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Having completed his business, the sailor left the docks at a jog, disappearing into a nearby inn with the mug nowhere to be seen.

Long accustomed to her husband's hijinks, Dinah quickly slugged the bartender and jumped behind the bar which in her experience was a position of relative safety then yelled out "Vive le roi Batroc!" to further antagonize the crowd.

Fury arrives inside of his room at the Inn and shuts the door behind him, locking the latch and breathing deeply, taking into account all that has occurred these past few days.

Stepping to the left of the door, he lights a candle to soften the darkness and shed some light into his room when he immediately becomes aware of another presense in the room, something he could sense.

he stands upright and glances from left to right, before his eyes settled on the corner of the room where the shadows were built up, all save for a lone glow of a cigarette ember.

Fury: Who the hell....?

Voice: You are a most difficult man to track down mon ami.

The voice was thick in a French accent and Fury's eyes narrow and he blindly reaches for a weapon but the figure chuckles as he steps out of the shadow to be seen, clad in a dark trench coat with matching pants and boots. His black and red blazened eyes scan him with a confidence as his shoulder-length red hair shimmers from the candle's flickering glow.

Fury: You....

Mssr LeBeau: I see you remember me.

Ms'sr LeBeau, a known and (in)famous thief of the French nation, steps closer with hand extended but Fury, ever vigilante, whips a dagger from it's holster on his belt and holds it upright. LeBeau simply stands there and smiles.

LeBeau: Well, it's good to see you too.

Fury frowns.

Fury: Hard to trust someone who breaks into a room and hides in the shadows.

LeBeau: I'm a thief mon ami, it's what I do.

Fury: What do you want?

LeBeau smiles and shrugs.

LeBeau: Merely to give you a token of my ... esteem.

LeBeau holds out a cloth wrapped bundle in the palm of his hand and Fury, tho reluctant, reaches out and takes it. Ms'sr LeBeau takes a drag from his cigarette as Fury slowly unwraps it and holds it up...a ceremonial dagger bearing the crest of the family of Count Von Doom. Fury stares at it, then looks at the man standing opposite of him who now bears a lok of total seriosuness on his face.

LeBeau: Now, you know where I stand mon ami.

Fury carefully regards the dagger handed him. He recognizes it as the real deal, having seen similar in the past. He thrusts it into the palm of his left hand, a standard method of ensuring the balance of the knife, hence the quality. There is no mistake, Ms'sr LeBeau has indeed managed to infiltrate the confines of Doom's estate to procure this item. Esteem was one thing, but trust, especially in Nicholas' profession was something else altogether. Still, desperate times call for desperate measures. The fallen Sir Nicholas Fury has found himself in the gravest of circumstances, the choice is obvious. For Fury, this is the only choice. He sets the knife down on the dresser beside him and glares Remy in the eye.

"I see you haven't lost your touch, Mr LeBeau." He says in an even tone. "I must say that I still have my doubts about you, but at the same time I am glad to see you. I can certainly use your aid." He gestures Remy to a chair while pouring them a drink. "Tell me, do you remain in contact with the gypsy clan who sheltered you during my tenure?"

Remy casts a bemused glance at him, accepting the offered drink.

"Your friends have talents of their own. If we are to accomplish what we desire, we are going to need all of the help we can get. I have already begun to set up my eyes once more in London so that I will know who is where and what they are doing, but there numbers are great, and we are going to need assistance."

He smirks, taking a seat next to Remy and lighting his pipe.

"You have already demonstrated your worth with your gift, and that tells me that you know the layout of Otto Von Doom's estate." He leans forward to ensure the clarity of his words. "Which gives me an idea."Firstly, our band will need money, I would like to think that I can count on you to help us all in that regard so that we may purchase what we need. But at the same time, I may have a use for one of your gypsy friends to help weaken Doom's position."

He settles back in his chair, taking a sip from his mug and then looks Remy square in the eye.

"But before we can proceed, I must inform you that what we are doing is dangerous. Capture will mean our lives, but success will bring with it the greatest of rewards. Is this acceptable to you?"

Dinah finally was able to make out the writing on the label, a useless British port that she summarily slammed into the head of he hapless ruffian Ollie had thrown onto the bar.

"Les Anglais sont toutes sauvages."

Seeing her husband's responce, Dinah began to sing a slow melodious tune, distracting the men from the fight at hand and she slowly raised the pitch of her voice until they were all on the ground clutching at their heads and trying to protect themselves from the flying glass shattered by Dinah's unique voice.

"I hope you all enjoyed my concert boys, it's only free the first time."

Beatrice sprinted down the alley behind the store, clad head to toe in black leather to blend into the shadows. She nearly collapsed against the wall, breathing harder than she ever had in her life, hoping she wasn't too late. But the cellar door torn to splinters spoke otherwise. The inside was exactly as she had imagined it would be, blood and bone and flesh strewn about in a baroque display of animalistic rage. She carefully sifted through the carnage, turning bodies over with her rapier, examining the bloodshed until she found a severed forearm with a large section of exposed bone.

Beatrice kneeled down and examined the bone, finding that the marks on it were not deep or sharp enough to be from steel. She knew instantly that the sword of his was a mere convenience, a cover up for something else, so she tucked the forearm into her satchel and departed into the night.

Beatrice sensed no pursuit behind her, but she was careful to change directions and move through darkened houses on her way back to her manor, the house that she shared with her husband Sir Frederich Wagner a knight of some repute in the court of King James.

Beatrice swiftly scaled the stone wall surrounding the manor using Japanese ninja tools bought from a crooked importer in the docks district, and dropped onto the neatly manicured grass, keeping her head low until she could duck into a servant's entrance at the back of the manor.