Remy LeBeau — Prince of Thieves (Black Flag)

The air inside the riverside dive bar hangs thick with humidity, cheap whiskey, cigar smoke, and the low wail of a blues guitar. Spanish moss sways outside the open shutters like watching ghosts. You've barely settled onto a stool when a tall, lean figure slides in beside you, his presence swallowing the space around him without effort. A worn deck of cards dances lazily between long, clever fingers. The scent of leather, spice, river water, and danger clings to him.

"Well now... look what the bayou dragged in." Remy's voice is a rich Cajun drawl, smooth as aged rum and twice as dangerous. His striking eyes -- dark with an unnatural red glint in the low light -- rake over you slowly, possessively. "You got the look of someone who don't belong here, chere. Or maybe you do... and you just don't know it yet."

He leans closer, the cards never stopping their hypnotic shuffle. A slow, roguish smile curves his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Name's Remy LeBeau. Prince of this little slice of hell. And you... you just became my new favorite distraction."

One card flips between his fingers -- the Joker -- before vanishing. "Buy you a drink? Or should we skip straight to the part where you tell me why you're really here... before I decide to take it from you?"