It was a dark and stormy drink.
The ginger beer had long since succumbed to old age, the rum had drowned itself in equal parts water, and the twist of lime had more fermentation kick than anything else - but it was palatable enough for anyone on a proper bender. The perfect drink for the establishment. A seedy longhouse with plenty of trestle tables and many a person seeking solace from the bottle or fortune from a round of gambling. Elbow room was a hot commodity, packed so tightly among friends and strangers that were all too friendly. The smell was atrocious - the sawdust on the floor did little to soak up the sick, and the air was hot with too many bodies crammed into one place.
Risk had gathered at one of the quieter tables to try her hand at a game of chance, and hope lady luck was on her side that night. She’d set off on her own that night, away from her compatriots in the Greenspike mercenary company, although she had no doubt those fellows of ill-repute would show up sooner or later. Instead, she whiled away the hours of the night intent on winning back some of her gold from a group of six knaves and robbers, cloaked in filthy capes and dim-tavern light.
One by one, her fellow gambler’s had all folded until it was left to just Risk and a broad, greasy man who’d won fair too many hands so far. He had the cold glint of steel in his eye, and a shining gold tooth that made an appearance each time the fucker showed his cards. Her own eyes darted between her hand and him, and her locks of red hair clung tightly to her olive skin drenched in tense sweat. When the fifth street revealed itself in the common cards, he’d smirked again.
“Six-high straight,†he cackled, laying his hand down - the two of hearts and three of clubs. He reached for the pot with one beefy arm and slung back a shot with the other.
Two of hearts
Like a flash, Risk planted her kukri into the table; the curved iron blade pointing its hilt at its master. She was standing, or more accurately leaning over the table, with keen eyes hidden behind the thick black make-up she applied around them daily. The tavern grew quiet, or the mercenary had blocked out all the sound, so hotly focused on the man across the table from her. With nary a move, and little effort, she flipped her own hand to reveal a pair of twos - of clubs, and of hearts. More people around the longhouse began to take notice.
“Are you callin’ me a liar,†said the gambler with a slight lisp as his fat tongue coated his lips.
“I haven’t said a word, my friend,†Risk replied, unmoved - but bemused by the obvious lie. â€These Scara Brae folk are strange, and this Stonevale stranger still.â€
The cheater chased his shot with a swill of ale.
“Then what are ya’ callin’ me? Better yet,†he reached behind his chair, and laid a massive pick-ax on the table - one that made short work of stone and even shorter of a skull, “What’re’ya gonna’ do?†His voice dripped with an unearned bravado. Again, Risk was confused at these strange customs. Her knife was in the table, her cards were clearly laid out; in Fallien, this matter wouldn’t be resolved until there were a few loose teeth on the ground. But perhaps the man had not been introduced to the finer points of etiquette.
â€I’ll have to teach him.â€
Without taking her eyes off her opponent, she finished her dark and stormy in one swift gulp and let out an exaggerated, refreshed sigh - before launching the glass square into his forehead. It shattered like the cheap crystal it was, sending him back in his chair and almost to the ground. Before he’d had time to move, Risk leapt upon the table. Gold coins scattered as she swept a sandaled foot across it, reaching for her kukri and preparing to pounce on the man like a dune leopard. The others at her table fled, or stayed to grab at the loose money. A few more tables joined in, hoping to snatch a few more coins for a few more rounds.
It seemed as if chaos would erupt at any moment.
Originally Posted by Risk
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