Old dogs, new tricks. [closed]

[Storm Veritas]

Tonight was intended to be a “bait night” for Storm. With Shinsou joining him at the table, the cards would be secondary to the conversation, and an opportunity for the wizard to set the table with these doughy, hairy-knuckled fools that clung to their crowns with fervent desperation. Tonight, he wasn’t here to win money. Tonight, he’d happily drop a few coins, setting up small tells after his third whiskey – scratching his nose when he held a little doubt; or fixing his seat just so slightly when his hand was strong. He’d make these moves tonight, and tomorrow, letting these fools bleed him slightly while he slowly raised the stakes. In three or four nights, when their jaws dripped with enough saliva, he’d tighten up and string them. He’d already caught most of their tendencies just watching.

Fat boy twists his ring when he’s unsure of what he’s doing. Crater-face fans his cards more taut when they’re stronger, to keep people from seeing strength. Cue ball isn’t too bad, but he drinks with his left hand when his hand is strong.

Fucking rubes. This is a five hundred crown crew if I can convince them they’re smart enough.

The thinnest blanket of tobacco smoke had finally fully coated the ceiling of the room when Shinsou was pulled away abruptly. The Telgradian made a snide remark about sobriety (as if he were some sort of fucking sponsor) and was out before Storm Veritas could talk him out of a good decision.

“Well, shit. Looks like the young fella’s all tuckered out. Who’s ready for a round?” The diplomatic electromancer rose and smiled brightly, fixing his pedestrian suit. The cotton-wool blended stuff was beneath him, but it was soft, warm, and allowed him to fit in with these filthy peasants. They thought him fancy in anything that lacked holes or mustard stains, so he’d been drinking his way into their good graces.

With a few extra rounds of a weak lager and strong whiskey, the men started loosening up and chatting amongst themselves. Storm had convinced the group he was a traveler who traded currencies, which left his pockets a little heavy and his company welcome. The gamblers were largely losers, but had some fun stories and tried to regale the Secret Serenti Champion with tales of their own regalia.

“I was a warrior as a boy!” Cue-Ball had started the conversation. In fairness, with meaty hands and a thick chest, crazier claims had been made. “I fought in the Alerian Revolution. Those Dark Elves won’t come near me now.”

They’d cut you in slices like they were divvying up Sunday dinner. You could just as well tell me you walked there, across the water.

“Amazing!” Storm smiled with seemingly genuine curiosity. “Did you retire? A hero’s pension is supposed to be fantastic in Radasanth…” He teased the point, knowing it false, pushing his luck just a touch.

“It’s fine.” Cue Ball hedged, spinning his ring and sipping slowly. “It was a long time ago – the army wore out my knees and ended my career before full pension.”

Maybe he’s only partially full of shit…

“Oh, fuck off, you shiny-skulled shit! We’ve all heard it a million times!” Crater Face had come in over the top with an aggressive barb. “And besides, some of us aren’t so naturally strong but can still find ways to work for a livin’!”

“Bullshit.” Fat Boy was simple in his critique. “Your idea of work is getting up at the crack of noon and asking Uncle Stu for a couple of coins.” Storm had no idea who Stu was, but took a mental note of someone in town with no doubt deep pockets. These were, after all, his favorite type of friends.

“No shit.” Crater Face smiled, finishing a short, heavy glass of whiskey and slamming it with a thud. “I’ve been making a king’s ransom as a trader – you know where to look and my money man here can tell you there’s piles to pull.” He gestured to Veritas, who took his cue fairly.

“Sure, yes, absolutely. Hell, exchange rates float from place to place, and I just need to find a couple of people that need Alerian, Coronian, Dheathian coins or whatever. It’s free money for me to travel, if you can find the right place.” This was a gamble; his story had more holes than a sea sponge.

Shit, that was stupid. Needed a better story. Shit.

“Better when you find the same spot, my friend!” Crater Face smiled, his brown-flecked teeth taunting him as he spoke. “I’ve been trading wheat at Tylermande for triple rates! And you should see the whores down there!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somehow, the wizard had managed to keep his comportment, allowing his rage to bubble just beneath the surface. He was banging on the door of Vaan Osiris, oblivious to the fact that it was late, Shinsou was quite possibly not alone, and Storm smelled like a distillery fire.

With a few creaks and mumbled swears, a light shined beneath the door to the tavern hallway. Storm backed slightly upon the stones, giving space to Shinsou to slowly open the door. When their eyes met, Shinsou was a blend of annoyance and disgust.

“Gods! You’re drunk as shit! Get back to your room; I’m not holding your hair while you puke. We have an early morning, in case you forgot.” Even sober, the fatigued warrior looked punch-drunk himself with bags under his eyes.
“No! Well, yes, but no. Sure, I drank plenty, but that’s not this.”

Wrap it up.

Storm steeled his eyes, showing his intent and purpose. “The Citadel is going to have to wait.”