some of us have gone so long hungry,
the idea of being full feels worse than the affliction.
the idea of being full feels worse than the affliction.
A
ghavni coughs when Rasvan, the white-suited dealer, blanches from the gilded woman’s coy remark. “We — We’re not allow —" She is not the only one choking down a snort as the flabbergasted man gapes like a fish on a hook. Rasvan, with his unruly curls and honest laugh, had always been a bit hopeless. How he had ended up in the Scarab’s employ had always been a mystery to her.
Not all are gifted with a way with words, she laments. She tries to imagine what August or even Minya would have said in the dealer’s place (not that Minya would ever touch a deck of cards). August, with his easy charm and heart-piercing grin; Minya, with her pretty words and prettier smile. As for herself — well, suffice to say that charm does not keep the Scarab running.
She is still trying to chase the smirk from her lips when a voice — light and lovely and alarmingly similar to the one that had knocked Rasvan over the head — drifts melodically into her ear.
“Can I have one?” She dips her crown into a polite nod. The tip of her horn taps the top of the wooden table as a flute of champagne glides across its polished surface. Servers and dealers were not supposed to talk unless necessary, as Rasvan had been so eloquently trying to explain.
Aghavni smiles mutely at the woman’s accompanying thanks, and then, on a whim, peers through her lashes into eyes of startling amethyst. As bright as the flowers threaded through her honey blonde hair. The mystery of those ever-falling petals continues to elude her. Magic? she ponders, swallowing the urge to lift one to the candlelight and see.
“Do you have any idea what is going on?” Aghavni had known from the moment the woman had drifted into the Floor like a goddess of spring that she is a stranger — as much of it as one can be — to the cards and the patron saint of Greed.
So she breaks her own rule — she is not really a server, so the liberty is there for the taking — with brevity.
“This particular game,” she nods towards the double dice, “is based on pure chance. You wager your coins on a pass — when the dice roll a seven or above — or a no pass — six and below. You have our word that our dice are fair dice; so, really, you are playing a numbers game.” The stakes are high, but the pot is full. Play it safe, or wager it all. She has seen the devastation of both, and the monsters it makes of men.
They are all servants to Greed in the Scarab’s den. Will the goddess lose her crown this night?
Aghavni leans down to whisper into her golden ear. “The bets have been cautious. They are testing you, m’lady. If you double your next wager, you will collect twice that in the next round.” The odds are in her favor. But why is she telling her so?
Aghavni straightens, smoothing the creases from her silk uniform. She tells herself it is because she is merely ensuring that the woman will return. They chase the thrill of winning night after night. What they realize, too late, is that it will never feel as good as the first time, her father had said.
“By the way, your scarf has a hole in it – did you know?” The observation is meant to be harmless, but still Aghavni's eyes widen, and were it not for the inclination of her skin to pale instead of redden, blood stays mercifully away from the girl’s cheeks.
“Ah. My horn is a bit too keen to catch and rip at things,” she replies smoothly, but already she is itching, itching, itching to rip the damaged silk off.
Others chase the thrill of the win. Aghavni chases the thrill of perfection. Her father’s words toll like midnight bells through her head. It will never feel as good as the first time.
@Florentine | "speaks" | notes: the game aghavni mentions is based on the (unfortunately named) game of craps!
