There was a certain risk in going to a place like Scuttlebutt, even if it was on this side of sunset. It was beloved of the city's worst, and that wasn't particularly good when it came to keeping her own hide safely intact in one piece.
Whatever.
There were few times when Zhi could be said to not care. Dice in her hands, cards between her fingers, nose to the air and forcing herself to appear relaxed: she was as close to not caring as she'd ever been. Somewhere between paddling to shore and settling her debts, and seeing that thrice-damned wanted poster, something inside of her had shorted out. She was so rutting tired of all the shit she had to shovel. While true, it wasn't no use to bitch and moan about it, there was a line at which she just shut down. She was toeing that line.
Zhi wanted to get high. Craved it, needed it, burned with the desire to go find Jager and steal whatever pretty things he kept locked away in overly ornate boxes.
Naw, we ain't gonna do that jes now. . .
A few bells had passed by the time she realized the familiar scent on the salt-stinking air belonged to Flit. Good lad. She waited until she was knocked out of the present game (up twenty, and she wasn't going to go spend it on smokes, not yet, not today, just a little bit longer) before she grumbled out her excuses and left the table.
There were too many ears in Scuttlebutt, even so late at night. It was a hive of gossip and rumors; you were stupid if you said anything of import to yourself while you were there.
Zhi passed Flit as she left the traveling gambling den and its crew of scrags. She didn't acknowledge him, but she knew he'd follow. Her fingers cautioned silence until they were a spire away, deep into territory that was claimed by a baron, as neutral as it could have been so long as you didn't make trouble or try to edge in on profits, whatever those might be.
"Things went sour. I ran. I kept meself livin' -- an' a sight better'n yerself. Y'still wet behind th'ears, or are ye gonna grow yerself a pair?"
Whatever.
There were few times when Zhi could be said to not care. Dice in her hands, cards between her fingers, nose to the air and forcing herself to appear relaxed: she was as close to not caring as she'd ever been. Somewhere between paddling to shore and settling her debts, and seeing that thrice-damned wanted poster, something inside of her had shorted out. She was so rutting tired of all the shit she had to shovel. While true, it wasn't no use to bitch and moan about it, there was a line at which she just shut down. She was toeing that line.
Zhi wanted to get high. Craved it, needed it, burned with the desire to go find Jager and steal whatever pretty things he kept locked away in overly ornate boxes.
Naw, we ain't gonna do that jes now. . .
A few bells had passed by the time she realized the familiar scent on the salt-stinking air belonged to Flit. Good lad. She waited until she was knocked out of the present game (up twenty, and she wasn't going to go spend it on smokes, not yet, not today, just a little bit longer) before she grumbled out her excuses and left the table.
There were too many ears in Scuttlebutt, even so late at night. It was a hive of gossip and rumors; you were stupid if you said anything of import to yourself while you were there.
Zhi passed Flit as she left the traveling gambling den and its crew of scrags. She didn't acknowledge him, but she knew he'd follow. Her fingers cautioned silence until they were a spire away, deep into territory that was claimed by a baron, as neutral as it could have been so long as you didn't make trouble or try to edge in on profits, whatever those might be.
"Things went sour. I ran. I kept meself livin' -- an' a sight better'n yerself. Y'still wet behind th'ears, or are ye gonna grow yerself a pair?"
