"Dogs or poker?" Mike sniffed his glass of rich port before sitting back into the worn brown-leather sofa by the wall of Erwin's office.

"Horses." Erwin said, pouring one for himself. The stream of deep maroon liquid was so thick and sweet looking, he could almost have been pouring himself a glass of treacle.

"Mm." Mike grunted, "Smells vintage."

Erwin's lips twitched into a half smile, "One of the few times I'd say that was a good thing." Then he made his way over to sit in his small armchair which matched the sofa, a low coffee table between them.

"Notes of ripe blackberries. Must of cost you an arm and a leg."

Erwin inhaled deeply, then held his glass out; "To 'His Honor the Hammering Devil of Quinta.'" His icy blue eyes blazed behind the deep garnet liquid.

Mike matched the gesture,

"Is that what they're calling them nowadays then?"

"The naming regulations are strict; as a result racehorse owners have been known to get creative. I once lost betting on a horse called 'Titan's Demise', which is as unfortunate as it is foreboding."

"A good thing such things have no influence beyond the walls."

"Quite."

Mike took a large gulp of port, almost finishing his glass in one. Erwin's brow cocked and he brought his own glass to his lips, savouring the sweet flavour of musky berries. Life was made up of these little moments, minuscule intervals of victory and loss forming a grand picture of one's voyage. The honeyed taste of success obliterated all his other senses, the climax of this interval, that brief, vindicating point which validated the prior journey.

"Would you ever give it up?" Mike asked.

Erwin took a moment.

"If I no longer learned from the outcome."

Mike drained his glass and placed it on the small table.

"Not to be a naysayer but what can you learn from it? The fastest horse wins, there's nothing more to it."

Erwin glanced at Mike's empty glass and stood to once again fetch the expensive bottle of port from the desk.

"In some ways, yes; what will be will be." The cork made a squeaking pop as he removed it from the bottle, "But think of the titans. Wouldn't you say they were the fastest horse in the race against us? And yet, given the time and resources, humanity has found ways to beat them, ways to improve our understanding of this world. The race goes on, though we don't always emerge victorious, the odds are changing, and so I enjoy watching the odds."

"You're saying that you learn how to beat titans from betting on horses."

Erwin smiled, pushing the cork back into the bottle.

"It isn't possible to predict the future. A sure-fire horse will not always win, likewise, a horse that usually comes in last could take the crown. There's always the chance to be surprised - the slimmest possibility of victory; the tiniest glimmer of potential." He sank back into his chair, picking up his glass, "I truly believe that without that spark, humanity behind these walls would have died out years ago."

Mike sniffed again. His eyes betraying nothing of his feelings about the conversation. His voice rumbled with a low monotone;

"I never knew much of my grandmother, but she used to say that joining the scouts was akin to betting on a losing dog."

Erwin chuckled, "She may well turn out to be right. But we, none of us, will live to see the outcome of every race. There will always be knowledge just beyond our grasp, stories that have no end; a simple fact we must all come to terms with. Did your grandmother live to see you enlist?"

"No."

"Well."

The men fell silent for a moment, pensively sipping their rich wine in the flickering candlelight. Erwin slowly leant forward and placed his glass onto the coffee table.

"There's a freedom in unpredictability: one of the only freedoms shared by all of us. A kind of paradox: one can only be certain that what will happen is uncertain. Betting on the races reminds me of that. I find that it strengthens my resolve to formally go through the process of chance, knowing I have something to lose, and that I am not in complete control of the outcome. I suppose luck is a tool in a scout's belt like any other, it provides opportunity - if you're quick enough to make use of it."

"Hm." Mike muttered, "Such as the opportunity to spend any winnings on a nice bottle of vintage port."

Another smile swept across Erwin's face, "Naturally."

title is from the old gambling term 'sweeten the pot' which means to make something more desirable - in that case to add more money to the pot to increase the chance that people would bet