A faint rumbling in the sky caused Graves' heart to stop a beat, caused him to stop walking and to look about. "Storm's a brewin'" he muttered to himself, "better hightail my ass outta here." And he pulled his cape a bit tighter around his shoulders and staggered onward, with a bit more speed. In the hours after talking to Twisted Fate, he had nearly emptied his purse, and filled it, and emptied it again. He had swilled countless mugs of ale, and tossed back shots with his companions. He had laughed as he won, he had despaired as he lost, and he had nearly gotten in a fist fight over some nameless wench. Now, before the dawn broke, he was stumbling to his last and favorite haunt, Tschabi's Tavern. An eye on the sky said that he could make it if he moved quickly. It was only a few blocks away, but he wanted to beat the weather, no use taking chances. Normally, Graves was the type to throw caution to the wind, but he personally had seen a Zaunese storm melt the flesh from a man's body. It had singed a hole in his boot, now that he thought about it. Perhaps it was high time to invest his winnings into one of those broad brimmed hats that Twisted Fate had taken a fancy to. There had to be some that lacked the frippery, the plumes and the spangles.
Aside from the thunder, the only sound on the twisted cobbled roads was the dull thud of Graves' holey boots, yet Graves still kept a hand on his pistol. The butterfly girls and the casual drunks had long since retired, anyone he encountered would be seeing to serious business. And he was as well. Tschabi's Tavern was a place that only serious, and occasionally shady, gamblers frequented. Unlike other locales, this bar offered none of the pleasantries. There were no drunken minstrels warbling or harping, no flittering females sent by the house to distract the gamblers. What the tavern specialized in was low lighting, tolerable whisky, and decent cigars if you knew what to ask for. There was no house dealer, but the bartender kept some stained cards and worn dice with barely discernible pips behind the bar. He would lend them out if you asked nicely enough, and greased his palm with a few silver bits. It was the place for serious high stakes gambling. Cheating was welcomed and encouraged, but only if you were clever. Graves was clever. Born in a Bilgewater tavern, he had cut his teeth on an old die. More than anywhere else in Zaun, he felt home at Tschabi's.
Graves ignored the front entrance, deciding against walking under the sign that a gust of wind had altered to read Tschabi Tavern. Instead he entered through the kitchen, right as raindrops started to splatter around him. Any other bar, and Graves would have been irked. But here he would not have to sleep on a rough wooden plank floor or worse, a booth seat covered in questionable stains. Instead, he rented the attic. The attic used to be home to several rooms, but as time passed and the tavern became shabbier, leaks in the roof had made most of them unlivable. Graves' room only had a small leak, and he caught the water in a bucket. Most of the metal had corroded.
Upon entering, Graves tramped up the stairs to deposit some of his winnings in the strongbox and to hang up his cape. When he returned to the kitchen, the night cook had set out a lonely plate of steamed peas, a stale biscuit, and a dried out chicken leg. Next to it was a full, albeit grungy tumbler of fine bourbon. "Eat quickly, the long table is hot tonight." The grim faced, nearly skeletal man was a terrible cook, but Graves tucked in, he hadn't died yet. Early on, Graves had learned that by sharing a portion of his winnings with the staff (the cook, the night cook, the guard, and the three bartenders) he would get tips on where to play as well as occasionally meals and reduced price lodging. His triumph was their triumph. Graves ate rapidly, but nursed his bourbon.
Clutching his glass to his chest, Graves sauntered into the main room of the bar. He touched the wall and pantomimed drunken unsteadiness. He let his eyes blur to appear like a simpleton, rather than a card shark. Graves exaggerated his footsteps as he swaggered to the long table in the center of the room. Swinging his head wildly he noticed a bookie in the corner taking bets, and a few tables of blue collar gamblers playing for pennies. Graves would rather play the ponies than ride them, but he wasn't good at either. But the cook was right, the long table was the table of the night. Seven men sat around the table, playing poker. Simple five card stud. Losing money didn't have to be fancy. Some of these men knew Graves, and they smiled uncomfortably into their drinks. Some didn't. Gold rolled across the table, as a young merchant lost his father's money, a haggard politician who was formerly an aristocrat lost his great grandfather's money, a handsome politician who was pulling himself up by the bootstraps lost the cities money. The winner was a man Graves would never forget.
Aergor Priggs was the only man at the table who greeted Graves with real warmth. A city councilman, Priggs had bested Graves at dice several months back. A different game, a different tavern, but the same soulless shark eyes were looking at Graves like he was easy pickings. Aergor Priggs would never know that Graves had intentionally thrown the game when a courtesan had desperately stared at him. "Please." She mouthed. "He'll hurt me." Her huge brown eyes oozed sincerity and fear. Graves had placed a conservative final bet, and with a flick of his wrist lost it. The girl had smiled and winked, and he had never seen her again. Tonight he would seek his revenge. There were no pretty girls around to prevent him from gaining a fortune.
"Pull up a chair." Priggs said, and clapped Graves across the back.
Graves toppled forward good naturedly. "How's the luck swinging?"
"Better now that you're here." Priggs shuffled the cards enticingly, but coldly. One of the men, a banker made his excuses to leave the table.
"Well how about that. Deal me in." Graves played a few hands, making small bets and losing them all. Another man, a gambler wise on Graves' tricks tapped his friend on the shoulder. They rose to get more drinks, but Graves could hear the front door closing behind them. Only Priggs, the two politicians, and the down on his luck merchant remained.
Graves dealt. He felt the familiar dents and bends on the cards. He'd shuffled each house deck a million times it seemed. He knew the stains, knew the creases. But he couldn't control the deal. Graves looked at his hand and bet two. Priggs, the poor politician, and the merchant each raised. The wealthy politician wanted to keep his wealth. Graves looked at the top card and made a gamble, he took only one. He noted with interest that Priggs also took one card. The public servant, folded. The merchant thought long and hard, and did as well.
"Shall we make it a night?" Priggs suggested. "Our friends are leaving."
Graves nodded. The pretense of being happily drunk was long over, and Graves was staring intently around the bar.
"All in." Priggs said. And he slid a small fortune of gold across the table. Graves slid his own winnings into the pot, but they barely made a difference. The bartender, bouncer, and the other patrons were all watching intensely as well.
Priggs lowered his cards first. Three kings, an ace, and a solitary seven of clubs. A good hand by all accounts.
Graves played the crowd more. He laid first a four, then another four, an ace, then another ace. The accumulated crowd took a simultaneous breath as he flipped another four. A full house. He pulled the gold off the table and into a black drawstring bag before anyone could accuse him of cheating.
"You knew the top card was an ace!" Priggs bellowed. His face turned from a drunken flush to the dull crimson of Graves' cape.
"You accusin' me boy? Thinkin' I stacked the deck. Jokes on you, I drew a four." Graves jingled the winnings bag gleefully, keeping his eyes on Priggs for a reaction. Without betraying a thing, Priggs was on his feet, knife in hand. Quick as a wink Graves ducked under the table as Priggs slashed at him with a knife. One hand his gunhilt, Graves rolled and darted into the kitchen before he could draw another attack. He clumped up the stairs loudly, drawing the deadbolt behind him. Through his narrow window, he could see Aergor Priggs being unceremoniously escorted out of the bar. Priggs was fortunate that the rain that was beating on his bare head wasn't noxious.