Of course not. Reaver glanced briefly at the artist at work and turned back to his company. Why was he still standing there? "That's it," he said, waving a hand for him to leave. "Tsst. Scoot. Off you go. Vamoose. Geh weg! Allez-vous en."
The other's brows knitted together but he turned to leave, slamming the door of the gallery behind him. Reaver sneered. Now to inspect the newest masterpiece. The statue was far from done, but the artist had chiseled out a good chunk of the marble made to look like the side of him. The pose was perfect, his posture precise (much better than the painter he had hired days before), and his- Wait a moment... There it was. The first mistake that could not be undone. It was almost laughable. He took out his pistol and tut-tut'd the artist.
"Do you really think my buttocks look like that?" he asked. The fear in the man's eyes as Reaver raised his pistol gave him purpose. He didn't even flinch as he pulled the trigger and the man's blood painted the disaster that was to be tossed into the bay. "A shame, really. You seemed to have promise."
The gallery door opened again. That young man could not have possibly gained popularity that fast. If he had, it would have been more impressive than anything Reaver had seen in his life. He turned to the door, his pistol raised just in case - and froze.
"What-"
Harley stood in the doorway, her hood drawn over her face. Her eyes pierced through him. He could feel her anger from where he stood.
"Why, Harley," he said. "What a pleasant surprise."
Thanks for reading~!
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