Damien
oh, let's take a chance and roll the bones
try to forget all them enemies and debts
'cause they'll just chase you round
and give you sour dreams
try to forget all them enemies and debts
'cause they'll just chase you round
and give you sour dreams
Damien tipped his glass again, savoring the burn as Thorn spoke. The man’s laugh had always been infectious, and though Damien’s own smile was subtle, it lingered longer this time, edging into something genuine. The more Thorn described it—the rooms that bent to their whims, the chance to live fragments of other people’s lives—the more Damien felt a flicker of something caught between envy and intrigue. He let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he leaned an elbow on the railing. “Sounds like you’ve been traveling without ever leaving the same four walls,” he said, almost wistful. “Can’t say I’ve heard of anywhere that offers that kind of… escape. Might have to take you up on that invitation sometime.”
The warmth of the rum was settling into him now, a steady thrum through his chest and the faintest edge loosening from his posture. The noise from the contest pulled his gaze back, where the hulking competitor was still holding the crowd’s attention. Damien squinted as a drunkard got dragged off, but his eyes weren't on the commotion. They were tracking the line of coins, rings, and trinkets piling up at the edge of the makeshift ring. Most of it was nothing remarkable—gambler’s scraps, things people could lose without thinking twice. But one gleam stood out among the rest: a slender silver torque, etched with details so fine the lamplight caught on them like fireflies.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough for Thorn to hear above the din. “Now there’s a prize worth the trouble.” He nodded toward the torque, glass still in hand. “Not every day you see a piece like that.” His mouth curved into the faintest grin, one that carried the edge of challenge.
Straightening, he took another pull from his drink in a smooth swallow, keeping the glass safely in hand. His eyes slid back to Thorn, half-curious, half-provocative. “What do you say? You interested in a little competition? Could be fun to show these drunk bastards what real aim looks like.”
The warmth of the rum was settling into him now, a steady thrum through his chest and the faintest edge loosening from his posture. The noise from the contest pulled his gaze back, where the hulking competitor was still holding the crowd’s attention. Damien squinted as a drunkard got dragged off, but his eyes weren't on the commotion. They were tracking the line of coins, rings, and trinkets piling up at the edge of the makeshift ring. Most of it was nothing remarkable—gambler’s scraps, things people could lose without thinking twice. But one gleam stood out among the rest: a slender silver torque, etched with details so fine the lamplight caught on them like fireflies.
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough for Thorn to hear above the din. “Now there’s a prize worth the trouble.” He nodded toward the torque, glass still in hand. “Not every day you see a piece like that.” His mouth curved into the faintest grin, one that carried the edge of challenge.
Straightening, he took another pull from his drink in a smooth swallow, keeping the glass safely in hand. His eyes slid back to Thorn, half-curious, half-provocative. “What do you say? You interested in a little competition? Could be fun to show these drunk bastards what real aim looks like.”
