The beach was providing to be an interesting little hub of events, so that was where the Marquis had been spending a lot of his time. All sorts of human dramas played themselves out here - everyday conversations, arguments, people popping out of thin air with no idea how they'd got there, and, of course, strange men yelling their heads off.
The Marquis watched this particular one with something approaching amusement. He was sitting beneath a tree, playing a flute that looked as if it had been hand-carved out of bamboo, which is exactly what it was. He lowered it from his lips and called, pleasantly, 'Looking for someone?'
'Is that a name, or merely a moniker?' asked de Carabas curiously. 'If so, it's a rather interesting nickname to choose. Would I be correct in assuming this 'Vicious' person is of a rather undesirable character?'
The Marquis was not dumb. On the contrary, the Marquis was very, very smart. He'd had to be to survive all these years. However, he was not about to go along with an angry man holding a gun. Death held no mysteries for him, nor did pain or fear, both of which he was intimately familiar with.
Therefore he was able to stare calmly down the barrel of a gun and make jokes, because he was that sort of man.
"It's his name, and yeah, it fits," Spike says, studying the man. Genuine, or just a very good ruse? Vicious was a fair hand with those.
But then, how would he manage to recruit on the island? Couldn't bring them along, and you had to be a rabid dog yourself to go along with any pack led by Vicious.
"You're telling me you've no idea how that got there." He nods at the sword. It hasn't exploded yet, which is something.
De Carabas gave the item in question a cursory glance. 'No,' he said. 'In fact, dear boy, I'd no idea that was the cause of your distress until you pointed it out to me.'
He unfolded to his feet, a majestic figure swathed in a dark leather coat and an enigmatic smile. 'I am the Marquis de Carabas, and I know no Vicious nor do I have any clue how that lovely sword appeared on this beach. I can, however, for a small fee...attempt to find out for you.'
The Marquis knew an opportunity when it came knocking, after all.
Spike lowers the gun a notch. Just a notch. Now he follows. An opportunist.
"What kind of fee? Woollongs don't exactly do you much good here," he says. He's considering it, though. Depending on the fee, it can't hurt to have someone keeping an eye out. Any bounty hunter worth their salt has a few people who'll slip them a lead or two, for a price.
He's not a cowboy any more, of course, but it still might be worthwhile.
'I'm not referring to money,' said the Marquis smoothly. 'That would be almost entirely useless here. No, what I am referring to is, perhaps, a favour...for a favour. I help you and, when the time arises, you help me.'
The Marquis shrugged, elegantly. 'That is yet to be determined,' he said. 'Suffice it to say I won't, for instance, ask you to take a bullet for me. I don't know you well enough to trust that you will, after all.' The smile widened. 'Information, labour, or perhaps I might ask you to keep something safe for me. Nothing too unsavoury, I assure you. There's nothing worth stealing and no one worth murdering here.' So far.
"Deal," Spike says, lighting the cigarette. Sure, there's still a lot of ways those things could prove risky, but, hell. Spike likes risk. The world just got a little more unpredictable, and that's the way he likes it.
The Marquis inclined his head - whether it was a gesture of respect or mockery, however, was unclear.
'Very well,' he said. 'In that case, you shall have to tell me everything you know about this Vicious man and the significance of that sword.' One can't undertake an investigation when one doesn't have all the facts, after all.
The Marquis sighed theatrically. 'If you insist.' He spirited his flute away into one of the multitudinous pockets of his great coat and gestured grandly to the ground.
Spike stoops down, folding at the waist to pick up the sword.
It doesn't explode. How 'bout that.
He rests it on one shoulder and ambles to collapse into a sitting position to the side of ... he should probably find out this guy's name at some stage, he guesses.
"He's a member of the Red Dragon Syndicate. Organized crime, if they don't have those where you're from. He was the leader for a little while, actually. Filling dead men's shoes."
The Marquis watched this particular one with something approaching amusement. He was sitting beneath a tree, playing a flute that looked as if it had been hand-carved out of bamboo, which is exactly what it was. He lowered it from his lips and called, pleasantly, 'Looking for someone?'
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Spike draws down on him, Jericho level and steady. "Expecting someone, more like. Where is he?"
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'Who?' he asked, casually, easily, as if they were discussing the weather over a nice cup of coffee.
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Or, possibly, they're Spike. But Spike is Spike, so he doesn't know what this guy's deal is.
"Vicious. Where is he? He put that there himself, or are you his new errand boy?"
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The Marquis was not dumb. On the contrary, the Marquis was very, very smart. He'd had to be to survive all these years. However, he was not about to go along with an angry man holding a gun. Death held no mysteries for him, nor did pain or fear, both of which he was intimately familiar with.
Therefore he was able to stare calmly down the barrel of a gun and make jokes, because he was that sort of man.
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But then, how would he manage to recruit on the island? Couldn't bring them along, and you had to be a rabid dog yourself to go along with any pack led by Vicious.
"You're telling me you've no idea how that got there." He nods at the sword. It hasn't exploded yet, which is something.
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He unfolded to his feet, a majestic figure swathed in a dark leather coat and an enigmatic smile. 'I am the Marquis de Carabas, and I know no Vicious nor do I have any clue how that lovely sword appeared on this beach. I can, however, for a small fee...attempt to find out for you.'
The Marquis knew an opportunity when it came knocking, after all.
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"What kind of fee? Woollongs don't exactly do you much good here," he says. He's considering it, though. Depending on the fee, it can't hurt to have someone keeping an eye out. Any bounty hunter worth their salt has a few people who'll slip them a lead or two, for a price.
He's not a cowboy any more, of course, but it still might be worthwhile.
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His smile looked vaguely unsettling now.
'Do we have a deal?'
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Well, you can, but he doesn't feel like it right now. "How big a favour? You can't go naming a currency without saying how much of it you want."
Probably a trick for beginning players, if Spike's guess is anywhere near the mark.
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"Deal," Spike says, lighting the cigarette. Sure, there's still a lot of ways those things could prove risky, but, hell. Spike likes risk. The world just got a little more unpredictable, and that's the way he likes it.
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'Very well,' he said. 'In that case, you shall have to tell me everything you know about this Vicious man and the significance of that sword.' One can't undertake an investigation when one doesn't have all the facts, after all.
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He knows a lot about the man. Anyone can recognize their reflection, even in a broken mirror, after all.
"I'll give you the lowdown, and a few bonus facts. That good enough?"
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'Have a seat. Unburden yourself.'
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It doesn't explode. How 'bout that.
He rests it on one shoulder and ambles to collapse into a sitting position to the side of ... he should probably find out this guy's name at some stage, he guesses.
"He's a member of the Red Dragon Syndicate. Organized crime, if they don't have those where you're from. He was the leader for a little while, actually. Filling dead men's shoes."
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