Fable - Ask Portent of Predation

"Why are you here? You are not from these parts. That much is evident."

The shift in mood was not at all subtle. Livia would be able to notice the change in Zinnia's body language right away. Something was up, even as she closed on the two gaming gentlemen.

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She did not need the keen sense of her magic to hone in on the change in Zinnia. She showed it most obvious, in her distracted speech and the direction of her gaze. Livia, without trying to draw attention, turned in her seat. Her own gaze followed Zinnia's, but her brows furrowed in confusion. Whom did she see?

The figure was not one she recognised, nor the garb striking her memory of any religion.

But her gaze wandered to that of the men playing cards and arms not hidden. From where she sat, it allowed Liv time to determine the outcomes of this scene. "I shall remain seated." She assured Zinnia, unsure if the Dreadlord heard her.

"You're right on that," said Reven. "I'm a man of the Reach. I suppose you could say I'm from Grishino—it's a town on the Sayve—not born in it but born near enough to it. As fer why I'm here, nothin more er less than any other man come here or there with a sword in hand and gold in mind. Now—"

Excuse me, what game playest thou?

Reven started, glancing up then at the Sister he had thought was still at the bar. "Holy shit, you scared me. Damn you walk quiet." The surprise faded quickly and he gave a small motion of his hand toward the cards, deck and hands, laid out on the table and said, "Just some Five Card Duel. You got a wager you wanna make? Figure I ain't lost enough tonight."

He flashed the fisherman a grin at that last bit. Lost to Lars, lost to him, what a wash, but might as well have a sporting, slightly tongue-in-cheek mind about it.

Mortivore Urn Lilette Blackbriar Zinnia Livia Quinnick

He noted Reven's story as much as his tone and that hidden speech of the body, with all its little tics and quirks. Reven seemed a man who wore his rough-hewn humour and cavalier manners like a cloak, sheltering something beneath. The defiant grin against setback; a shield against misfortune - no doubt he had seen his share of pain. Silently observing, the fisherman made no move to interrupt.

But someone else did.

Shock jolted through him, yet his shoulders barely twitched. He despised being caught unawares. It nearly made him wish for his previous seat, so that none could sneak up on him from behind. The beard helped shroud his grimace and the smock hid his hunching shoulders, until he could deliberately lower them. The instincts of an orphan boy never quite left the bones or back, still preferring to have a wall pressing against his spine and eyes on all corners.

Those unseen were predators - and those helplessly watched, prey.

His frustration channeled into his tightly clenched fist, despite the pain eliciting from the joints in his fingers. He dropped this little bundle of discomfort into his lap like one might stow away a little pet. Slowly, he turned his head, glancing up at Lilette.

A nun in a den of muted sin. One might believe it as a joke rather than a presentation of reality, but here it was, mocking him in the flesh with its absurdity. He thought something vaguely familiar about her face; but could not place where or when he might have seen it. It seemed the sort of face one might see rendered in stained glass, or in holy books with floral calligraphy and imagery adorning scriptures.

"A game of small consequence. All we play for is gossip. But I would not have expected a holy woman to take interest in a gambler's vice."

Lilette Blackbriar
Reven
Livia Quinnick
Zinnia

The nun flinched as though she might run, nearly frightened of the man's fright as he was of her.

"A... A thousand apologies, Ser...!" she stammered, head hung low.

She gave the old man a glance, who seemed more outwardly stoic than the other, but even over the din of this raucous crowed his heart sang loudly to just for her ears, and only her ears.

He was offered a low nod while setting her bowl aside, then hands pressed together as though a silent prayer of forgiveness.

"Forgiveth me mine silent feet, 'tis a common complaint I am afeared."

Only when the younger answered did her small shoulders loose and posture straighten, even if she continued to wring her hands shyly. An offer to join and wager raised a brow, and the old man's comment a crooked smile.

"Indeed! what wouldst thinkest mine convent?" she nervously laughed.

"Ah, but 'tis learning the game what interests me more than profit, thou see'th. Though playest cards hast I, t'were no Five Card Duel."

"Call it a... satisfaction o' nostalgia." she said, eying an empty seat.

This young sister of the cloth seemed to ponder it a moment, thumb pressed to her pale lip.

"Well, if mere gossip be thine stake, 'tis no gambling in mine eye."

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