who can play better
Beneath the hazy light of a dozen flickering lamps, the excitement and intrigue was beginning to wear off.
When Castalla had been awoken one night, by the soft shuffle of one trying to mask their hoofbeats, she’d leapt from her bed, teeth bared and eyes ablaze. But all that remained there a pair of green eyes obscured by distant shadows, and a playing card upon the desk besides her. The Wolf had not lived here long enough to know the rumours, to hear word of a secret palace hidden amongst the shadows of the night court but interested burned enough to draw her out one evening. It could have been a trap, and the rogue decided to walk right into it for the sake of her own curiosity. And anyway, a caged wolf is always more dangerous.
But it had not proven to be a trap, not yet at least. Instead it was a den of pleasure- of card playing and drinking tailored to the rich and lavish tastes of the upperclass. She had settled at a card table and proceeded to play the arrogant nobles for fools, and for all they were worth. At least by the end of this she would be far richer than she had been at the beginning.
Among the many talents and trades Castalla had learnt- all in the name of becoming a better warrior, better spy, better assassin and better queen- playing cards was one she rather enjoyed. Not because of the money or the rush or even the wicked deception. No, it was the looks on her opponents’ faces when she wiped the proverbial floor with them, taking not only their money but also their dignity. That was what she enjoyed. Especially if she played strip poker.
There had been a time of course when playing cards had not been for mere entertainment, or to barter for information. There had been a time in Alanaris when the stakes were far higher. Legend tells of how the White Wolf won the freedom of a hundred slaves in a game of cards. And as legends go, the events were blown entirely out of proportion. But at least a hundred slaves had indeed found themselves free and an illegal slave trader had found himself more than a little out of pocket. And more than a little dead.
Of course Castalla had played in far more civilised settings as well, in opulent palaces and indulgent hidden dens just like this one. Being a princess gained you access to certain high and secret societies that others could not even dream existed. And it seemed the White Scarab was one such place. Each and every guest was bedecked in gleaming jewellery, taking every chance to display their wealth in the most imperious way.
She was a wolf among sheep, even as she dressed like them, talked like them. She watched their faces, listened to the whispers only her magically enhanced senses could hear, all the while playing their game. But she was not the only one playing the grand game, stealing the secrets that fell from loosened tongue, hearing the unsaid things that were written upon wealthy faces. No, Castalla was not foolish enough to think those who worked at this White Scarab, those who resided within the lavish halls, did not listen in. A place like this would be a fine way to sell secrets and make moves.
Growing tired of winning noblemans’ money, Castalla makes her way to the lounge, ordering a drink before settling into a dark corner, her beauty illuminated formidably by the flickering of flaming lamps. Nursing the whiskey leisurely, she watched the other guests, and the servers as they glided silently among the patrons. The drink was more for show than anything else- the night was still young and a trap could still be nigh. The Wolf was loathe to dampen her senses should that be the case.
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