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
The next knives flew in quick succession. Some stuck, some clattered to the dirt, and the crowd’s mood swung with every throw. The big man’s first knife buried itself near center again, splitting the wood with a crack that drew a chorus of coin changing hands. He bellowed, grinning wide, soaking in the chant of his name—until Thorn sidled past, grin all charm and voice low with some murmur Damien couldn’t quite catch. A beat later, the hulk’s nostrils flared, head jerking as if he’d scented something on the air. His grin faltered. The next knife he threw hit hard but crooked, sliding just shy of the bullseye, and the groan from the gamblers was thick with disappointment.
The laugh and tease Thorn lobbed his way earned only the lift of Damien’s brow. He answered it with a sip of rum, letting the burn slip down his throat as if he hadn’t just put on a show of mediocrity for half the crowd.
The pot had swelled high: a fat sack of coins, trinkets, blades, bottles—and at its center, the silver torque gleaming like a crown. Winner would take the lot.
Damien’s glass stayed in his hand as the knife came back around. He rolled the blade in his other palm once, easy, as if the weight didn’t matter. For a moment he just studied the board—its scars, its knots, the places steel chewed deepest—and then he breathed out slow, steady, letting the noise fade to a hum.
The throw was unhurried, smooth, a flick of the wrist as casual as brushing snow from a sleeve. Steel spun end-over-end, faster than before, and buried itself dead in the bullseye with a crack that silenced the dock for half a heartbeat.
Then the roar hit, sharp and chaotic. The barkers shouted, grabbing for the pile, before dropping it all—coins, scraps, and the torque gleaming atop it—into Damien’s reach with reluctant admiration.
He caught the torque in his free hand, the other still cradling his glass, and tipped the rum toward Thorn with the faintest of grins. “Not half bad.”
The moment barely had time to breathe before the grumble started. The big man’s scowl cut through the crowd, nostrils flaring again as his glare snapped between Damien and Thorn. “Bullshit,” he spat, voice thick and ugly. “No way you two walk off with my pot clean.” A ripple of unease ran through the gamblers, some shifting to pocket their losses, others leaning in like sharks scenting blood.
Damien didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t even look rattled—just took another sip and let his gaze turn to Thorn, a silent suggestion already clear in his stance.
Time to take their winnings and move before the crowd made up its mind.
The laugh and tease Thorn lobbed his way earned only the lift of Damien’s brow. He answered it with a sip of rum, letting the burn slip down his throat as if he hadn’t just put on a show of mediocrity for half the crowd.
The pot had swelled high: a fat sack of coins, trinkets, blades, bottles—and at its center, the silver torque gleaming like a crown. Winner would take the lot.
Damien’s glass stayed in his hand as the knife came back around. He rolled the blade in his other palm once, easy, as if the weight didn’t matter. For a moment he just studied the board—its scars, its knots, the places steel chewed deepest—and then he breathed out slow, steady, letting the noise fade to a hum.
The throw was unhurried, smooth, a flick of the wrist as casual as brushing snow from a sleeve. Steel spun end-over-end, faster than before, and buried itself dead in the bullseye with a crack that silenced the dock for half a heartbeat.
Then the roar hit, sharp and chaotic. The barkers shouted, grabbing for the pile, before dropping it all—coins, scraps, and the torque gleaming atop it—into Damien’s reach with reluctant admiration.
He caught the torque in his free hand, the other still cradling his glass, and tipped the rum toward Thorn with the faintest of grins. “Not half bad.”
The moment barely had time to breathe before the grumble started. The big man’s scowl cut through the crowd, nostrils flaring again as his glare snapped between Damien and Thorn. “Bullshit,” he spat, voice thick and ugly. “No way you two walk off with my pot clean.” A ripple of unease ran through the gamblers, some shifting to pocket their losses, others leaning in like sharks scenting blood.
Damien didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t even look rattled—just took another sip and let his gaze turn to Thorn, a silent suggestion already clear in his stance.
Time to take their winnings and move before the crowd made up its mind.
