A Master of the Craft

Written by Jack for character development of Rivier the Rogue

Rivier sat there, watching the sunrise. From here it was beautiful, it’s rays dancing across the waves as they lapped at the sand beneath his toes. The water was cold, but not icy, just the cool of a winter morning carried by the waves of crystal water, flowing in and out with the tide. He felt good, it was peaceful at this time, the world was silent. And he was alone. Rivier supposed it had to be that way, his life was one of blood and shadows. Not exactly ideal for a family man. But he wouldn’t mind it, settling down, perhaps with someone who could understand the unraveling yarn that was his mind. But those sorts of people were rare, and usually as deranged as him.

But that wasn’t so bad, c’est la vie, as the French said. He was content with the sea, and the sand, and the sunrise… and of course his work. He’d gotten rather good at it in fact. He fought like a whirlwind, unleashed like the wrath of nature itself, so fast his eyes could often barely keep up, but he didn’t even need them too. He was at one with his blades, and with the gunpowder in his pistols. And that was his bliss.

He pulled out a pistol, placed it to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

The gun gave out a lame click, and he spun it back into his holster with his usual dramatic flair.

‘Good lord, I’m not repressing that much am I?’ He said to no one in particular, except the breeze. His hand had moved on its own, manipulating the wooden grip of his pistol, and drawing the weapon, without him even being aware of it. If he wasn’t the one about to be shot, he might even have been impressed.

Rivier looked down at his hand. ‘You traitor.’ He muttered at it, but then caught a glimpse of black on his palm. He turned his hand and gazed at the tattoo that had seemingly inked itself onto the hand out of thin air. The visage of a flipping coin, one side heads, one side an overflowing chest. Well fuck, that wasn’t good.