@vidjausers-fable
“Dear boy you really ought to lighten up, all of that frowning will give you abhorrent wrinkles. Not everyone is blessed with staying as youthful and vibrant as I after all.” Cursed may be a better word. Oh yes, if there was one thing Reaver adored it was the sound of his own voice. There would certainly never be an awkward silence in his presence. He likely wouldn’t even notice if another didn’t contribute to the conversation. It would only mean more opportunity for him to speak.
He displays no physical irritation at use of ‘old man’, but it did indeed strike a nerve. Reaver’s appearance was more important to him than anything else. To mock it was a dangerous feat. His head angles, he saw no reason to lie to the prince. Reaver didn’t possess incentive to act the loyal servitor to him as he did the Queen.
“Well, truth be told I am not here for you. I am here to...serve my own inclinations. Not that it should matter. You have the most skilled marksman in Albion here to protect every hair on your pretty royal head. I know individuals who would kill for such an honour.”
The prince’s offer is highly appealing to him, after all Reaver viewed most things in life as a game. It was always a matter of playing whatever cards necessary to win, even if that card may be cheating, betraying or even murdering. “A game? My, what a tempting offer. I will gladly accept your proposal!- as I have every confidence of winning.” Shooting was second nature to Reaver. It was something no one, not even another hero, would ever be able to compare to him in. His swordsmanship was expert...but there would always be a possibility he could be beaten. But when it came to rifles, he was truly unparalleled.
He leans forward, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. There was an unsettling glimmer playing in his eyes. “However....what is the point of competition without a prize, hm? So tell me, my sweet prince, what are you willing to wager?”
