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Post by Helion on Jan 16, 2017 15:18:20 GMT
The bumbling dolt had traversed miles of treacherous terrain to play this game. Hoping in it something to gain. It had been many years since he had come to the capitol, now that he was back he was not impressed. Bandits and brigands ruled the whole lot. It made Helion weep for the days he was still court jester. He approached the pub entrance and an angry gnome shoved past him. “Well aren't you in a lather!” He called after the peasant cheerfully. He accented his words with a thrust from his enormous codpiece, to which the gnome answered with a sordid finger. “How rude,”
The Jester shrugged and turned back to the entrance. He went in with nary a care and was immediately greeted by the fine smell of tabacc. A hundred royal tapestries lined the walls. The tables seemed carved by the builders themselves and Helion thought he recognised the chandelier from the princesses room. He appproached the table with a skeleton standing guard and watched as an enormous bird pawed in all the winnings. A man was offering to shuffle and the Jester sought to intervene.
He would whack the man's hand with his puppet (A head on a stick really) and take the cards from him. The Jester sat down at the table. “Watch closely, he's got tricky fingers,” Shrilled the puppet. “Do not!” The joker said furiously as he shoved the puppet stick in his waistband. The fool cracked his knuckles, popped his neck and rolled his eyes. He took the cards then bridged and shuffled them. He cut the deck and placed one card on top.
“Whom shall start the bidding?” He asked mischievously
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Post by Harrier Wren on Jan 29, 2017 21:04:00 GMT
*** After perhaps two hours of play, most of the competitors had been eliminated. Only a very few people still sat around the table, for varying values of 'people' and 'sit.' That freaking gryphon had been doing well, very well. Harrier had reclaimed most of her clothing, which she now wore rumpled and generally undone. As the door shut behind grumbling hoi polloi, Harrier turned back to the table. "So now that the children are out of the room," she said, "here's my next wager." She reached into her pedlar's bags and produced an asymmetric green glass bottle in a serpentine, bulbous shape. She flicked the side of the bottle, just below the lead stopper, and its cloudy contents moaned gently. "The souls of ten noble murderers, suitable for enchantment, consumption, terror, reconnaissance, or general tomfoolery." Confessing one's necromantic aptitude was a recipe for bad things this close to the Council of Magi, but everyone left in the room had also bid or obtained things that the Council wouldn't like at all. They might not even like that dragon's egg, plebes that they were.
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