Remy Montilyet

Aspiring Casanova


Remy Montilyet is the youngest son of a declining merchant family from Antiva, but from the way he carries himself (and talks about himself), you’d think he was an actual merchant prince. The Montilyet name holds a little weight (if you follow world events, you might have heard it floating around hand in hand with talk of the Inquisition), but it’s pretty clear that Remy is the baby of the family. He thinks he’s got a handle on the Montilyet’s trade business, and he certainly comes equipped with their connections, but you can tell from his stories that his two older brothers are actually the ones running the operation. While he’s not quite the cunning businessman he thinks he is, though, it doesn’t take you long to realize that he has an almost absurdly keen mind for inventory. Not only can he rattle off exactly how much of any given item you have in store, but he knows how big it is, how much it weighs, the best way to move it, and exactly how long it will last before you need to resupply.

And he’s actually… oh, god, he’s actually a little bit charming? No, no, he’s sleazy, and arrogant, and full of himself. A terrible, cocky sonofabitch who uses some of the worst pickup lines you’ve ever heard in your life. But he has this smooth, sultry Antivan accent, and really, really long eyelashes, and the kind of smug sexy smile that you know he practiced in the mirror. And he’ll slide into the seat next to you when you’re sitting at the bar and tell you that your lips are like a rose in bloom or something equally awful and cheesy, but he doesn’t get in your space, and if you say his name, sternly, he’ll hold his hands up and offer his apologies with a good night, my lady, or pleasant evening, good sir, and take his leave. If you let him, though, he’ll keep flattering you until you’re sitting close and talking low, and he’ll tell you varyingly plausible stories about his (or his family’s) adventures and exploits – often involving dashing Rivaini pirates and more danger than you think an average mercantile ship could probably find itself in. Other than maybe a little light arm touching, though, he never makes a move, and if you don’t, either, eventually he’ll thank you for a lovely evening, kiss the back of your hand, and excuse himself – leaving you wondering if you really just spent the last three hours listening to the little brat talking about himself.


Remy Montilyet

Long Way Down theshannonlewis theshannonlewis