How The Win is Won

[Victor Lark]

The corners of his smile dipped for a instant as a pair of searching brown eyes caught hold of Victor’s from across the room. He was released when their secret witness dropped his scrutiny to the back of the foreigner’s head, then turned calmly elsewhere. Ambrose was cautious, the look said. The Wager hated them cautious. Victor liked to think the amusement of the night never left his posture as he finally split the first card from the top of the deck and began to deal.

“Okay, this game we’ll bet with drinks,” he suggested, as his hands moved in a swift circle between himself, Ambrose, and the man without a tongue. “In Syliras, they call it Knights, but on this side of the pond, it’s better known as Ovek’s Crown. All you have to do is play a card higher than the one played before you. If you can’t, you pass, and you have to drink.”

With thirteen cards for each, Victor set the rest aside and began to organize his own. “I dealt, so I’m the Vagik. Anyone can tell me to drink, whenever they want. Some people make up rules. George here—can I call you George?” The other man rolled his eyes and smiled his acceptance. “He’s on my right, so he’s wearing Ovek’s crown and he can tell anyone to drink whenever he wants. You’re in the middle. You can tell the Vagik to drink, but not the Crown.”

Victor pulled a card out from his hand and tossed it to the center of the table: the Three of Swords. “If you’re the last one to play when everyone passes, you take the Crown and choose the Vagik. We move clockwise, so that means it’s your turn.” George grumbled a laugh and pointed a gnarled finger at Ambrose, then at his cup. Victor pretended to hide his smile behind his cards. “So tell me where you’re from, Ambrose. When we bet, we should bet with your games.”

OOCI tried to pick something that wasn’t very tedious. Look up Asshole or Dai Hin Min or, if you would rather play something else, suggest it. :) We don’t even have to play a card game.

[Ambrose Kain]

A game with ever-changing rules dependent on the players' whims didn't seem like something one would want to bet on, but as long as they were only drinking, Ambrose could play along. He trusted himself to know his own limits, and had the self-control to stop himself before he got drunk enough to start betting real money. Besides, he was curious. A game that shifted its nature so rapidly might be a lot of fun. "Zeltiva," he said after a faint pause, his eyes on his cup. Was that gesture supposed to mean he was meant to drink? He didn't want to risk offending 'George' by asking, so he took a sip anyway. A small one, though--he had no idea how many times he'd be required to drink in the moments ahead, and he didn't want to go rushing headlong into oblivion. "Sure, we have Zeltivan card games. I don't think I'd be the best tutor for them, though. Gambling was more my father's forte." His grin grew a little pensive, and reluctantly he set down a card. "Ah, looks like a seven of cups...what does that entail?"*

[Victor Lark]

Victor’s jaw grew stiff as he watched Ambrose’s mug rise and barely tip against his lips. Still, his mind wandered to Zeltiva and the father that presumably lived there. This Mr. Kain did not seem to weight his son’s tongue too heavily, and yet there was a trifle of bitterness in the words. Fingers of curiosity were reaching out from Vitor’s eyes until they were stopped abruptly by a firm grunt from George, whose accusatory finger had flashed toward him as soon as the Zeltivan had spoken.

The Vagik smiled and tipped his glass at the power-happy bloke before he took a swig for himself, a quick but hearty one that tried to request the same from his Middle-Man. By the time he set his glass down, George had already covered the Seven with an Eight. It took a moment for Victor to realize it was his turn; as he inspected his cards, he said through the paper, “And your father did not teach you any games?” The Crown pointed at Ambrose imediately after Victor opened his mouth. “He must have. Men teach their sons the things they love, if they love their sons.”

He tossed the Page of Shields on top of the growing pile.

[Ambrose Kain]

"No," Ambrose replied, a careful coolness suppressing the emotion in his tone. He took an inordinate amount of time to study Victor's card, then compared it to his own, trying to understand the physics. More and more, he had the feeling it was a game intended to screw over anyone who wasn't the dealer--maybe it was just the seediness of the location making him paranoid. His throat had begun to tickle with thirst, and absent-mindedly he reached for his mug, but paused instead when he recalled how awful it tasted, and the fact that he was trying to remain as sober as possible. Not wanting to look like a fool for sticking his hand out, he made a pretense of smoothing his hand on the tabletop instead. It reminded him a little of the dusty old tables in Laszlo's favorite place, and the memory of sharing that awesome sight with the ethaefal made him smile. "This is an...interesting decor," he commented, trying to keep the faint derision out of his tone--Ambrose appreciated a difference in aesthetic appeal well enough, but it was hard to appreciate a location whose very walls oozed of desperation and unfair tricks. "Who designed it?"*

[Victor Lark]

“That would be Thorren Belvare,” Victor answered, but did not bother to clarify which of the men was him. “The building’s probably older than he is, but he owns it now. He probably did the decorating, but I doubt he put much thought in it.”

He paused. George was pointing at them both again. Victor peered affably at the man, trying to decide if there was any rule or method to his pointing. Though he could not guess, the dealer was grateful to give Ambrose an excuse to drink. Victor took a long gulp, hoping again that his fellow youth would follow suit. “A Zeltivan like you—” The moment that first syllable left Victor’s mouth, George’s pointing arm pulsed at Ambrose and he lifted two fingers at the Middle-Man.

His lips pursed and he said hollowly, “Two.”

Victor laughed. He was beginning to understand, but he didn’t bother to change the subject for it. “I bet you’ve enjoyed the finer things, have a taste for aesthetics.” He had not caught the hint of disgust in Ambrose’s tone. His own was hypothetical and friendly. “Why, don’t you like it? I bet after a few drinks it’ll look beautiful. Maybe you’ll win enough money to buy the place, and ten you can spruce it up a little!”

His eyes dipped impatiently to George, then to the game, suggesting that he get on with it. Only then did he realize that Ambrose had yet to play. “Don’t have anything higher?” He guessed, then winked. “If you pass, you have to take a third! Or you can just chug it. If you finish it in one go, I’ll give you three gold ones. Then we can play a real game.”

“Here,” he sat up and moved forward in his seat, grinning camaraderie. “I’ll do it too. Last person do finish owes the other.”

[Ambrose Kain]

Ambrose didn't like finding himself signed up for a 'real' match when he still had little idea how to play the game, and his dark frown made his feelings evident. He took another careful sip of the alcohol--with any luck, he'd at least grow habituated to the taste of it, and wouldn't have to try so hard to school his expression with every drink--and glanced down at the cards in his hand, then exhaled slowly. "You know, actually," he mumbled, and abruptly pushed away from the table, finding his feet. There was no way he could be drunk already, yet the room danced around him as he did so. Coughing, he put a hand over his mouth and tried to steady himself. There was just something about the place...it was anything but inviting, and Ambrose wondered more and more how he'd let himself be dragged inside in the first place. Still, he didn't want to be rude, so he flicked the man called Victor a faint smile and ducked his head in apology. "I think something I ate earlier isn't agreeing with me. Perhaps I should go now, and return when I'm in more of a gambling mood." Of course, he doubted Victor would let him leave without comment--it seemed to be his job to ring in customers, after all--but Ambrose was already on edge. If Victor--or more specifically, Victor's bosses--intended to rob him of all his funds, they'd be better off finding a more gullible mark.*

[Victor Lark]

Victor’s chair rattled behind him as he stood with Ambrose, hasty to interrupt the apologies with some polite regrets of his own. “So soon?” He complained, and the too familiar words tasted like sour monotony. This man was not as interesting as some, and not as credulous as Victor had anticipated. His retreat turned the challenge of baiting him into something more akin to frustration. Still, Victor would not lie down and let himself be defeated; at least, this face was easier on the eyes than most present, and it would be a shame to lose it.

“But we’ve only just begun!” He continued, shrugging forgiveness to a forlorn-looking George as he set a gentle hand on Ambrose’s shoulder blade. Whatever the gesture meant, he did nothing but follow the man. Here, he was a talker, a persuader—not a bully. As they approached the door, he caught sound of a group of loud-mouthed customers who seemed to be bickering as much as they laughed.

Victor stepped to the side of the door. He would not trap his prey; if he could not keep him of his own accord, what was the point? Sharp steel eyes pored into soft browns, then danced to the new group. “Zeltivan like you, how about a game of riddles? Put in a gold for every guess, and if you get the answer, you get the pile! If you want to keep your money, you can bet other things.” With a wink at his customer, Victor eyed his fellow employee at that table, who nodded an invitation, then to Thorren at the back, who was paying no attention.

Pretending excitement, Victor fled to the table and locked his arms atop it. He inserted himself and his own riddle (one he had learned yesterday, at least) into the brief lull between the others. “I am always hungry; I must always be fed,” he said to Ambrose, even though he was looking at the people around the table. “The flesh I lick will soon turn red.”

The man’s laughing face assured an evening’s entertainment, on one side. On the other, the door hung in the promise of escape.

[Ambrose Kain]

Despite himself, Ambrose found his steps interrupted, his interest piqued. "'Will soon turn red'..." he echoed slowly, and just as slowly, turned his trajectory towards the new table. The others already seated looked as unfriendly as the rest of the bar, so he glanced at each only a microsecond before dropping his gaze to the splintered center of the table. "'Will soon turn red'..." Red, of course, immediately made him think of blood. Some kind of disease, then? Gangrene? But no, it wouldn't be a complicated answer like that. It had to be something much more broad, like "emptiness" or "void." As he deliberated, Ambrose dropped a single gold coin into the pile, supposing he could at least do the eager fellow the boon of one round. Besides, he wanted to know what the answer was, and doubted he'd be able to hear it unless he joined the bet. Still, the image of blood flashed in his mind, and still he had trouble thinking of any answer besides disease. But it wasn't necessarily blood--what else turned skin red? Paint? But no, paint didn't need to be "fed," unless one counted "water" to thin it out, and that seemed like much too far of a stretch. Taking his time, Ambrose lifted his gaze again, and cast it about the room for inspiration. Hat, drink, table, curtain, stare--all of these things and more momentarily caught his attention, and just as quickly he moved on. Yet the gears in his head were whirring; he was fully invested now, determined to find the answer for himself. It was the lamps hanging just inside the front doorway that finally gave him an idea of an answer. At that distance, and with all the din, he couldn't hear it, but he supposed the small flames must be crackling, as flames were wont to do. Sucking up all the oil given to them, greedily consuming it... "...Fire?" he voiced at long last, his voice faint with doubt. Riddles were tricky business. The shorter they were, the more ambiguous, and the larger range for error. Ambrose was none too certain he had the answer, and only belatedly he worried he might make himself look like a fool. Too late now. "...The answer is fire, is it not?"*

[Victor Lark]

“Fever!”

“Anger!”

“Venom—no, wait.”

“—Can’t take it back, Thom,” Victor insisted, pointing. “Submit your gold.”

And before he could take another breath, the previously silent Ambrose spoke up. Victor chuckled, watched the gambled coin fall with a think against its new brothers. “Yes,” he answered, turning satisfied greys to his customer’s face. He straightened and stepped momentarily away from the table, showing Ambrose a window to the game. His was the thirteenth coin to grace the pile, and so he had won twelve gold pieces in a matter of seconds. “Get this man a seat!” he demanded, slapping the shoulder of the character who had tripped over his tongue.

The poor bloke rose, leaving his chair warm for the taking. Victor moved to Ambrose and took him carefully by the arm, suggesting instead of forceful. “Good job,” he mentioned, sliding his hand to the man’s hand and leading him to his new station. His grin spoke of pride, not in himself, but in the foreigner’s luck, the change of events. He almost suggested that Ambrose prove his worth with a riddle from his homeland, but another man spoke up.

“What walks on four legs in the morning, two at mid-day, and three in the evening?”

With a sigh, Victor stole the coin as soon as it had been dropped. The money he earned here went directly to the House’s pocket, and yet the desperation in the fingers that clutched it told another story. “Easy. The answer is a man, and a stupidly short-lived one, at that. Next?”

His brow rose to the clever russet around Ambrose’s pupils, observing how the low light made them wide, frank and searching. He eyed his chest and shoulders, wondering about his unseen heart and breath, curious as to whether he was nervous or pleased or still confused. And in a flash, his iron gaze returned to meet the man’s, and he gave him an encouraging shrug. “What have you got, Zeltivan?”

[Bedlam]

Thread Completed!

Victor

Experience:
2 Persuasion
3 Subterfuge
2 Gambling

Lores:
Baiting the Cautious

Ambrose

Experience:
2 Observation
1 Gambling

Lores:
Beware the House

Notes:

Sorry it took an extra day for me to get to this. Yesterday I spent the entire day flipping out about a test or in a coma from the fallout. But here I am now!

Ambrose gets twelve more gold, but you probably already guessed at that.