How The Win is Won

[Victor Lark]

61 Fall, 511

The Trickster seemed to be in a good mood—that is, a mischievous one, a humorous one. In honor of his merriment, she cast a plague of seasons on its people. The day was dying when Victor briefly exited his place of work, only to withdraw again and retrieve a coat for the cold; by the time he had crossed outside and pulled it over his arms, the low sun had become bright and hot. Shrugging through his annoyance, as if there were eyes that would see his distaste, Victor sloughed the black leather from his arms again hooked its collar in his fist.

He leaned against the Wager’s façade and watched the passing faces carefully. He tried to keep his brow soft and his lips straight, but more than once he caught his face carved in the crude mimicry of a stranger’s expression—or worse, they caught him. He would not offer an apologetic smile, only drop the idle imitation and wait for them to pass. There were always more, and when he found the right one he would not be so careless.

A young one. That was what had been demanded of him. Fresh, malleable, foolish.

Dark clouds had turned to rain and then to ice, but when he finally saw what he sought, the air was dry and an inexplicably pervasive dust was turning the puddles brown. He shook the rain from his hair, leaving a dry splotch on the wall as he leaned to standing. Tugging at the coat which he had since donned, he stepped in front of a handsome, brown-haired man. The stranger was taller than he, but seemed of a similar age. If he did not stop, Victor would hold out a friendly hand.

“Hello there,” he said with a discreet smile and tongue like butter. He brushed the man’s arm with a soft, olived hand. “You seem lost. This weather is dreadful... why aren’t you inside?”

[Ambrose Kain]

It was not the first time Ambrose had traveled down that particular street, nor would it be the last, but he'd hardly know it either way. He was still a newcomer to Alvadas, and had yet to understand the peculiar way no road ever seemed to lead to the same location twice. After awhile, he'd given up actively trying to find specific locations, and simply let the roads take him where they wished. More often than not, the results were exciting and novel, so in a way he was thankful to the roads for having such capricious tastes. This evening, he found himself outside a green-walled structure with a fairly off-putting look to it, namely from the door being firmly shut and the windows shuttered. Ambrose thought he heard the vague sounds of carousing from within, but the splashing feet that treaded along the still-damp street provided too much background noise to be sure. He probably would have passed right by the building with scarcely a glance, had not another individual stepped forward to prevent his progress. Drawing to a slow stop, Ambrose lifted his gaze to the stranger and smiled uncertainly but kept his hands tucked within his pockets, the better to make sure their contents remained undisturbed. Alvadas was not an altogether dangerous place compared to other places he'd been, but he'd already suffered through one attempted pickpocketing, and did not care to repeat the situation. This man looked too well dressed to be a lowly footpad--but one could never be too careful. "Hello," Ambrose greeted, stepping past the requisite nervous exchanging of gazes with his usual lack of reserve. Briefly, he glanced to his arm where the stranger had touched it, then quickly returned to meet his eyes. "It's not so dreadful," he countered, and gave his head a shake that scattered several droplets of water in every direction, though not vehemently enough to spray the stranger. "Actually, I was feeling quite uncomfortably warm after so much walking. The city was very kind to offer a refreshing shower, I think."*

[Victor Lark]

His smile broadened like approval, but not wholly for the sake of his employers. He withdrew it with a small bite on his the side of his bottom lip. “That’s the spirit. The city is kind. It leads you where you ought to go, and sometimes where you ought not.” He shrugged. “Today, it’s led you to me.”

But today was already slipping into the garb of tonight and even as Victor coughed into his fist for inhaling too much of the chapping air’s dust, their little world was slowly becoming moist again. Froths of white clouds conceived fleeting shadows to bide the escaping heat, but they fled westward as Ionu readied the horizon for dusk. It would have been a brilliant sight, the painted wisps on a pink and gold sky. It was Victor’s job to ensure this man would not witness it.

“I’m Victor Lark,” he mentioned, holding out a hand in greeting. Despite the apparent softness of his face, Victor’s fingers were riddled with old, rough callouses. He would let his hand linger within the stranger’s touch for as long as Ambrose allowed, but would not dare persist with force. “I know a place with cold drinks to keep you cool and strong ones to warm you up again. A good place to spend an evening.” He laughed as his hand was released, stuffed it and its brother into the pockets of his black leather coat. His teeth clung to his lip again as he nodded towards the Wager, the very same building that put this man off. He did not move from where he blocked the man’s progress elsewhere.

“Would you... care to join me?”

[Ambrose Kain]

Not about to be so rude as to ignore an offered handshake, Ambrose reached his own out and secured Victor's in a sure grasp. Squeezing just enough to assert that he was friendly but no ponce, he followed it with a chipper, "Sounds like an offer I'm too parched to refuse." All the same, he looked slightly ambivalent as he gave the intimidating building a second once-over. It seemed like a place that was determined to discourage people from entering, so why was this fellow out on the street, inviting Ambrose inside? It all seemed a little fishy, but curiosity got the better of Ambrose. He took a step towards it. "So, I've been to the Withering Rose," he said as he walked, his eyes on the building in a vain attempt to pick up further details about what might lie inside. "And saw for myself how effective the rumor of the roses is. What's the name of this place? And what's its gimmick?" He didn't mean it in an insulting way--he just figured the building had to have some kind of legendary trick to it. All the other landmarks and shops in Alvadas seemed to.*

[Victor Lark]

Victor paused at the foot of the stair, holding himself close and the invitation closer. A coy chuckle answered the peculiar question, filling the moment that would have otherwise gaped in silent hesitation.

He did not know how long he had been out, but he was beginning to think it was too long. As much as he enjoyed the fresh air and the sight of the evening sky—if only because they were becoming unique, due to the binding nature of his employment—he knew he needed to be back, with or without his assigned charge. With him, at least, he could prevent some bitter retaliation later in the night. One foot perched readily on the first step, he finally answered, “No gimmick. It’s a gambling-house. It’s games and a good time.” His gilded smile did not falter as he clutched the end of the wobbly steel bannister and hung on it a moment, leaning nearer to the man. He needed only to bend his arm to reach and tug at the collar of a coat that was not his. “What’s your name?” He teased. “What’s your gimmick?”

Then the spoke of the stair swung him back again, and Victor swept up the steps and hasted to the door. He knocked; a slit at the top opened and a wrinkly voice tittered out the beginning of a riddle. Victor immediately interrupted with the affect of a groan on his throat. “It’s me, Leo.”

But then his impatient face was drawn to the handsome stranger again, and he brightened. “With me, you’ll have a good time,” he pleaded. The door opened. A clamoring chorus of men and cards and ale poured out. “I promise.”

[Ambrose Kain]

Ambrose's eyes narrowed slightly, wondering at the man's sudden haste in returning to the building's interior. It reminded him just a bit of a kind of spider he'd heard described once, which built its nest under a sort of trap door and would lure its prey closer with bait before pouncing from cover. But that was just silly. Victor was too well-dressed to be a common brigand, and Ambrose had enough confidence in his ability to turn down offers that he doubted he could be taken any other way. "Alright," he agreed slowly, wondering if this was how a damsel felt when following a shady figure down a blind alley. Ambrose put his hand on the banister as he made his way up the stairwell out of habit, but let go after realizing how cold it was. Hands feeling restless, he tucked them into the folds of his tunic instead. He peered past Victor at the building's interior for a moment before following him, but the interior was so dark, even still he could barely make out any details. The only thing apparent were the sounds of revelry from inside; but even those Ambrose distrusted, as they could be falsified easily enough. On the other hand, he knew he wasn't going to enjoy himself if he went in with his defenses already raised. Better to go in cautious but open-minded, ready to roll with whatever occurred. This was an adventure, wasn't it? And what had he come to Alvadas for if not to seek adventure?*

[Victor Lark]

It smelled like musk and paper and sweat on gold. The steady beat of shuffled cards held pace for the chatter of bets and challenges, the knock of ale mugs against tables and teeth. The lyric of coins whispered between the heavy noise, harmonized with threats for blood and time made tangible. But despite the din, the patrons were not rowdy. There was a thick tension on the air, like to spark at too great a commotion. Victor heeded it well, tread lightly as he pulled the stranger by the sleeve of his coat between the sprawl of chairs. The sound, the movement, the pace: it was meant to disorient and overwhelm, to direct solace in the form of a drink, to make a mind reckless.

Most seats were filled, but Ambrose’s host found a group of men rising. He stole their spaces before they were vacated, depositing his charge into the warm chair beside the one he had taken. “Pair of drinks,” he called to a youth no older than he, who seemed as different from the rest of the crowd as Victor did—and yet he did as he was bid. A set of cards had been scattered over the tabletop; with a wide sweep of his arms, Victor gathered them up and began to shuffle them. “What’s your pleasure?” He asked quickly over the slap of paper beneath his thumbs. “What game would you play?”

The boy came back on his toes, depositing two glass pints of the cheap stuff between the two men before he slipped away again. “Thank you, Renash,” he called after their already invisible server, and in the same breath, pulled his smiling eyes up to finally meet the chocolate pair opposite. “Never told me your name, man.”

[Ambrose Kain]

Amused that the person used to lure in customers should also be a card dealer, Ambrose smiled as his name was asked. "Ambrose," he said eloquently, leaving out the 'from Zeltiva' part until he better knew the man's aim in asking his identity. No sense incurring a false debt and having them follow him all the way home to collect on it. Ambrose's experience with cards was passing fair, but all the games he knew were common only in Zeltiva, and he didn't want to appear foolish--but neither did he want to pretend to understand a game and end up losing badly because of it. "I'm not certain. What's the customary game played in Alvadas?" As he spoke, a man located near behind him pushed out of his chair suddenly and yelled a threatening word at his companion. His arm lashed out at the same time, elbow poking Ambrose between the shoulderblades. He winced and snuck a glance at his assaulter, but the man hadn't even noticed the damage he'd caused, and was already storming angrily out of the establishment. "Rough place," he mumbled, mostly to himself. Feeling a little parched, he hooked one finger in the handle of the tankard and dragged it closer, then peered inside. The color wasn't the soft red of his preferred wine or even the golden brown of honeyed mead; it didn't look very appetizing at all. But as his mother would have said, before her untimely death during his childhood--"seize the day." He lifted the tankard, steeled himself, and took a long draught. Ugh. Well, at least it wasn't poisonous, or they wouldn't have served it there. Would they?*

[Victor Lark]

“Ambrose,” Victor repeated, smiling as if the name required his approval. He pushed the reshuffled cards together and knocked them square and even. Before he could say anything, he was suddenly rising against the man that had unwittingly assaulted his customer; Victor stepped to the stranger’s side and wrapped a hand around his thick arm. “Hey, have you lost a bet for your feet?” He muttered, glancing down facetiously. He shoved the man into his chair again and glanced at his opponent across the table. “Another round for him. Play fair, and watch where you put your hands.”

Without a beat, he slipped into his seat and regarded Ambrose again, smiling. He picked up the cards, split them and dropped them into another shuffle. “Customary game. You talk like a foreigner. Where are you from?” Victor asked, as if he had not arrived at same city barely five weeks prior. he glanced idly around their vicinity, searching for another man who might care to join a game before it started. A fierce-eyed, knife-slim creature took the bait, offering a wide and tongueless smile to the pair before his gaze settled on the cards. Victor continued, “No customary game here. Cards from all the cities, games from all the cities. I’ve got games for reflexes and games for wits, for conversation and for silence,”—he added with a wink—“Games from Lhavit and Ravok and Eyktol. The game a man chooses says a lot about him. What kind of man are you?”

Finally he stopped shuffling, and held the cards against the table as he leaned briefly towards Ambrose. “These—” He released them in a slow, snapping cascade from his thumb, taking a look at the symbols as he showed them to the foreigner. “Syliran suits. Would you like to play a Syliran game?”

[Ambrose Kain]

Usually Ambrose was the most rapid speaker in a group, and Victor's dance with words left him a little nonplussed. "Um," he hummed thoughtfully, drawing his brows together in consternation as he watched the cards shuffle through the man's nimble fingers. "Sure, I guess," he said at the end, then wrinkled his nose slightly. "I mean, depending. How difficult is it to learn?" He hadn't meant to sic Victor on the man who'd nudged him--it had been an accident, after all. He longed to glance over his shoulder and see if the situation had escalated, but he didn't dare, lest Victor overreact and cause a confrontation again. Instead, he took another uncertain sip of the swill in his ale mug. "And I'm assuming I'm expected to make a bet, or there's no point in playing. Can I at least get a practice game first?"*