RP:Ginger

There is no particular arc to which this belongs. I just found it among some of the things I have and found it immensely amusing.

The location is the Broken Barrel Inn

Players are: Drake, Leoxander and Arien.

ENJOY!

Drake wasn't visible, likely, to anyone on their arrival to the Barrel, if you didn't know that battered cap he always wore showing half a head taller over the other men at their table in the back corner, even seated. The cap was tugged down low enough to offer his eyes partial coverage, his bearded face set like stone into an expression of bland disinterest. There were four of them, though one may draw attention to the group when his hand slammed down on the table. "Fold." The word was spoken like a curse, and the ruffian scraped his chair back to stalk away, muttering things he dared not say aloud to that particular company. That left a gap at the card game, and through it would be seen stacks of gold coin and sundry valuables, glasses and tankards and a half-abalone shell on the edge of which rested a still-smoking cigar stub. It was serious business indeed; most of the patrons were giving the gamblers a wide berth in the likely case that violence erupted at any time.

Leoxander decided to make that trip to the heart of Rynvale for many reasons. He needed a drink to contemplate over, but he wasn't willing to touch those fully stocked supplies on the ship. Beside that, the rogue thought as he pushed open the front door, it could very well be the last night the Barrel stood in one piece. She'd survived a lot of good brawls, seen some vicious battles, but he couldn't imagine the ramshackle pub would tolerate the storm that was coming. The door fell shut quiet behind him, but a random slam of sound substituted the noise from the opposite end of the common room. Hardly disturbed by the noise, Leo went for the bar as intended with a bored glance toward the game, until he noticed that hat, that hulking shape, and felt that same sick sensation in his stomach as though those oversized gorilla fists had just finished pounding it, again. Because they were on some level of truce due to the war situation, he wouldn't immediately draw his blade to backstab the killer, but that didn't mean the thought didn't cross his mind. Leaning forward on the counter, he studied the three man round coming to a pause in a shrewd, hateful silence, before looking to Simon, who gladly put a squat rum bottle before the Captain while holding a tankard of his own. Together, both men would offer the Maiden a salute - Simon's of which was far more enthusiastic and proud.

Drake's was the last hand laid down; the groans of his fellows accompanied it, as the row of low diamonds was revealed. Drake allowed himself a smirk, planting the remnant of his cigar in the corner of his mouth again. "Steel wheel, ladies." One thick arm curled around the stack he'd won, the pile clinking loudly as it fell into a sack on his lap. "Seems we're short a man." He hadn't noticed the rogue's entrance. Padrick swilled the last of his rum and swiveled around to sweep the tavern for potential stand-ins, the sandy-haired thug nodding to Leoxander as a likely candidate if Paddy managed to catch his eye. The other was Earl, a dark, thin lout with impossibly small eyes that too would land on the Captain. Drake was busy tallying his pot. He was on a winning streak, and wasn't concerned with who the next sucker was going to be as long he had coin to bring to the table.

Leoxander drowned some of his concerns away with a half bottle's worth of nectar. Simon couldn't quite keep up with that kind of tolerance, and had other patrons to see to, or rather, girls to pull out of booths to put back to work. Still slouched over the south end of the bar, the base of the bottle touched the counter which gave him yet another opportunity to look around, and perhaps scout out a hand or two looking for work. He guessed the two at the table were with Drake, so it took Leo a while to look back their way and catch the eyes of both (assuming neither were missing one). At first it was a warning glare, but as the seconds passed and he noticed Drake scooping in the last of his winnings, a clever thought struck the pirate. He never did have complete advantage over 'Hank' physically... the man was just too damn strong to be taken down easily, even for a werewolf. But he'd always had a step up on his half-sibling when it came to wits, and logic... and considering the smug look plastered on the blaggard's face then, that likely hadn't changed. Perhaps this wasn't what Lucien intended his contribution to be risked on... and losing it would mean a lot of explaining to his son... but in light of the possibility of revenge, it was a risk Leo was willing to take. The gold had been separated into pouches of a thousand, and as he approached, two of them thudded and rattled the table as proof and ante into the game. He'd have another seven and some change to bet with, which wasn't much of a chance compared to the stack his nemesis had just hauled in. A stony look locked upon Drake as he tongued a piece of steak lodged in back teeth, and watched for a reaction.

Drake looked up at the sound of gold hitting timber, dark blue only a glint under the shadow of his cap. Those grim eyes would darken to near navy on sight of who Padrick had dug up for a fourth, and the failing cigar clenched in his teeth would tilt up as his upper lip curled. "Siddown." That was his assent given, and the heavy sack was dropped to the mercenary's side. Taking the sprat's gold would almost as sweet as taking his life, and with the latter delight put on pause he'd not argue with a chance at the former. His voice was deep and utterly level in tone as he gathered the deck together and started shuffling, the cards a blurred arc in his hands. "Straight, five card. Ante's five hundred. Paddy, get us th' rum afore we start."

Leoxander was characteristically quiet once he'd taken that seat, and his eyes were lost from view behind the veil of unkempt hair in his eyes, reaching passed the center of his hawk-straight nose. They narrowed on the cards the moment Drake took them into hand, while his fingers absently untied one pouch to toy with gold coins, stacking them and clinking them in an annoying and distracting manner that might just catch Earl's attention while 'Paddy' was sent like a good tavern wench to fetch the drinks. Meanwhile, Leo was counting cards. He'd done it all his life and the tactic came naturally to the thief. There was a soft breath of laughter in a short exhale as he would see exactly how the mercenary was getting those diamonds. Though he already guessed that this time when the cards were dealt, Hank's hand wouldn't follow a symbol, but rather a color. As black as the bastard's cheating heart. Leo's ante was already in, and he wouldn't pick up his cards with the rest of them. Rather, he'd calculate the dealer's every move to determine what kind of sleight of hand tactics he would use, throughout the next few rounds and in between. Tattooed arms folded across the table casually, supporting the tired slouch that kept his tense shoulders nearly shielding his profile. He wasn't about to let down his guard with this crowd just yet.

Drake was as wooden during all this as the mermish maiden hanging overhead, partly due to his owning a practiced poker-face, partly due to his concentration on cards that moved so swiftly even Leo might be hard-pressed to keep up with where near-invisible marks lay, and how there was an inherent order underlying the sailor's apparently random actions. By the time Paddy returned with fresh bottles Drake was poised to deal the hands, a new cigar end-bitten and lit to plume blue smoke that only added to the existing haze fogging the tavern. "Ante up." Coins were pushed into or stacked upon the center of the table before each card was expertly flipped to land evenly upon its neighbors, neat as you please. There was a silence in which tension hung like a theif on the Cenril gallows. Finally Paddy curved his hand to shield cards Drake had already read, to stack another five hundred in the pot. Leo was opposite Drake, his bet was the next to be made, followed by the pig-eyed Earl.

Leoxander stared Drake down for a moment longer while he decided how to play this game. Overall, everything the rogue did was some form of game, where it took strategy and caution and sometimes sacrifice, to lure into a false sense of security. His cards weren't winning cards, he already knew that, but finally, when he lifted the corners for a glance, he determined they were moderate enough that he could play with the dealer's head a bit. Rather than bluff the rest out of the pot, or simply fold what he knew would never make it past the first round, Leo foolishly called by placing his ante and bet in, and letting go of that grand. He kept a solemn face to give away nothing, sitting back in his chair just enough to be considered patiently waiting, while Earl would snort appropriately pig-like to some inside joke Padrick threw out about a passing female with a tear up the back of her stocking. A moment later he'd laugh even harder as he folded to Paddy's bet, while witnessing that same wench walk up behind the ruffian to slap him upside the head. Being out for the round only gave Earl the opportunity to catch up on his drink.

Drake eyed the pool, a flash of a look, gave his compadres in crime a filthy stare by way of telling them to shut the hell up, and set his own confident fifteen hundred down. By now-- and mainly due to the rogue's involvement in the game, though Drake would have chewed his own hand off before admitting as much-- there was a sizeable crowd of eyes on the unsavory quartet of players, and bets of their own passed from hand to hand. Some bet on who'd win the hand, some on whether it'd be 'Hank' or Leo who snapped first, or which one would kill the other by the end of the night. Drake lay his cards down, and flipped a burn card before dealing the next hand. Life was being good to the sailor of late, and with this little bounty of illicitly-gained gold washed at least half-clean by the game, he would have more than enough for timber and a salvage crew by dawn.

Leoxander had to keep the bluff up for it to work correctly and be plausible, no matter how expensive that first pool got. Fortunately, on a stroke of positive luck for the rogue, Paddy was soon out and unable to match the back and forth betting between half brothers. Altogether, as he dropped his losing hand in the end, it wasn't a loss by much, but several onlookers holding their breath let go of it in a sound that might be disappointment. For those veterans who'd seen the Captain play before, it didn't make much sense to witness him losing. But perhaps old Hank was just that good after all. Fingers tattooed with those specific symbols flexed as Drake raked in a second pile in a row and Leo was down below seven thousand gold. It was going to be a close, risky game indeed... especially since he decided to fold his second hand just to play the brute a little more into his own ego. By the third, it would be Leoxander's charm, because by then Blackheart was probably feeling good enough about himself to throw handfuls of his spare gold into the pot, just to humiliate the blond again. But it was that particular third round, maintaining his silence the whole while, that Leo laid down a smooth straight, starting with his lucky number. If he so happened to pull it off and win the hand, it would fire the half drunken crowd up to think that there was life to this game, after all.

Drake had placed the last bet, and did not spare generosity in the action, sure it'd just boomerang back, with interest. But when Leo laid down his cards.. By weird chance, Drake had a seven, too. And a straight.. but his cards counted the wrong way, opposite to the rogue's, and for the first time his stony face flinched into obvious expression, a twitch of sheer hatred that was gone as fast as it came. The pile on the table included gold with the gems and trinkets of Paddy and Earl's last big heist. It was a lot of loot that wouldn't be added to Drake's now slightly less weighty sack. It was with unbelievable levels of self-control that the big man joined the others in grudging admiration for the win, and kept his voice steady when he suggested another game. By hell or high tide, he'd win that gold back, and be damned if he didn't. He'd feign leering interest in some slattern or other, while Leo raked it in.

Leoxander didn't collect it all. He'd leave a few glowing and shimmering trinkets on the table for a legit ante into the next round, while absently stacking and separating coins neatly with nimble, thieving fingers. A casual roll of the last across inked knuckles, and he collected it in his palm to await Drake's last deal... which was really his last opportunity to make any of those winnings back. Once the deck got past the novice Padrick's hands and into the rogue's, the game would be more or less over. The mercenary's random cards would just steadily become more rotten with each round... until that mountain of gold he'd started with upon Leoxander's arrival had worn away to a mere ant hill of coinage. A lift of calm, mismatched eyes brought them first to a steely dark blue gaze, before they drifted over Drake's earnings to judge what he had left. A nudge of his jaw indicated what those spectators had waited around so long for. Leo was calling him all in on that hand, otherwise he'd have no choice but to fold. And without much left to play a round afterward, any card player knew it was better to risk and lose than walk away with a tail between the legs.

Drake had exactly a hill of beans after that last bet, putting all of his reserve on it on the chance his luck would change and get him back the lost coin that left him short enough of ship gold to take the risk. His nerves were frayed as old ropes, and he'd silently cuss the tic in the corner of one eye that was far less visible than it felt from the inside. The bet set down, Leo's call gave his heart a sick jolt. He sensed it, the loss precognised in some primal way, as animals can sense an earthquake coming, and fingers that lay down the losing hand shook slightly, despite how hard he bit the inside of his cheek to make them stop. Despair was something Drake did not taste often; knowing the sprat had just beaten him out of his ship sank him into it suddenly, like a man in lead boots pushed off a high pier.

Drake looked at Leoxander. Drake said nothing at all.

Leoxander heard a heartbeat, and he could smell fear. There was a mild sensation, a burn of satisfaction in the core of his body, where he assumed his soul should reside, and just barely did it resist singing joyfully. Without so much as a twitch or shiver of his steady hand, Leo placed down a family of sevens, along with a dreary black card some marked as a 'Jack'. Rather than lean in to take his winnings right away, he leaned back in his chair to level his gaze on the other's, just to see what he would do next. Truthfully, Leo expected some rash and desperate attempt on his life, or some form of spit spewing anger, but he doubted anything Drake might say could ruin the feeling of elation he got at finally beating the bastard - this time, at his own game. The noise and laughter from the crowd would eventually die away to the usual tavern buzz once congratulatory mugs were dropped down on the card table, ale and rum spilling over the sides. He didn't move to pick up one of them, nor did he tear his eyes from his opponent across the way.

Drake kept his silence, and kept his eyes on the 'sprat', unflinching, and if there was ever a promise made by the look in one person's eyes to another's this was one, and firm as if carved in stone. That look said, "I will bury you," and that deep blue stare may as well have had Davy's locker waiting at the bottom of its murk as an illustration of the sentiment. The spell was broken when Paddy gave the sailor a commiserating thud on the back, almost earning himself a split gut when Drake's hand clamped to his knife hilt. Padrick stayed unaware of how close he was to death in that moment, making jokes and generally tempting his fate while Earl ordered another round to help drown his sorrows.

Leoxander responded with the first truly amused smirk he'd allowed himself in a while, which was probably the more daring reaction he could have given out of all the options he had. A very slight lift of his jaw said so silently back: "Bring it." and Drake might come to realize then how much the 'Sprat' had grown, how ruthless he'd become, surviving a cruel world on his own. The tension wasn't entirely cut by the hard thump on the mercenary's back, but it was enough to draw Leo leaning in, to finally collect every coin of his earnings. A damn good thing luck was on his side that night, too... now he might have the opportunity to show Lucien some deserved appreciation. Although he expected to be jumped for his profit the moment he was out that door, he was already celebrating in his mind by planning a small heist for the walk home. Because there was nothing to reaffirm how filthy rich one was, than by finding something else convenient and free. Picking one of those rum filled mugs up, he'd scent it for any trace of toxic addition, before saluting Redbeard's Maiden and indulging in a long drink that would empty half of it.

Drake would bring it. Not here, and not now, but one day. In his mind, the dark-timbered ship sat on jagged rocks, rotting away to wet splinters, and it could be his own gut spilling to the boards when that smirk perched itself on the rogue's lips. Already, there was a dangerous plan ticking in the pits of his brain like the workings of a time-triggered bomb, and it offered the sailor a skerrick of comfort. But not much. The rum went down in a steady flow of swallows, and Earl wouldn't even get a chance at another sip of his before Drake picked it up drank that too. Thus bolstered, he shook off any sign of the intent shallowly but effectively buried and gave Padrick a grin. "Oi, your round, Paddy, afore Earl here starts wi' his weepin' an’ moanin'."

Leoxander was far too intelligent to think that Drake would just let this be. He'd seek his revenge, but the rogue would be expecting it. Typically, a card winner would have been gracious enough to pay for the next round, but not Leo. He hardly seemed phased by the money, but far more intent on the humiliation spotlight Hank was doing his best not to squirm beneath. In the very first sign of what might be considered... understanding, if not respect, he'd slide over the mug of rum he'd taken a testing drink of already, letting Drake finish that off, too. And if, like Leo somehow suspected, the other only picked up the tankard to throw it at him, he'd be ready to turn over the table and hopefully the chair he was sitting in, too. But that was only if things got out of control.... including Drake's temper.

Drake, under other circumstances, may have handed that tankard to Earl, whose life was nowhere near as precious to the sailor as his own, in case it was tainted with nightshade or some other poison. But he knew Leo was savoring this moment, and wouldn't spoil his enjoyment by killing the source. The rum was picked up, and only a few seconds' hesitation preceded his draining the mug, which was raised in a kind of salut and then set down very quietly when empty. The next person to see Drake's eyes would find the same reflection one might see on the surface of a glass ocean; calm waters hiding the abyss that lay beneath.

Leoxander said to Drake, through a faint grin, just before two more mugs were placed down between the two. "Drink up, me hearty." Perhaps this constant rebound of revenge was what it would take to keep the two at an accord. Either way, he was in a good enough mood to drink with Drake, if he participated and joined in. So unalike in so many ways, they at least shared a similar sense of calm in their gaze, which reflected the stare of a cold blooded killer equally to either man.

Drake said, "Yo ho," in a mutter, but took up his fifteenth round for the night and drank. Rounds thirteen and fourteen had taken a little of the sting off his wounds, at least the ones that pained his surface, so he'd set aside plans of murder and worse for the chance to retain a least a little pride, even if it was offered him by the very man who took it. But in the name of his natural way of being, his next act was to snap his fist out and rabbit-punch Earl, no explanation given to Paddy's only mildly curious lift of brow as the squint-eyed thug slid quietly off his chair."

The sound of crashing shelving is heard..and a murmured curse* "Sonofva.."" The elf emerges from belowstairs looking rather like she spent the night there-though she did not. She is covered in dust but has accomplished what she set out to do. Half a dozen explosive shuriken were now nestled in the black satchel slung over her shoulder. In the gloom of early morning she is almost not surprised to find the pair of seafarers present, but a pale hand flutters their way indicating they could continue their business as they saw fit. She needed coffee. "As you were..." As if they would care anyway. T’was a commander's habit.

Leoxander gave the elf a bored look from his half drunken state, his jaw rested in a hand as though he might be ready to fall asleep.

Arien paces to the bar, sleep bleary gaze finding that of its tender. "Coffee..and whatever is good to eat in this dive." A yawn slips out. Damm but she needed to put in a full night's sleep soon. She was out of the range of hearing the sailors' business-evlin ears were not that sensitive

Drake was still sucking rum down like a whirlpool sucks water, now and then eyeing Leoxander as if his eyes were two harpoons and the rogue his white whale. Which wasn’t very far from the truth.

Drake picked up 1 emerald bracelet. Yeah, he lifted the bracelet when the ‘sprat’ shut his eyes in a blink. He was just that petty.

The sound of the door opening caused the elf to raise a pale hand and lift her hood over hair that would identify her to any looking for her. She doesn't turn to face the door, for the same reason. There were others present, presumably, who should have her back if the need arose. "Another.." Gods, she needed to wake up. A second sound of the door and she risked a casual turn, her eyes sweeping across the pair. "Well you're not clawing at each other..progress, I assume"

Drake belched, by way of reply. Drake added, in a slur, "S'not feckin’ nothin ya dunno wha' th' hell."

Arien resisted the urge to roll emerald gaze. " In the investigation business now Drake? Left you a reply to your advertisement." Here a shadow flutters across the pale face. "One of my officers is missing, going on the second day. Not like her not to check in. If she doesn't surface today I'll be offering a reward for news of her whereabouts. She's invaluable to me-though you would not think it to look at her."

Arien said to Drake, "*A smile teased* And no, there is little enough that will slip by me if I'm paying attention. I'll assume the rum is the reason I'm not breaking up another brawl."

Drake said, "Wha's th' lass a looker'n she fell off th’ something’? Or somethin', eh? EH?" Drake scowled at the feller staring up at him from the dregs of his tankard.

Leoxander was not so drunk or tired that he would miss this conversation. He would put the puzzle pieces together, nursing what was left in the mug until it was nudged aside and nearly off the edge, empty.

Drake looked at Arien. Drake said, "S'th' gingerelf, innit?" Drake stared at her. "She missin‘, eh?"

Leoxander looked at Drake to repeat in a murmur from the opposite side of the table. Odd, that they were even sitting together. "Gingerelf..?" Leoxander glanced back toward Drake.

Drake nodded, a forefinger pointed crookedly to Arien. "Th' gingerelf." Drake said to 'Ginger', "Innit?" Drake squinted at the ginger one. Who might be an elf.

Arien leaned back against the bartop, speculative gaze resting upon the male. He was really, spectacularly, drunk. If only she could think of something to extract from him while in this state-not that he would honor it when he sobered up. Would serve him right. " I find her to be beautiful enough..in that desert exotic kind of way. She does not think much of her own appearance though, I wager." She frowned slightly. "She is just interesting enough to be appealing to the sort who would take advantage-though if she was armed they'd have their hands full."

Drake stared at her blankly, and turned his rummy eyes to Leo, as if to say, "…wut." Drake glanced back toward Arien.

Arien said to Drake, "..Say it..one more time." She feckin -hated- being called ginger.

Arien said to Leoxander, "*Emerald gaze turned his way at the sign of movement* You're awake.."

Drake said, "Innit?" He got the wrong word altogether. "Innit."" Drake was just being obliging.

Leoxander made a deep sound of acknowledgement in his throat, humming over an empty cup. He'd shift hands to rest his whiskered chin in the other, hair falling over eyes that were all too willing to close again. "Ginger..." Muttered to himself, before he indulged in a soft exhale of a mute laugh from his nose, amused by the nickname she obviously disliked.

Drake said, "Innit."

Leoxander said to you, "Shu'th'hellup, bloody drunk." Leoxander slurred just a bit himself.

Arien bared white teeth in what would pass for a flashing smile. "Good lad.. An no, -I- am not missing, since I am clearly here. One of my guards is. And we shall obviously need to have this conversation -again- when you can speak a complete sentence." She was finding herself musing about what could possibly have the pair present in so apparently amicable a state. Obviously, something for once that she would miss entirely.

Drake said, "Shu’thahellup ya .. wut?" Drake looked at Arien. Drake said to Leoxander, "She's talkin’ ginger at us."

Leoxander leaned forward to rest his forehead on the sleeve of his jacket, taking a deep breath. Either he trusted Drake enough not to plunge a dagger between his shoulder blades, or he was pretending to be too drunk to care.

Arien said to Leoxander, "and don't you start.. I swear on your bloody ship Leo, if you start calling me by that hideous name. My hair is -not- ginger!"

Leoxander said to Drake, "Mmnnrm."

Drake was too drunk to know his knife from his arse. Hopefully, then, he'd not make an attempt on the sleepy rogue.

Leoxander would ensure there was hell to pay if he woke up being sat on.

Arien looked from one male to the other. The sense of the ridiculous tickling her finally at the state of her life. "For the love of the gods..What the -hell- do I see in you two to spend a minute of my life wading though the .." Hands flutter at the inexplicability of their lives. "I should be sitting in a shrine chatting with priests somewhere." Really..it seemed she lived in the grey area of late-She had actually helped, criminals..escape for a knight!

Drake passed out, about then, head resting on the remnant of his fourth cigar, luckily gone cold. His last word was a gutteral, "Ging.."

Leoxander was resting his head down in a similar fashion, like two out of line students forced to submit to a long time-out.

Arien rose, head shaking, to leave herself. "Keep your skins on lads..I'll see you around." And then she was drifting out of the room and into the day, where perhaps a life not complicated by pirates and scurvy dogs awaited.

Drake said, "ooc ... giiiiiing..."