Still 'ave it, Ossy. Five years gone and ye've still the knack.
The Scuttlebutt was crowded tonight, far more crowded than he'd ever seen it. Clearly, business was booming for the family what owned it, and he didn't grudge'm a single coin; they'd always been an accommodating sort, once he'd dropped enough gil on drink and deliberately lost enough hands at the tables to get'm t'open up to him. That had been long ago, when they'd just been getting started... but he hadn't forgotten. Good folks, those two, relatively speaking. As good as these streets could hope for.
Finding the place again hadn't proven difficult at all. He'd had to pester Thomys mercilessly for bells 'til the lad had led him here, but they'd found it, alright, just in time for him to turn around and give his brother a right tongue-lashing for hanging about such disreputable establishments. Hypocritical? Yes. But his brother'd be better off for it, all the same. He'd sent Thomys off home, then ordered a drink and sat down at the nearest table what offered him cards and fools enough to try their memory against his.
He'd just finished cleaning out some poor Keeper girl, and while he couldn't help but keep grinnin' like a fool at the thought o' the draw that had given him Coeurls over Snurbles, there was also the slight gut-wrenching twist of guilt from somewhere behind his ribs as he reached out with one arm and drew the pot across the table.
Idiot. Given half a chance, she'd clean you out, strip ye down 'til y'privvies be hanging in the wind, and try for a ransom to boot. Guilt? Idiot.Â
The lass twitched and grimaced as she waved a hand to silence the jeers from the onlooking crowd, and sudden realization hit his gut like a wet net full o' trout.
Gods, she thinks I've sharped her.
Bile churned in his stomach and his throat went sour as it burned. He hated cardsharps. Leave a man his chance and his skills, was his take on gamblin'. Rig a game? He'd taken blood before for such insults. The idea that someone thought him a cardsharp... revolting.
Nymeia, grant me just one more favor t'night. Let me make it up to the lass.
"Hey. Winner buys a round. 'Stradition."
He chuckled, closed his eyes and sent up his thanks.
"Tradition?" Gobshite, that, but any port in a storm.
He opened his eyes and glanced at her, kept grinning like a fool.
"Sure. Why not?" He raised his voice, lifted his mug as he stood and waved it before him out over their audience. "Hells, make it two! Winnings'll cover it. Drinks are on the Keeper, boys!"
The Scuttlebutt was crowded tonight, far more crowded than he'd ever seen it. Clearly, business was booming for the family what owned it, and he didn't grudge'm a single coin; they'd always been an accommodating sort, once he'd dropped enough gil on drink and deliberately lost enough hands at the tables to get'm t'open up to him. That had been long ago, when they'd just been getting started... but he hadn't forgotten. Good folks, those two, relatively speaking. As good as these streets could hope for.
Finding the place again hadn't proven difficult at all. He'd had to pester Thomys mercilessly for bells 'til the lad had led him here, but they'd found it, alright, just in time for him to turn around and give his brother a right tongue-lashing for hanging about such disreputable establishments. Hypocritical? Yes. But his brother'd be better off for it, all the same. He'd sent Thomys off home, then ordered a drink and sat down at the nearest table what offered him cards and fools enough to try their memory against his.
He'd just finished cleaning out some poor Keeper girl, and while he couldn't help but keep grinnin' like a fool at the thought o' the draw that had given him Coeurls over Snurbles, there was also the slight gut-wrenching twist of guilt from somewhere behind his ribs as he reached out with one arm and drew the pot across the table.
Idiot. Given half a chance, she'd clean you out, strip ye down 'til y'privvies be hanging in the wind, and try for a ransom to boot. Guilt? Idiot.Â
The lass twitched and grimaced as she waved a hand to silence the jeers from the onlooking crowd, and sudden realization hit his gut like a wet net full o' trout.
Gods, she thinks I've sharped her.
Bile churned in his stomach and his throat went sour as it burned. He hated cardsharps. Leave a man his chance and his skills, was his take on gamblin'. Rig a game? He'd taken blood before for such insults. The idea that someone thought him a cardsharp... revolting.
Nymeia, grant me just one more favor t'night. Let me make it up to the lass.
"Hey. Winner buys a round. 'Stradition."
He chuckled, closed his eyes and sent up his thanks.
"Tradition?" Gobshite, that, but any port in a storm.
He opened his eyes and glanced at her, kept grinning like a fool.
"Sure. Why not?" He raised his voice, lifted his mug as he stood and waved it before him out over their audience. "Hells, make it two! Winnings'll cover it. Drinks are on the Keeper, boys!"
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
