Marcus RP Log -- 21st May 2009

Mists still cling to the ground, the chill fall day clearly going to be overcast, as the newly risen sun has done little more but lighten the color of the grey sky. Really, it's entirely too early to be up the day after the night of a party like the one that had gone the night before. But the party yielded the promise of early morning entertainment for the nobles in attendance. Lord Blake Westerfield, a distinguished and charismatic nobleman in his 30s, had been heard to be making mocking jokes about the cause of Independence during the war. Westerfield, notable for having killed several men in duels of honor, pressed the point, though the newly minted Baron of Thurso, Marcus Vance-Sinclair, clearly took exception as the remarks became more directly pointed towards him. The last comment Westerfield voiced while all of his teeth remained was one doubtless considered tactless even by the noble crowd, mocking the thorough devastation of Shadow. Marcus retaliated with a single punch, flooring the nobleman. The challenge to a duel thus made, and accepted, Marcus is standing near to his wife, her business partner, and Carmichael, awaiting his opponent's arrival on the field of honor. "Can't be that fuckin' good. Shit, I fought Reavers with my bare ruttin' hands," He's muttering.. "Is this fucker serious, though? Hell, even on the ol' crew, duels weren't never supposed t'be to the death.." <English>

"This is going to be a total and utter mess, you realise that. You have -any- idea what this ...." Carmichael gestures one hand at the courtyard, the mists doing nothing in their way to clearing the air thanks to his motions, slanting his eyes on Marcus' profile and grimacing. "He's trying to make good with the /real/ threats. I /told/ you this society is like dancing in amidst a nest of vipers, but ooooooh no, noone bloodywell listens to me, do they?" -- He might just be a tad disgruntled, might Carmichael. Up /stupid/ early, traipsing over here to bear witness from his ship, you'd better believe he dragged his bodyguard with him. He glances at Rendolin, away at the house again. "And to think. Cigars and friendly discussions, which is what I /was/ here for, is going to look awfully dour and offe, after you gut this man with his own fragging clavicle and introduce him to his kidneys." He shakes his head, fingering the rapier at his side. <English>

Having volunteered his Estate for the coming duel, Salin had taken a few moments to speak with the guards that man the massive iron gate, informing them that once the last of the Nobles and their entourages had arrived, the gate was to be closed and all those seeking entry, including the Alliance, were to be turned away. With those particular orders under way, the Count had made his way over towards the smallish manor, only to slip inside and then return with a push cart covered in a variety of liquors of all makes and brands. Pushing it to the side, a glass of whiskey is claimed before he makes his way back towards the center of the courtyard, where the main attraction will soon begin. <English>

Kennedy is clad in red silk that clings around her legs as the wind kicks up, a black cloak style jacket clasped around her shoulders to keep away the chill but it doesn't seem to be working. The pirate-baroness is chilled down to the bone, the expression on her face gravelly serious for once. "Mercy has different definitions here, Marcus. In this case, the merciful thing would be to duel to the death to save the fallen the embarrassmen of losing." <English>

Rendolin returns quickly, as if he had some role in this requiring rifle and tactical expertise. He can roll with his Lordship Carmichael's time wasting fun being replaced with watching stabbing wounds. For the interest the gunman gives, he's not going to complain about the change of entertainment at all, though the drinks may be slow in coming. Taking up a spot a little further away from Carmichael than is his wont, the bodyguard adopts a casual at ease posture to watch. <English>

"HA, I'm serious," Danielle laughs into her little icomm thing that looks more like a smaller version of a cellphone from Earth-That-Was. Apparently she enjoys the style. Normally, she's not one for noble gatherings, but when she heard that the party would actually be more than just a fancy get-together with some tea and crumpets, she began looking forward to the occasion. She's swaying on her feet, either because she has a song stuck in her head, or she just drank too much. In anycase, she's more lively than you'd expect a teenager to be at this time. "They're gunna duel. I should find my camera and post it on CortexTube," she muses to the caller on the other side of the phone connection, standing relatively close to Carmichael and the others. And out comes the camera! "Hey, smile, fancy blue bloods," she snorts, while pointing the device towards the people around her. "I forget... Why's he fightin' Westerfield again?" Dani asks Carmichael, her eyes shifting to the side to Rendolin, lips pursing. <English>

Dressed in full fashion to blend in with the gathering of his peers as he watches from what one could only conclude would be the edge of the field of battle, William's eyes drift around from the faces which have currently gathered to witness the gentry's brand of bloodsport. He couldn't say he was on good terms with either of the participants, except by reputation, of course. It had been quite some time since he had attended a duel, too long perhaps. "I'm glad to see that you are able to attend, Lord Bennett..." A male voice greets the Rifle Lord to his right. That was a voice to a man William wasn't expecting, or perhaps more accurately, was hoping /wouldn't/ be present. "I would not have missed it in the least... Lord Olin." <English>

Carmichael glances at the rather macabre spectacle of being caught on 'cell camera' by Danielle at such an event and sighs to himself a little. He puts on a rather black sort of smile for the camera that falls away a second later, informing her "Because he punched Westerfield in the mouth. There was a tooth or two lost I believe, this is an honour duel. Frankly, if Westerfield wins, the society has to accept his ideal that he's right and /that/ is something I'd be very, very irritated about. Shadow..." he grimaces, looks at Marcus sharply and back to the misty courtyard at the arrival of others. Just a very slight nod to Winchester, his expression's simply grim. No, there's no seguing to the drinks cart for him either; his hand firms fully on the hilt of his rapier, so hard that the knuckles are white. <English>

"Yeah, and I told y'all not t'leave me 'lone with thesepeople neither. Fuck, felt like a piece o' chum in a shark pool," Marcus rumbles in reply to Carmichael. Funny how that worked, too, at the party. Carmichael, Kennedy and Salin had all had their attention elsehwere just at that moment, drawn in separate directions by people who were very insistent, leaving no one to get Mark out from a situation in which he was clearly way in over his head, "Mother fucker. First time I wear the suit Jamie made me, and I'm gonna get it ruined." Shrugging off the jacket, Mark sighs, turning to Kennedy, the stoney expression softening a bit as he glimpses her face. He drapes the coat around her shoulders, shaking his head, "Hell. I didn't want t'kill nobody. Fella needed to be taught a lesson, is all..." Gone is the cane today, leaving him limping, but more mobile than he might have seemed earlier. The judge has approached him now, and offered him the rapier he'll be using, a weapon Mark accepts and eyes speculatively. One might wonder if he has any idea what he's doign with the weapon. <English>

A few motions are made to a couple of the guards and as Salin speaks to them, they offer a simple nod of their head and move off to surround the various points of the Courtyard to 'supervise' those that have gathered to watch this little affair. That done, there's a quick look around before Salin begins to make his way over towards where Kennedy and Marcus have taken hold and as the judge hands the weapon towards Marcus, a soft chuckle escapes his lips, "You sure got yourself in a rather fucking tight position at this point, Marcus." Then, there's a look over towards Westerfield where blue eyes rest for a moment before returning back to Marcus, "You wanna try using a blade that's designed a little better then that shit they provided you with?" <English>

Westerfield is looking might smug, talking quietly with his second while he peels off gloves that were practically painted over his hands. He's dressed in a pair of high waisted pants and a white ruffled shirt, his jacket recently shucked for the occasion. He lets the conversation float around casually, as if he's just here for a cup of tea rather than to potentially end the life of another noble, no matter how quasi. Finally, he steps away from his friend, flicking the tip of his rapier as he walks. "Suprised you even showed..." He says casually. <English>

Dressed conservatively for the occasion, Gabi is wearing a set of dark slacks and white blouse. Overtop she has a thicker wool petticoat and a pair of dark sunglesses. She drifts from the house at a few instructions whispered by Salin to the Security team and she stops near the entrance to the path, keeping her back to the wall so she can keep an eye on what's going in. <English>

Kennedy lifts her chin at the comment from Westerfield, managing to look every part the regal baroness her background implies she should be. She's quiet, but the daggers she sends Westerfield speak volumes. <English>

Some are serious, having some stake in the matter, and some are... not so much. Rendolin is a spectator, even if he's passingly familiar with one of the combatants, and he laughs quietly as he spots the amateur documentary filmmaker. Turning his attention back to Marcus as the man prepares, the bodyguard crosses his arms on his chest to study the loose-lipped noble as he's given his dueling rapier. <English>

Verain is one of the last to arrive, fashionably late by society's standards-- and just in time, by a Companion's. Dressed in dark trousers, a dark chemise and woolen overcoat, with a flash of colour in the blue at his throat, the young man is nothing if not dressed for inclement weather. The clip of booted heels on flagstone halts when he does, and his attention rests squarely upon the combatants. <English>

Danielle fiddles with the camera's zoom lens, first getting a close-up of Marcus as he takes up the rapier. She shuts her icomm device, hanging up on whoever she was speaking to without really saying goodbye. "Aaand our brave hero takes up his weapon..." she narrates into the camera, while turning herself around and letting the device 'see' all those gathered. She's a bit oddly dressed for something like this; a soccer uniform. She doesn't have much else in her closet, apparently. "Some nobles..." she murmurs, before she spots Gabi back there as well, and she zooms in there, too. "Some not-nobles..." Dani hums, raising a hand to wave idly at Rendolin and Gabi, quite amused with her own antics. <English>

Lord Olin comes to rest beside Winchester, leaning to his left heavily on a guilded cain. He was one of the older members of the gentree in attendance, late fiftes, his hair and van dyke beard more salt than peper; yet, the man certainly carried himself well, inspite of the limp. "So, Lord Bennett... How do you think the tide of battle will fare?" William gives a return nod in the direction of Carmichael, but his somber expression remains. Still, noting the way Lord Olin was balancing, a rather superior feeling welled up inside of him. "I try to not speculate these matters too hard, Lord Olin. Lady Luck will choose her champion soon enough..." there is a pause as a smirk slowly comes to his face as he meets Lord Olin's gaze. "You seem a bit stiff today, Lord Olin... Is that old wound acting up?" <English>

"Ain't we supposed t'use a matchin' set?" Mark asks Salin, adjusting his grip in the guard that's barely big enough for his hand. His opponent's comment draws Mark's attention for only a moment, the big man muttering to his wife, his friends, "Christ. He sure ain't got any intention o' makin' this hard, does he?" Raising his gravelly voice, his rough rim drawl standing out here as much as it did in the party, the rather grim-faced old pirate asks, "What the hell we waitin' for , anyhow, let's get this shit movin'. Lord, somebody's supposed to be gettin' killed here, if that's what all you jackals were lookin' t'see, let's get it over with." If someone didn't know Marcus well, they might think he was nervous, tired of the anticipation. Likely those who know him well take an altogether different meaning. <English>

Carmichael's dagger look is a little less sharp but no less haughty, staring over at Westerfield for a moment, like he might somehow give the man tennis elbow by force of will, catching movements out of the periphery of his vision. He searches the mist, spots the familiar face of Verain and nods slow and elegant toward the companion, turning back to the impending moment "Marcus, you need a second... it's traditional. You need to pick one of us," he mutters, before the big man goes off half-cocked. <English>

"Fine." Marcus grunts, half-turning, glancing first to his wife, without a second thought, "Kenni, whatever the hell a second is.." <English>

Maybe there's a reason Kennedy asked Verain to be here, as the question of seconds comes up. There's no one she trusts more in this genteel game, afterall. When the companion appears, Kenni offers him a sad sort of smile, but her attention doesn't linger. It goes back to Marcus, and she's stepping forward to tuck something into his pocket. Funny time to pick to be traditional, she gives him a favour, just a locke of her hair twined in metal wire. As he names /her/ his second, she slightly grimaces but gives a nod of consent. She should have known better. A bit lost, Kennedy looks around for a weapon, just on the off chance and...what the hell is Danielle doing? Without pomp or circumstance, Kennedy marches in her direction, her heels clacking a sharp sticatto on the flagstone. She leans into the soccer uniform clad girl, and murmurs something into her ear. <English>

Carmichael's nod is reciprocated by a deep incline of the Companion's head; it intimates a bow, without the depth of one. Verain's attention lingers upon the nobleman a moment, shifts to Kennedy for a similar denotion of respect, then returns to the men bearing arms. The occasional sifting breeze through his coat may well reveal his own rapier belted at one hip, guarded with silver and a red peaceknot. <English>

There's a faint smirk and Salin is giving a shake of his head, "No, the blades don't need to be the same. One is always provided if you don't have your own, but you may choose any form of sword, so long as it's consider a viable sword." Then, as the second is named, his eyes flicker over in the direction of Kenni and there's a faint smirk, followed by a soft chuckle before he's turning his attention over towards Carmichael, "Well, Carmie, this is certainly going to be interesting. Been awhile since we've gathered for one of these, it would seem." Then, there are a couple of steps taken backwards as his eyes play about, offering nods to the others that have gathered. <English>

Gabi offers a quick glance to the camera but otherwise does her best to blend into the wall. She doesn't watch the impending fight like most, though. Her eyes, behind those large tinted aviators, watch hands. They watch movements. They watch the walls surrounding the courtyard and rooftops. Her hands folded in front of her, she looks the picture of calm considering half her face is behind dark glass. Verain gets a careful nod but that's all. <English>

Rendolin is quite aware of the filming, being the sort to watch for surveillance. He eyes it a moment, before breaking into one of those bright amusement park grins, returning the wave with a waggle of fingers before refolding his arms and trying to look attentively serious again. Trying. At the talk of seconds, his gaze becomes a whole lot sharper on his noble employer. <English>

Lord Olin's jaw visably clenches at the question, and the only response he gives to answer is to turn his attention towards the duelists. William, too, turned his attention towards the competitors and those gathered around them. He too solice in the fact that he bested his senior in there own little duel with a premptive thrust that went right to Lord Olin's heart. For his friend's sake, it would seem, William could only hope that the Baron-Consort Sinclair would have Lady Luck's favor today. <English>

Okay, so maybe the video will be too severe to be posting on CortexTube, Danielle decides to herself, after getting an explanation from Carmichael. She'd forgotten it all, after drinking about 4 too many drinks the night before. "Thank you," she says to Carm, after he's cleared things up. "For the smile, too. Looks good to, uh, my viewers," she says... Because she totally has viewers. She's about to bounce off to the otherside of the courtyard and see what sort of angles she can get there, when she sees Kennedy approaching. "Uh oh," she chirps to herself, biting at her lower lip. She considers flipping the camera shut, for fear of having her ass kicked just for filming, but she doesn't want to NOT have her own demise on camera. The soccer player keeps it out long enough to hear Kennedy's whisper, and her face goes instantly sour. "Fiiiiine," she mutters, begrudgingly switching the camera off and flipping the cell shut. <English>

Westerfield grins as Marcus tries to name Kennedy as his second. "Might want to choose someone a little less...likely to get caught up in her skirts there, Marcus. I should have known you'd be too uncouth to realize your second is supposed to be a /man/." He moves into position, bringing his rapier up in a sharp salute while he waits for Marcus to join him. <English>

MAybe Carmichael can feel the weight of Rendolin's sharp look across the courtyard. Luckily for the bodyguard, the Major's not going to have to go and club his boss on the back of the head to stop him doing something dumb. This time, anyway. "A very long while," Carmichael replies to Salin, observing as Mark goes and picks his wife to second him, a casual look is sent to Kennedy, in the dress. Down, feet, legs, skirt, up again. "That'll be extremely interesting, if for some reason we actually do end up with seconds..." is muttered, he unfastens the peaceknot on his own rapier and just leaves it there. Sometimes, just sometimes, people get over-excited at this kind of thing after all, friends jumping in where they shouldn't... once in a very blue moon. He nods to Danielle, looking over at Westerfield and just... smiles at the man. I know who you are, I do. I know what you want. You know who -I- am, too. Amazing what you can say with the right kind of smile. "He's going to make an awful mess, Salin. You know that, don't you?" <English>

Verain doesn't speak, doesn't congregate with the others. He's like a living, breathing, very expensively dressed statue over there, pale grey eyes riveted on the performance about to transpire. <English>

Oh if only Westerfield could read minds. His comment doesn't go unheard by the mid five-foot security officer standing nearby. She rolls her eyes and adjusts her stance, letting those eyes drift over hands and pockets. She eyes the other bodyguard for a moment or two before her gaze moves off towards its circular scan of the area. <English>

"This'll do," Mark grunts, evidently expecting what Salin had meant with the sword, now, "I get a Katana, he'll get one, an' I'm gettin' sick o' waitin'." Only now is Marcus starting to realize just what the hell he was even supposed to be naming, in any case.. "Look, mate, skirts or not, y'better be happy it's me here an' not her. Christ, I'm sick o' listenin' to you talk." Turning back to the others, he just doesnt' seem to have the same hierarchy of trust as his wife.. but then, he hardly seems to have noticed Verain, or even Danielle, His attention's been elsewhere, most recently reaching into his pocket to see what it as Kennedy put there. First looking to Carmichael, Marcus seems about to speak, thinks better of it, then glances back to Salin, "Fine, Salin's it then.. Let's quit fuckin' round." Without waiting for further conversation on the topic, the big man.. limping rather severely without the cane he usually relies on.. makes his way onto the grass between him and his opponent. Said opponent raises his sword up in a salute to the crowd, and then once to the judge, before commenting to his own second with a chuckle, "Pardon me, this won't take but a moment," as he too strides forward. "It is the appointed hour," the judge agrees, with a glance at his pocket watch before it's tucked away. There's no need to say more. Blades glint with the morning light in the initial exchange, in which it becomes evident Marcus hasn't any idea whatsoever how to wield this weapon, the brute strength of his wild swings easily deflected by the nimble, laughing Westerfield, leaving Mark off-balance, his limp translating into an awkward stumble. At least, that's how it seems for the first few minutes, as the grinning Lord toys with the apparently outclassed, crippled Rim-worlder. It's apparent to all who know much about fencing when it should be over, Westerfield ducking under a furious slash from the bellowing old pirate. Failing to decapitate the other man, Marcus stumbles forward to one knee, and Blake has the broad expanse of the big man's back as a target. The arisocrat arrogantly takes his time as Marcus stumbles on his way to his feet, preparing the killing thrust... But then, Marcus is on his feet. He's not nimble, by any means, but there's no trace of the limp as he turns into his shocked opponent, only barely deflecting the blow, causing it to tear shirt and vest and draw a bloody line across Mark's ribs. But a big hand closes on the nobleman's wrist in a vice-grip, trapping him as Mark sneers at him, then swings. The handguard of the old pirate's sword forever ruins the handsome face of the cocky nobleman with a sickening wet crunch. Even as the Lord slumps, still held in Mark's grip, Marcus makes the quick thrust through the chest that ends the man's life in an instant, only then releasing the bloodied, bent hilt of the weapon to allow it and his victim to fall to the ground. <English>

Rendolin shifts his stance wider, as if to show full readiness to head on over to Damian and clock him. No doubt some excuse for it could be found; the gunman is not noble. He may have misunderstood the rules. He's heavily armed and gives not a gorram shit about rules. He briefly smiles serenely at his boss, before watching things get down to business. His expression becomes impassive as he watches Marcus's skill... or lack of it. The punch seems to cheer the gunman, and his arms uncross to almost applaud, but he catches himself before actually committing such a faux pas. <English>

William remains silent as the two men move into position and the judge calls attention to the time. Folding his hands behind his back, the Rifle Lord relaxes as the engadgement commences. Indeed, from the start, odds would seem to favor the aristocrat over the Baron-Consort Sinclare... But the ending result certainly would suprise a few of the older generation of Nobles present, Lord Olin included. With the duel concluded and Westerfield laying on the grass, William dips his head into a somber nod towards the departed. Risking a corner glance towards Lord Olin beside him, the Fireams Magnate of Hera couldn't help but wonder if Lord Olin had wished for the same all those years back. <English>

Kennedy doesn't turn her head from the bloody carnage, such sights she's perhaps used to seeing if not inflicting herself in what seems like another life. She doesn't cringe, doesn't wince as it's all over in just a moment, but seemed like an age. As Westerfield's body slumps to the ground, she merely raises her chin half an inch in a subtle hint of cold pride. <English>

Amber steps up behind Lord Winchester and to the side - his left 'blind' side in case of, ah, accidental over excitement on the part of one or more persons present, and watches the proceedings with interest. A well-schooled face, it would seem, despite a couple of small flickerings of concern during the ebb and flow of the contest. Certainly, towards the last there is a small, pensive frown... and she seems unsurprised by the sudden fluidity with which the limp is discarded. The fist in the face is likewise accepted, but when it is followed by the killing blow and the metallic sweet taste of warm blood follows, her lips tighten. <English>

Carmichael sighs and the comment that comes from him in the silence of 'shocked aftermath' is rather carrying. "I /told/ you he'd make a horrible mess..." completely unsurprised, the grass is no longer green, brutality has replaced finesse and there's more than likely a whole lot of stunned, jaw-dropped elite over there. Cold hazel eyes survey the line in the morning light, his fingertip tapping the hilt of his sword meaningfully; it's a challenge as he gazes at each face in turn -- dare question it. Break the rules. /Dare/. <English>

The Bennett House, Physician, Dr Adamson, steps just behind Amber and then to the side of her. He had heard of such duels to take place but this was the first to witness such. Having taken Amber's cue to step aside, grated he was curious. <English>

Gabi merely watches everything except the fight. Especially the bodyguards who aren't local to this establishment. The sword duelling is noted, but her attention seems to be focused on the people watching. She tilts her head casually to look around the fight at a bystander who shuffles behind the fighters and out of her sight. When the duel ends, Gabi only notes who is still standing before looking back to the rooftops and the gathered crowd. <English>

Verain neither shifts, nor averts his gaze as blades touch in the first steps of the dance. Nor when taps turn to furious slashes, which turn in kind to sound and fury-- and then the wet slither of a killing blow. No matter his personal tastes, a Companion is always, can only be, a mask. There's a twitch of his nose to the scent of blood, and a curl of gloved fingers, but he's otherwise perfectly still. <English>

Marcus inspects his bloodied side, for an instant, as the onlookers stare. The old-guard of nobles in attendance, certainly, is the most shocked as they stare at the flower of the Core aristrocracy dead and bleeding at the feet of a Rim-worlder... a thug, a pirate, a barbarian amidst their ranks. But even many of those who might have sympathized, the younger blue-bloods, very well seem shocked and even horrified at the sight. The victor himself barely seems to look at the still-warm corpse with more than a disdainful glance. Evidently deciding his wound isn't worth any more attention, Mark looks around, growling, "So now what? Y'all gotcher ruttin' show, now ain't you all got someplace t'be?" No longer evidently burdened by his disability, his limp only a minor faltering in his step, now that the deception's revealed, he goes to his wife, his friends, looking from one to the other before looking to Kennedy, muttering, "Let's get the hell outta here." <English>

Rendolin watches the onlookers just as much as the surviving combatant, and draws himself up a bit, catching the tension. He takes a few steps closer to Carmichael, as if in preparation to execute the getting the hell out maneuver. <English>

Amber considers Gabi's point of attention for a time, too, before flickering her gaze upon her employer and moving half a step closer and things seem to - not exactly settle down, but subside into a more 'normal' level of uncertainty and tension. The smallest of inclinations of her head towards Marcus, and a miniscule lift of her chin towards the dead body of his opponant as she looks towards Lord Winchester. "Shall I attend him sir," Amber asks calmly in an undervoice "Or shall his own party do so?" <English>

Alex stands quietly having observed, but wouldn't move unless was asked on the carcus of the man. Listening to Amber and Lord Winchester. <English>

Kennedy bows her head slightly as Marcus approaches, keeping her voice low. "You realize the implications of what just happened? How that man is tied to my father?" She shakes her head and doesn't ellucidate. There will be a time and a place, and standing on a recent battleground apparently isn't going to be it. There's a reason why the judge is here, to decree things are in line with fairplay and to do arrange the clean up. There's no sense in sitting around to watch the body get carted off. Her eyes glance to Verain, a silent 'thank you' conveyed for his presence, though she's never even verbally greeted him properly. She then brings her eyes around to Salin and Carmichael, "Times are never quiet for long, are they." The acquiesce to Marcus' request is just a slight cant of her head towards Salin's private landing pad. "Our ship is waiting." <English>

William turns his attention away from Lord Olin as Amber makes her presence known. First looking towards his associate and his personal House Physiscian before another glance is given towards the group around the victor; and after a moment of consideration, the Rifle Lord shakes his head. "That will not be necessary from either of you... I expect that the physicians of House Sinclair are ready to recieve the Baron. Besides... Last thing we wish to do is intrude." <English>

Carmichael shakes his head slowly, eyes on the old-school nobility and then... the body on the grass. He has yet to move, even when Marcus makes to return to the cool-kids group over here. Anyone that knows the blond noble well would be able to tell that look, but for the rest... it's just staring, narrow-eyed and tight lipped. If his ears could twitch however, they probably would have and he glances briefly at Kennedy and Marcus, beyond to look Salin square in the eye and back... to the aftermath of the event. He doesn't say a goddamn word. <English>

Gabi just remains stoich and quiet, watching the scene unfold in front of her. Like so many times before, knowing the ins and outs are above her paygrade but she does it anyhow. The woman doesn't move or fidget but for the slight turn of her head to watch the spectators milling about, waiting for them to leave before she can relax. <English>

Verain finally stirs, when Kennedy starts to make noises about leaving. Curiously enough, he's watching the faces of the onlookers, more than anything else. Observing, as a Companion often does. He turns upon his heel, gloved hand falling away from the pommel of his blade, and starts wending his way on an intercept course toward the woman. Carmichael, whom he happens to pass, is given a quick curve of a smile. <English>

"I didn't want t'kill'im." Is all Mark can say, sighing as he glances back to the corpse cooling in the grass. When Kennedy does, he glances to Verain, considering the companion a moment before he simply nods, then looks back to Salin, to Carmichael. When it was life or death at the point of a blade, there wasn't any hesitation, no trepidation or fear from the big man.. In retrospect, even those who thought him nervous must now see it was only impatience. Now, though, his scowl betrays the uncertainty, the dimly-realized potential consequences, the budding awareness that he's in far over his head. He glances back again to the body, watching as the man's entourage gathers up his remains, making preparations to take it to the van that was waiting outside the gates to carry away one of the two men. And with a sigh, he turns back to Kennedy, nods once, and follows her back to the ship. <English>

Rendolin steps into Carmichael's shadow, his expression composed to neutral again. <English>

There is something about the sight of the medical personell kneeling to check the dead man which, for a second or two, has Amber looking odd. Not disturbed, or distressed, but - odd. She shakes her head and returns her attention to Lord Winchester. "An interesting match, sir, though the kill could have been cleaner," she murmers. "I have... " and she stops. <English>

Kennedy takes a step backwards once she's clear that Marcus is following, and of course the ship won't leave without the esteemed passenger of Verain. A swirl of crimson silk, and she's off without another word to anyone. <English>