63rd of Roalis, 2720
THE BLACK DOVE | LATE EVENING
THE BLACK DOVE | LATE EVENING
Truth be told, Corwynn wasn't really as much of a fan of the Black Dove as much as he used to be, but then again, getting stabbed at one of his once favorite establishments had a way of staining the experiences he'd had since then. Still, it was far better than spending the evening at the Mad Queen—no matter how good the stock was there, the blond gunman didn't show up unless he had to. If anyone had discovered the oozing, disgusting depths of the galdor's hatred, the red-headed madame who'd spent so much of her career with Silas Hawke pretending to be a witch obediently in the King's service was it. It was popular misbelief that their rivalry existed because she'd refused to sleep with the Taxman or that she'd always made sure he paid full price for her tumbles when he felt he deserved his cut of the crop, but, honestly, both of those were total falsehoods Corwynn had never bothered putting to rest, if only because the truth was so much less exciting.
Not that he'd ever told anyone the truth.
Not that he planned on doing so, either.
Irregardless, the blond galdor'd been almost been as hesitant to spend too much time in the Dove as he usually was at the Queen, no matter how well known his presence was there. The rare times he'd been seen were nearly always business-related, and tonight was no exception. When well-paying Bastians visited and made demands, it was well above Corwynn's rather lofty position in the Bad Brothers to dare say no.
Actually, scratch that shit—when Silas himself said he'd be there at the table and he expected Mister Wynngate to be with him, well, there was little he could do but show the fuck up.
Nazario Barnetti and Marventius Rubiralt had been in the Harbor a season ago, whetting their appetites for all that the Rose had to offer with a rather awkward evening (awkward for the Taxman more than for his companions, however) spent at the Night Blossom. Perhaps just to keep the gunman on his toes, perhaps just to get a bit of a laugh out of it all, Silas had made sure to put the three galdori back together again and direct them his table for an evening of gambling and all sorts of entertainment, promising them a wild night that Corwynn admittedly couldn't imagine what his King had up his shifty, well-tailored sleeves.
That clocking wick'd worn one of his best suits, glamour all bolstered like he wore a galdor's skin—a chrove in wolf's clothing, the King of the Underworld fancied himself.
The evening had gone well and the trio of otherwise out of place galdori drank plenty, avoided discussions on politics, and shoved coins and chips back and forth across the table as if they were playing some drunk version of checkers. This evening there was even a band. Some dancing, too, though Corwynn wasn't quite inebriated enough to feel the tug of the music and he blamed the setting—he also wanted to blame Barnetti's really absent poker face.
The man was an open book and it was almost like playing cards with a clockin' child.
Nazario, however, was practically shit-faced after his second drink, eager to show off his card-counting skills which were, honestly just as lackluster as his companion's composure.
"You certainly know your way around a game of Rooks, Marv." Cor winked from over the calloused ridge of his knuckles before he downed the last swig of his third glass of Hessean liquor. He forgot the name, but he'd raised its thick, almost maroon goodness to Ophur before he'd started, much to the amusement of his Hurte-following Bastian companions. It was a mockery, honestly, and they all knew the price that Silas had set on Ertun Nir'rurait's head.
"Oh—I'm just—I was always good at numbers in Brunnhold, y'see." Enough alcohol and even the venomous, auburn-haired creature with his Living-laden field seemed to suddenly become too honest for his own good.
Lightweights. Weaklings.
Silas snorted, cigar clenched between his perfect teeth and bright eyes sparkling. The man was practically absorbing all the conversation that bled out of these two kov, devouring their information like a plant absorbed sunlight to grow,
"You're sayin' you were a fine student, then?" He hummed, waggling ringed fingers to indicate to a passing server they wanted refills. He leaned back in his chair, preparing to cut their cards and deal, "What d'you say we open up the betting pool and see who else we can get to play at the table with us, hmm? Rub some coins together that've been in the pockets of strangers and all that."
"I'm sure there's some folks here who'd give an arm or a leg to play a round of rooks just to not pay their taxes for a month or two." The Taxman grinned wickedly, setting down an empty cup, fair eyebrows quirked as mischievously as his tone of voice.
Curiously enough, the Bastian balked, choking on whatever wine he'd been about to sip, sputtering nervously, "Y-you mean with—lower—uh—with other folks?"
"Sure, why not? They make a living, too, especially around here" The blond was incredulous, teasing the other man even though he glanced past him into the crowd for any faces he might recognize.
Hawke raised his glass of wine almost daintily and rapped one of his rings against the rim, immediately getting the attention of all who could hear the sound of metal against glass nearby. There was a hush that fell over the room, slowly, falteringly—a few laughs and at least one growl lingered before all eyes fell on the leader of the Bad Brothers. Those that knew him waited expectantly, and those that didn't were just drunk and pissed off,
"Alright! If anyone wants a few of the King's coins, you can play one game of cards here at my table. If you win, I'll double what you earn."
Corwynn rolled his eyes while the two Bastians stared, mouths hanging open in surprise.
