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’s laugh came low in his chest at Thorn’s clap on the shoulder, the kind that acknowledged both the challenge and the excuse wrapped around it. “Rust comes off quick enough,” he said, stepping to match his friend’s stride as the crowd made way for the next round. He tipped his glass again—steady, unhurried—before setting his shoulder against the press of bodies.
The crowd shifted to make space as they neared the barrels that marked the line, the smell of sweat and sea-salt thicker here. Damien’s eyes flicked to the “pot” piled on a rough plank nearby: trinkets, knives, a little coin—and that torque gleaming like it didn’t belong in hands this rough. With his free hand he reached to his belt, tugging free the hunting knife and its sheath that had ridden there for years. Its hilt was plain but sturdy, leather-wrapped and dark with use. Without ceremony, he laid it among the other offerings.
“Stake enough for me and my friend,” he said, voice level, though a line of sweat was beginning to bead along his brow. A few mutters rose—Halovian steel was worth more than half the junk already on the pile.
The nearest “barker”—a wiry man with gold teeth and a scar splitting his lip—leaned forward, eyeing Damien and Thorn both. “Fair enough. Both of ya in.”
As the knives were handed out, Damien’s gaze slid past Thorn toward the barrels. The hulking man from before was still there, arms thick as tree trunks, his last throw splitting the inner ring clean in half. The crowd ate it up, valuables flashing between hands, odds shifting with every thud of steel. That was the man to beat—not the drunkards, not the smugglers, but him.
Damien tipped his glass again, slow and steady, before leaning just close enough for Thorn to catch his words. “That one’s the problem,” he whispered, nodding faintly at the giant. “Crowd’s in his pocket already. If we’re gonna take the pot, we’ve gotta throw him off.”
A grin tugged at his mouth, quick and crooked, before fading back into something measured. “Think you could do that—get under his skin? Doesn’t matter how. Just shake him loose, even a little.” He shifted the knife in his grip with easy familiarity, glass still loose in his other hand. “Leave the rest to me.” Damien had a long-con game of his own to play, but a little help from a friend never hurt.
The knife he was given felt lighter than it should have, an unfamiliar balance compared to the tools Damien kept on his own belt. He rolled it across his fingers as he watched the other competitors begin the round, glass still tucked loose against his other palm. He squared his shoulders once his turn came about. The crowd’s noise dulled in the moment, just the thrum of pulse and firelight marking time.
He didn’t throw hard. The knife left his hand on a clean line, but the spin was slow, deliberate. Steel bit just outside the inner ring with a dull thock, firm enough to stick but far from the kind of shot that would earn gasps. A ripple of half-hearted cheers went up, and someone at the edge of the crowd barked a laugh, already shifting their coin toward another man’s favor.
Damien only huffed through his nose, lowering the glass from his mouth. By all accounts he might even try to look a little embarrassed, casting his eyes downward. Whether the flush of his face was truly born of shame or liquor didn't matter. The smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth said the rest: let the competition think he was nothing to worry about.
The crowd shifted to make space as they neared the barrels that marked the line, the smell of sweat and sea-salt thicker here. Damien’s eyes flicked to the “pot” piled on a rough plank nearby: trinkets, knives, a little coin—and that torque gleaming like it didn’t belong in hands this rough. With his free hand he reached to his belt, tugging free the hunting knife and its sheath that had ridden there for years. Its hilt was plain but sturdy, leather-wrapped and dark with use. Without ceremony, he laid it among the other offerings.
“Stake enough for me and my friend,” he said, voice level, though a line of sweat was beginning to bead along his brow. A few mutters rose—Halovian steel was worth more than half the junk already on the pile.
The nearest “barker”—a wiry man with gold teeth and a scar splitting his lip—leaned forward, eyeing Damien and Thorn both. “Fair enough. Both of ya in.”
As the knives were handed out, Damien’s gaze slid past Thorn toward the barrels. The hulking man from before was still there, arms thick as tree trunks, his last throw splitting the inner ring clean in half. The crowd ate it up, valuables flashing between hands, odds shifting with every thud of steel. That was the man to beat—not the drunkards, not the smugglers, but him.
Damien tipped his glass again, slow and steady, before leaning just close enough for Thorn to catch his words. “That one’s the problem,” he whispered, nodding faintly at the giant. “Crowd’s in his pocket already. If we’re gonna take the pot, we’ve gotta throw him off.”
A grin tugged at his mouth, quick and crooked, before fading back into something measured. “Think you could do that—get under his skin? Doesn’t matter how. Just shake him loose, even a little.” He shifted the knife in his grip with easy familiarity, glass still loose in his other hand. “Leave the rest to me.” Damien had a long-con game of his own to play, but a little help from a friend never hurt.
The knife he was given felt lighter than it should have, an unfamiliar balance compared to the tools Damien kept on his own belt. He rolled it across his fingers as he watched the other competitors begin the round, glass still tucked loose against his other palm. He squared his shoulders once his turn came about. The crowd’s noise dulled in the moment, just the thrum of pulse and firelight marking time.
He didn’t throw hard. The knife left his hand on a clean line, but the spin was slow, deliberate. Steel bit just outside the inner ring with a dull thock, firm enough to stick but far from the kind of shot that would earn gasps. A ripple of half-hearted cheers went up, and someone at the edge of the crowd barked a laugh, already shifting their coin toward another man’s favor.
Damien only huffed through his nose, lowering the glass from his mouth. By all accounts he might even try to look a little embarrassed, casting his eyes downward. Whether the flush of his face was truly born of shame or liquor didn't matter. The smirk tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth said the rest: let the competition think he was nothing to worry about.
