#marksmanshipp

“I am truly looking forward to this. It’s been too long since my rifle experienced the obliteration of a life. Well--- an immortal life.”

Shooting uncooperative factory workers just never provided the high Reaver experienced when shooting a foe who posed an actual threat. He’d been more than happy to oblige when the Queen had requested he accompany her brother on a venture to investigate rumours of odd shadows snatching people on the outskirts of Albion. It seemed likely that the culprits were some of the few crawler henchmen that still roamed the wilderness. It was a trivial pursuit for Reaver, but his hand had been itching for a bit of action. No matter how ‘white-collar’ the immortal claimed to be there was a deep-rooted violent nature in him, reigning from his pirate days, that demanded to be quenched more frequently than was probably healthy. 

Of course he wasn’t a total savage. They were to travel to the location in the height of comfort using one of his private carriages. Heaven forbid Reaver would travel on foot like some common peasant. 

He sits across from the prince, a glass of whiskey cupped in his hand as he swirls the contents around, not spilling a single drop. 

“I must say... it does strike me as odd that you still gallivant off on these little adventures, your highness. Surely you have an array of guards who could do it for you, yet you still choose to wade through the wilderness slaying trolls and other nasties. Perhaps you fear your skills don’t extend beyond brutal slaughter?”

@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. 

@vampiric-bite

Reaver had associated and manipulated, bartered and cheated an endless array of individuals throughout his lifetime. That was one of the side effects of being an immortal hero, so many faces....drifting by in lifetimes that seemed like a blink of an eye to a man nearing 3 centuries; yet, despite the many associations and Reaver’s total lack of concern for anyone besides himself, the marksman never forgot a face. So when suddenly finding himself standing in front of a vampire who he had once imprisoned, tortured and forced into commanding an army of night stalkers for his own gain in power, it didn’t take long for their name to fall on his tongue. 

“Reistr...I’d recognise those amber hues anywhere.” 

He smiles, a sadistic expression as his eyes trail up and down the other. He was alive and well it seemed. That was unexpected. He thought the vampire’s disappearance had been due to him being killed somewhere doing one thing or another. But no, it seemed he had fled. This was something that would certainly not sit well with the hero.

@vampiric-bite

The marksman can’t resist laughing at this, shaking his head slightly in a manner of amusement. 

“It appears you know me well. But not well enough, I’m afraid. Torture for the sake of torture isn’t something I partake in. There must be an ultimate reward.” 

His eyes are drawn to what appears like a makeshift den behind of them. It seemed the vampire had been forced to rough it out in the deserts. He was a far distance from Skyrim after all. Without aid he would likely never get back to his homeland. 

@righttorule

“As percipient as ever, your majesty. Whilst it is true that a war involves both gain and loss...I do ever so enjoy it when it is the enemy experiencing the latter.”

The marksman shift his position to cross one leg over the other, residing on a chair near the window of the king’s quarters. Despite being the one in servitude, there was a permanent sense of arrogant authority surrounding Reaver. He never seemed phased by the titles of others, a rule which applied equally to the King of Albion.