It begins with a door...
... a door you're quite sure wasn't there a moment ago. Backing out of it is a man, his attention completely taken up by the unknown person he's conversing with.
'Yes, well,' he clears his throat, 'a dead family is all well and good, but I think it's about time I called in that favour, my lady. Needs must be met, clients to meet and all that. So I really think I'll be using it pretty soo...'
He stops, and slowly turns around. The immediate impression one would get from looking at him is dangerous. Dangerous as an ace in a pack of cards. And he knows he's worth every bit as much as that ace, although he no longer has the life insurance to cover it. His manner of dress is refined. His hair is salt-and-peppered. His coat is pimpy.
He is the Marquis de Carabas.
And currently he's a little bit scared, not that he'd admit that to anyone. No, to them he'd merely say that fear is a lesser man's problem and problems - be they a stranger from Above or a thirty foot crocodile - are merely challenges to weasel out of. But this place doesn't look like any area of London Below he's ever been in and it's set him on edge, like a cat with its hackles up.
'My lady?' He calls out to the now shut and sealed door (or wall, as it should be known). 'This isn't amusing. Milady? Door?'
[Yes, it's the indefatigably morally ambiguous Marquis de Carabas from Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere. And, to a lesser extent, Princess Boa's MIA typist. You couldn't keep me away. Anywho, the Marquis will be up to all your sleazy, pimpcoated needs. And - of course - he's always willing to do a favour to get one.]
'Yes, well,' he clears his throat, 'a dead family is all well and good, but I think it's about time I called in that favour, my lady. Needs must be met, clients to meet and all that. So I really think I'll be using it pretty soo...'
He stops, and slowly turns around. The immediate impression one would get from looking at him is dangerous. Dangerous as an ace in a pack of cards. And he knows he's worth every bit as much as that ace, although he no longer has the life insurance to cover it. His manner of dress is refined. His hair is salt-and-peppered. His coat is pimpy.
He is the Marquis de Carabas.
And currently he's a little bit scared, not that he'd admit that to anyone. No, to them he'd merely say that fear is a lesser man's problem and problems - be they a stranger from Above or a thirty foot crocodile - are merely challenges to weasel out of. But this place doesn't look like any area of London Below he's ever been in and it's set him on edge, like a cat with its hackles up.
'My lady?' He calls out to the now shut and sealed door (or wall, as it should be known). 'This isn't amusing. Milady? Door?'
[Yes, it's the indefatigably morally ambiguous Marquis de Carabas from Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere. And, to a lesser extent, Princess Boa's MIA typist. You couldn't keep me away. Anywho, the Marquis will be up to all your sleazy, pimpcoated needs. And - of course - he's always willing to do a favour to get one.]