1\ Monaco

Retch the troll, apprentice of Wizard Marshal Kishur Schweinorg Zelretch, crossed the length of the paved wharf and lowered the stray meow meow he collected from the alleyway behind Master's café earlier that morning onto the concrete dock. On trembling paws, the tabby stumbled from calloused palms onto an equally rough concrete wharf. After letting out a pained cry, it began pawing at the troll's bulbous right toe which jutted out from the numerous thongs that made up the homemade rawhide sandal. With each feeble swipe, the tabby wobbled, almost toppling over before precariously regaining its balance at the last moment. The unsteady feline was neither malnourished nor too well-fed; its paws simply lacked sufficient strength to bear its weight.

Realizing his mistake, Retch grunted before reaching down and taking the tabby back into the crook of his elbow.

They stood — a troll and a struggling tabby overlooking a small cove that had been carved into the concrete wharf. A smattering of sun-bathers was already spread across the artificial beach, hoping to catch early-morning rays before the summer sun roasted the port. The troll paid them no heed; his breakfast of hearty leftover stew had been filling. Speaking of food, the crisp seaside air tasted like half-dried, salted meat. The salt, left too long beside alchemical reagents. The meat, slightly rancid from decay. Fit to eat, but in no way appetizing.

Enough dawdling. Master always said time grew as a tree, but Retch knew for a fact that time, like human money, didn't grow on trees. He had checked many trees.

Impossibly gently for one with his physique, the troll laid a hand onto the tabby's downy head.

"NNNAAaaaarR—"

A stifled yelp.

The troll's hand, almost half the length of the tabby, pet its head before scratching under its ears. Before long, only soft, peaceful purrs remained. Reassuringly, the firm palm around meow meow's head tightened. Slight pressure, at first. Then, a cluster of pops. The purring ceased, and Retch wiped a sticky palm against his vest. A dark stain bled into the tanned leather like a stone absently dropped on a riverbank.


Under the Bridge

kaleid planar smile, 9 lives shooting moon

all burned bridges lead to genius ⇆ endless summertime, play ball


Where to bury the meat? A sun-drenched beach was the perfect resting place for a meow meow, but beach-goers would quickly excavate the corpse. Then, the sea? Revolting. Only those born in water should return to the water. Master thought that was nonsense because life in this world originated from the oceans. Master saw and knew better than Retch, but too many humans would rather risk the river than pay the troll toll. They had dashed themselves against the jagged rocks, becoming sacks of meat. Bloated and waterlogged until they were inedible, the meat sacks clogged the river. Retch hated wading into the brackish, icy water to dredge them out, but it was Retch's job to keep the river aflow. Had. His previous occupation.

Now, he was a student. Students learned, but no one had taught him how to find a suitable location to bury meat where humans lived. Retch preferred to play; that's why his tummy was fluttering. Quickly now, quickly, finish Master's request because waiting for him was—

He needed to concentrate on the task at hand. What a glum thought, what a dead meow meow, and to think, what an even more decayed smell lay portside. With the sun overhead beginning to bake it out, the stink wasn't too unpleasant. Like how stagnant ponds pooling with detritus stank of death at night, but lapsed into an offensive musk in the morning. Though that boat would never fit on the forest floor. It was as large as some of the buildings in the city, structures that blotted out the sky without having any leaves.

With a smile on his face, Master often said grandiose men liked grandiose coffins, but laying in such a shiny coffin was worse than jumping into the river. Predators would snatch up every morsel before any rot settled in. Master would raise a dignified eyebrow if Retch retorted. Master loved shiny things too.

With the cat meat still in the crook of his elbow, Retch lumbered to the end of the gangway. The polished deck reflected the summer Mediterranean sun — a slice of resort paradise shimmering like a mirage, submerging the pool, deck chairs, and flapping pennants in its heat haze. Luxurious, but not so neat and tidy as to be uninviting. Forget the snack cat. Forget this assignment. Retch wanted nothing more but to dive into the pool and begin bouncing beach balls against the fantastical water features. The one thing stopping him was:

"Quel imbécile, did not the announcer announce we were resupplying last night? Go lose your money somewhere else, big dog. It's Monaco for God's sake. You'll find a game in the gilded shithole you crawled out of this morning."

A corpse was sprawled on a tanning chair. It was large in human sizes and its sunhat constantly flapped in the wind, threatening to sail away but never managing to be free of the bald head. Magic? Then, it must also be magic keeping him cool under that black trenchcoat.

The corpse propped himself up to flick a half-smoked cigarette overboard before eying Retch.

"Beurk! You're tough on the eyes. Step back, step back, you ree-eek like an orphaned Ghoul. I cleaned up enough of those back during my Exe— EEh. . . is that. . . well, well, well, I'm on the roulette table tonight, big dog. I'll raise you double for that Mystic Code around your nonexistent neck."

Instinctively, Retch reached for the talisman. An emerald with three interlocking triangles carved into it. Humans ran away screaming if he didn't wear it. With it, they called him 'playa,' and asked if he played ball. Retch wanted so badly to play ball.

All in due time. Master's words — Retch wasn't sure dues and times had much hold over Master in the first place. Others called Master, the Great Master. Never Retch. Master was great, Master, and even a great master. However, Great Master implied a Less Master, so Master could not be Great Master, only Master.

The moving corpse rose from the tanning chair, red eyes alight under a pair of aviators.

Retch must have stayed silent for too long, "No gamble. I. . ."

"If you're not here to gamble, why would I let your troll ass in, big dog?" The corpse shifted his gaze to the meow meow's unmoving body.

"To Play. First Practical. . . Master."

"Lord, this is why I hate dealing with demi-humans. Take your dead cat and get lost. Or would you like to find out first-hand how deadly the Casa's defenses are?"

It always ended like this. Retch tried to explain. He tried until his eyes brimmed with tears, but they never understood. Retch never quite caught the knack of understanding birdsong. Humans were worse. Not only was human noise quick, and unlike bird chirps, words were wrapped up in empty expressions that didn't convey meaning, only abstraction that Retch wasn't privy to.

Oh, if only he had a Mystic Code that allowed for telepathy. Master's policy was that Retch held responsibility for everything he brought back with him while "enduring hell." Sink or swim. Even after Retch lost most of his left ear, Master refused to divulge an artifact's function or potency. Not wanting to lose his remaining ear, Retch didn't touch things he did not understand anymore (most of the artifacts he came across). He couldn't leave the pretties and the sparklies alone, though. Those he placed in a box his Master had gifted him on the first day of his apprenticeship. Only to look at because Master had instructed him to place his failing grades in that box. Pretty things made his failures easier to remember.

The reality was that Retch had no telepathic Mystic Code. All he had was a Master who could kill him, an eternal reminder of that fact in his pouch, and a very annoyed moving corpse barring him entry. Beyond the bridge, even further than the lure of the beach balls in the pool, was a waiting Friend. That made finding the courage to try again with the moving corpse much easier.

"Ahoy, Quatre, network says you clocked in. Sun got you feeling anemic, yet?" Encroaching pollution. Not merely death that was so common in the forest, but a wrongness that coated the tip of the tongue with a rancid aftertaste. A blood guzzler. It held out a bag filled with blood to the sunbathing corpse. "Hair of the dog. Oh? And who is this big ol' dear?"

"A troll."

He was not a mere corpse but a blood guzzler too. Retch had trouble distinguishing between weak blood guzzlers and walking corpses. He could smell it now, it was faint in the male, but the characteristic disorder underneath the surface decay was present.

"A troll, who, matey?" She tapped her left pump on the gleaming deck.

"A troll, Senpai." He hissed, snapping to attention and taking his aviators off. "What is with Lord Vandelstam's obsession with restructuring the conglomerate every decade? Implementing Japanese efficiency is one thing, but making the modes of address mandatory? Buying a godforsaken women's baseball team?"

The stronger blood guzzler shrugged. "Ask him yourself. Might want to do it before explaining why you're harassing Number Three's slick."

The wind had finally died down, yet the weaker blood guzzler's hat which had withstood the fiercest summer, mid-morning sea breezes the Mediterranean had to offer fluttered away. Shades crushed in his hand, his red eyes lingered on his superior.

"Z-Zelretch. The troll is Zelretch's—"

"A troll missing an ear, wearing a jewel Mystic Code that conceals his appearance. You weren't listening this morning were you or did you gorge yourself during liberty. . . "

"I— You can't find any virgins in Monaco unless you're into kids, Senpai, so me and the boys—"

She cut his words short. Not with force, at least, not at first. The weaker blood guzzler's mouth seized up, his eyes trained on the plastic blood bag that was carelessly tossed away. Salivating, he stretched his free hand out at superhuman speed to salvage his breakfast. Too slow. A flick of her wrist caught him square in the chest. Flesh against flesh shouldn't have sounded like two mountain boars jousting. Naturally, the weaker was tossed across the deck until the pool's handrails caught him square in the chest.

With the same claw, she plucked the bag of blood just before it touched the deck.

"Sucking the monkey, really? Forget about breakfast just like you forgot yourself, Quatre. Now I think about it, the Trois could use your help in the bilge. Freshly baked donuts. Delicious. Try not to get waterlogged. You're. . . on the roulette table again tonight and you know how bloating frightens our clientele."

As her subordinate pulled himself out of the tangle of metal, the blood guzzler bowed at Retch, her fangs glistening. "Lord Vandelstam is expecting you, dear troll."


The blood guzzler led him away from the coffin and back towards the dock. The staccato click-clack of her heels against asphalt punctured the crashing waves slapping against the wharf supports. Soon the unlikely pair, with the cat meat still in tow, were halfway across the parking lot. As long as they were asleep, cars no longer made Retch nervous. On the other side of the bridge, a blood guzzler that didn't sleep in its coffin during the day did. Master didn't sleep in a coffin either.

Before the troll could calm himself, the blood guzzler stopped in front of a patch of crimson plastic chairs and tables haphazardly scattered about like wildflowers. In the middle of the plastic meadow was an unmanned information desk, beside which stood a single shipping container, a stark contrast to the gilded extravagance the coffin promised.

The female blood guzzler motioned for Retch to enter. He obliged, crouching so his head didn't brush the ceiling. Sundries, knickknacks, baubles to delight. The entire container was filled with a paralyzing amount of choice that endlessly simulated every sense. Plastic clamshells, cardboard displays, and overflowing bargain barrels invited every intrepid tourist to dig through hundreds of the same items in order to find the perfect one for that special someone waiting breathlessly back home.

Could he see them all? Could he own them all?

The store whispered, of course. He would have a bit of everything all of the time if only this store was his.

"Bonjour." Behind the counter, like a black owl on a tree branch, one of the most beautiful humans Retch had ever seen was perched atop the backless stool. "Can I help you?"

Her monotone sagged her delicate features. Her peat-dark hair spilling over towards one side became a shade duller. Her unfurrowed face framed a set of piercing eyes, petulant instead of soulful. Even if, unlike the planet, a troll didn't abide by the human standard of beauty, Retch thought she was the type humans glanced at even when procuring food with their mates.

Whether her human form had been so or the curse had modified her, guzzling blood had been kind to her. In contrast, the wrongness flooded out from her, choking the stale air a single ceiling fan barely circulated.

The instant she saw the lifeless body that Retch still held in the crook of his arm, her pristine beauty did not merely evaporate, it sublimated. Her face was contorted, black veins like monstrous etchings were scrawled across its surface.

"T-Tabatha—" she moaned. With neither sound nor any preparatory movement, she shot out from her perch. "Ma jolie fille—!"

A guided missile, she plowed into the towering Retch, pinning his incredible bulk to the linoleum floor.

"GGGGaaahaHHHH. . ."

Retch's moan was drowned out as every shelf in the shipping container tumbled, clattering against each other in a tumultuous roar.

The floor buckled, then cracked underneath. How much force was necessary to elevate the temperature so the linoleum expanded and contracted in a simple exchange?

Straddling his chest, eyes ablaze with cursed blood energy, his executioner dropped her raised claw like a guillotine. She paid no attention to the meat that instigated this attack in the crook of his arm. The bloodlust had overridden the ability to care.

Retch didn't resist. The weak were meat, so there could be no regrets. Not for stolen life, time, or the chance to play with Friend today. This blood guzzler was strong. Her wrongness was greater than the one who led him to the shop, but the reason why he didn't resist wasn't just because of her strength. The moment she raised her hand, Retch no longer felt attached to the world, for

the figure behind her plunged the entire souvenir store into a wrongness so deep that the troll finally understood how those bodies he dredged from the bottom of his river felt.

Her falling claw was slapped away — like a parent did when a child played too long with their meal.

Her disbelieving head was severed from the base of her neck — like a parent did when a child. . . even troll parents didn't do that to their children.

Lord Vandelstam, the blood taker Master asked Retch to meet, held out a bloody hand. The troll didn't take it; instead, he offered the meat. The blood taker held Retch's gaze for a moment. Cold fury — like all the world rested on the edge of a coin. Beyond that was a wrongness so deep that Retch averted his gaze before that metaphorical coin was flipped.

Holding a tabby corpse with bloody pulp for a head by the scruff of its neck and dragging a corpse that now possessed half a head in the other, the blood taker headed towards an open door behind the counter. This was the end for Retch. If the blood taker passed through that door, he would not return. Failure meant no game, so Retch had to finish what Master asked of him and face death.

When the older blood taker felt Retch's eyes on him again, he turned and smiled, like a kindly grandfather. Lord Vandelstam would kill Retch, not because of hunger, hate, or pleasure. All those were understandable reasons. What he felt from the regal blood taker chilled Retch to the bone like dredging corpses from the river during winter never did. Beyond malice. Beyond killing intent. Beyond wrong. Nothing was behind that smile. Listless boredom, so you simply did something. Interest, not because you were curious about what was on the other side of the bridge, but because otherwise, the bridge had no meaning.

"I won't be a second."

No, he wouldn't. Master was the Second.

Left with nothing to do until his own execution, Retch made himself useful and picked up as many shelves as he could. He would have done a better job if he hadn't tried to read what went on each shelf before trying to find that item strewn on the ground. What might the shelf have looked like before it fell down; did it look like how he imagined it? The souvenir shop couldn't help being a distraction for the troll who had lived in a mountain forest all his life.

Lord Vandelstam returned, the scrunched-up sleeves of his dress shirt dabbled with red, the tailored pinstripe vest that contrasted Retch's hide one was immaculate. With an aggressively amused expression, the blood taker stood amidst the wreckage. The death sentence had not been revoked, only delayed.

"I'd ask if the old man is doing well, but knowing him—" A foot tapped against one of the re-raised racks, testing its stability. "They really don't make them like they used to. At what point did innovation necessitate such a dingy dockside souvenir store? There's one more fitting my style adjacent to the Prince's palace and of course a small one in the Casa itself in case a patron would rather indulge their modern appetites. So how extraordinary is it that this. . ." His arms swept across the room, the flourish sending flecks of his courtier's spatter across the re-raised racks, painting snow globes polka-dot. "Outsells both. The future humanity dreamed of is the Age of Will You Buy More Souvenirs, hah." Neither derisive nor laudative, just a biting laugh.

"Store fresh meat?" Retch licked his lips as his gaze slid across the door to the back where the humanitarian blood taker had taken his courtier.

"Me, a Bluebeard?" His claws mimed stroking an imaginary stubble before allowing his blood-red eyes to turn flat. "If that's the best you can come up with, the old man definitely hasn't found a successor. You may be paying the toll, after all. I'm sure you have experience with that, albeit on the other end."

Cringing, Retch tried to explain, "Under ground. Cave. Store eats. Good plan. Blood drink."

"Yes, yes, for a typical Apostle, but disappointingly, the office where Katarina is recovering in is only an office. These souvenirs represent me. I know, I know. A lacking representation, but I am not so much of a liar to make this into a blood lair. The other Ancestors may entertain themselves constructing and ruling kingdoms of the Dead within bounded fields to hide their apathy from the Church, but all who come to Van Fem's Casa see they are free to purchase a souvenir."

Goodwill made manifest in a dingy shipping container. Purchase something solely intended to remind you of the best days of your life or bestow part of what you enjoyed to those you hold dear.

Not only rulers of their kingdoms, but the Dead Apostle Ancestors were also those kingdoms manifest. By making souvenir stores national policy, the Demon Lord of the Financial World challenged the other rulers in a way no other Ancestor could. Look upon my works and despair. Mine was built with naught curse, Ideé, or Skill, yet how sublime this worldly kingdom floats.

The regal blood taker bent down to pick up one of many scattered pocket watches and placed it on an empty shelf. The previous tussle had dented the case, warping the engraving of the Casa.

"Souvenir, memento — memento mori, but not in my house, so gamble away the night as you deem fit."

Not a Principle, only a statement dripping with monstrous despondency. Life was the uncertain flash of certain death. This uncertainty was the only way the crimson king connected with his court. Without gambling anything, a mere troll had forced the blood taker's hand against his own courtier. Unforgivable.

"Coffin bright much. For Retch. Here, comfortable. Bad Retch. Was comfortable."

The gentleman blood taker wryly smiled, teeth showing. Elegance and finery were stamps of quality worldwide; but in Monaco, the Casa's brand of extravagance was deemed a facade — a midsummer's night dream never allowed to overstay its welcome. This entire portside principality had been built on such vapors. What humans wanted after the clock struck midnight was a burger that tasted like systematic murder. Lord Vandelstem would never ask the chef puppets to mock their purpose to such an extent, so how about a souvenir shop instead?

Despite the lighthearted nature, the previous exchange left the troll feeling like the beasts he cornered in the forest. That was natural. Yet, the blood taker had not struck, first out of consideration of Master and then to understand the troll. No blood drinker had ever wanted that before; perhaps everything really was a game to this one. Good, Retch liked games.

"Why did you kill the cat?"

Easy. Retch was worried he would be asked what Lord Vandelstam thought. Retch was not Lord Vandelstam so he would have to guess. This question was about Retch. If there was one person Retch knew, it was Retch.

"Broken things. . . can't be fixed." Retch started before halting. In his enthusiasm to answer, he forgot he was verbalizing his lumbering thoughts. Oh, if only Master would give him a Mystic Code that allowed for telepathy. "After break. Thing can mended. Mended. . . not fixed. Fall happened if fall. Very if not mended now. Hurt long until no hurt, inside hurt-no-longer-hurt worse—" He fumbled for the words before giving up and pointing to the pocket watch the blood taker placed on the shelf.

"Splintered?"

That was a different troll. Retch shook his head and tapped the engraving with a sausage-like finger.

"Bent."

"Yes. Bent. Meow-meow inside, bent. Meow-meow heart more bent."

With less a snap and more a crumble, the pressure hanging in the shipping container crashed as Lord Vandelstam's red eyes glazed over. An unsatisfactory answer, but not so unsatisfactory to merit execution. The unsatisfactory in this case lay in the savage honesty. Neither right nor correct, but it wasn't a lazy excuse. An answer you could gamble your life blindly following. That type of unsatisfactory answer.

"It was just a cat," Lord Vandelstam sighed. "She loved them — loves them. If I recall, she said they were her only friends when she was human. You can feel it, the magical energy from her curse."

Retch shook his head, "No. Feel death."

Lord Vandelstam raised an eyebrow. "Only my most enterprising employees are allowed to man — I dread to suppose such a term is no longer courteous. I'm trying to foster more inclusivity since this is inherently quite the hostile work environment. Either way, after she was turned, all her cats fled. She kept her favorite, the one you killed."

That didn't make sense.

"Meow-meow not blood drinker."

"Every time they expire, without fail, she goes out and finds a new one as close to the previous as possible. She could evoke the spirit of the original and make a familiar, but I hazard that would defeat the principle behind the hobby. Call it an exercise in futility. Call it typical vampiric ennui. She cares for that cat, the only link she'll allow herself to her former life."

"Bent?" Retch tapped the pocket watch again.

"She flattens their bones so they don't escape. They try, but don't get very far. A mildly unpleasant distraction but no more so than say, endlessly pursuing someone to defile their convictions. In that respect, I suppose your answer is equally valid. An apprentice of Schweinorg would be the type to eliminate distortions, though I've never been sure what that says about him as an Ancestor." Lord Vandelstam, lost in his reverie, mused.

Katarina, the blood guzzler, didn't realize that by flattening the tabby's bones to ensure that it would stay by her side, the cat was no longer the cat she loved or even a replacement for the original cat. The cat had to die. No matter what healing would allow the cat to stand on its own paws, it had lived long enough in that flattened state that its heart had been flattened too. No matter how flat its bones might be, the bent nature could never be straightened. If the cat could have been saved, it was before its heart had become distorted.

A human was turned into a blood guzzler. The meow-meows who loved the human did not love the blood guzzler. The blood guzzler who still loved the meow-meows could not bear this, so she continued to love the meow-meows against their will. The story was as simple as that. Copy, paste. Copy, paste. Copy, paste. Eventually, the vestigial furrow of that love produced a giant tower of flattened cats. The blood guzzler loved the tower, a monument to her love, not the flattened cats themselves. No wonder the original was quickly forgotten and the blood guzzler nestled her affections into the ghost of ghosts.

"If you do not mind me saying, and I do not say this lightly, but you're quite the novelty, uncouth as you are. I haven't been this taken since—" He blinked twice, snapping himself away from an unwanted memory, and frowned. "Would you like to play a game?"

Retch's beady eyes lit up.

Play? Play! This wasn't his promised play date and he still had to complete his Master's task, but, a game! Hopefully, the rules weren't too complicated. He could never remember all the rules.

Lord Vandelstam glided towards the cashier's counter. Retch stumbled in pursuit, half out of enthusiasm, the other half because he tried his best not to crush the merchandise that still littered the floor.

"Displaying these in barrels would save on packaging, but patrons always insist on knowing they're fair."

Plucking a packet from a display, Lord Vandelstem tore the top, plastic clamshell and all. He casually tossed the pair of dice that rolled out of the clamshell in the air and caught them in his palm. "A simple game. Whoever rolls the most pips wins."

"Gamble?"

"Is there any other way to play?"

The blood taker's cursed blood energy seeped into the dice. Magic. Oh yes, this was going to be fun.


"Eleven"

The twenty-seventh out of thirty-six rolls.

"Seven. . ."

"Three"

"Seven—!"

"Ten"

"Seven. . ."

Too caught up in the thrill of the game to pay attention to his opponent's bemused expression, the troll across from Van grunted the numbers he rolled. To him, each outcome was a wholly independent event. Soaring exultations were forgotten in an instant, swallowed by the deepest despair of a loss and vice versa. There was no sense of gain or loss — the gamble was binary, win or lose. Thus, thrill might have been too malicious a word for the troll. It was the industry of the activity that captivated his brutish attention. In truth, the troll's peculiar method was the statistically correct way to play dice; however, any child, let alone an apprentice of Schweinorg, should have instantly noticed the pattern unfolding on the glass countertop, the illusion of clustering probability be damned.

The dice was enchanted to serve as the main axis of a probability equalizing field, one of Van's inventions that he employed during the Casa's casino duels. The point of any casino was not to win all the money, but to ensure the customer would come the next day to lose some more money. Some services lured customers in with services, others promotions, and most rented out spaces to serve as a venue for conferences and conventions. Van held all three in disdain, so he organized duels. A clash between gladiators armed with nothing but desperation, greed, and providence. Yet, when the gamble was to produce a spectacular gamble, there was always the chance of a disappointing climax. As a gambling man, Van would not allow such a chance.

The spectators of those duels would always cross the gangplank onto the asphalt wharf at the crack of dawn still chattering about how exhilarating the duel was.

Down to the wire yet again. The regulars would expound at their smokey-eyed escorts. Non, not just the wire. I swore the gamblers danced among the angels on the head of a pin, not that they could compare to you. How about I take you back tomorrow, to see how he eeks by yet again.

Fuckin' rigged, lads. Slightly intoxicated first-timer bants with an equally intoxicated squad. Rigged to consummate Lord Vandelstam's reputation. You can tell because he came out on top. Who comes out on top after that! That type of development occurs in every single fictitious gamble in the most gratuitous mainstream media. Cliché much. How's about we come back tomorrow, and I'll prove he's a fraud.

They were right. It was rigged. Rigged to ensure the odds were never too far in any gambler's favor. The seed for the probability equalization field originated from the Grecian Age of Gods, where the invention of bounded fields that isolated combatants from divine favor were necessary to ensure fair contests. Lucky streaks, Mystic Eyes of Luck, and even Marble Phantasm held no sway in the field. The gambler was left only with their skill to ride the waves of chance Lady Fortune provided.

"Ten"

"Seven. . ."

One couldn't truly call this a game — only two transcendentals throwing dice.

To test whether the troll was worth taking the test, Van had pushed the formula to its extreme conclusion. Dead Apostles didn't keep up with education standards, but he assumed most elementary students were capable of calculating the probability of a certain number appearing when throwing two dice. Snake eyes, the result of two single pips, was one out of thirty-six or roughly 2.8%. This did not mean that if two dice were rolled thirty-six times there would absolutely be one time when two pips appeared. The future was amorphous, ever-changing. A probability distribution only accurately predicted the aggregate, an infinite amount of trials. Yet, was magecraft not the slayer of common sense?

The version of the probability equalization field that Van had placed over the dice allowed for no deviation from the distribution. It took the uncertain, yet calculable future and pulled it into the present, stripping away all independence. Of course, this feat did not trespass into the realm of Magic, neither was it completely determinative, nor did it forcibly cluster probability. The order by which the numbers appeared was still in fortune's domain. However, two pips would never appear more or less than once every thirty-six rolls of the dice.

"Five"

"Seven—!"

The thirty-sixth roll of the dice with both players having rolled eighteen times. The troll had not the faintest notion he had rolled the same number throughout the entire game.

Seven was indeed the most common number to be rolled when two dice were involved. According to the bounded field's formula, there must be six sevens. The troll rolled eighteen. Eighteen sevens were beyond luck. Eighteen sevens were impossible.

"No Tag Ball. But Fun. Very!" Eyes glittering, the troll clapped his hands together. All the nervous energy that filled its brutish physique had melted away.

What Van witnessed was determinative precognition, a [ruby=Skill]supernatural power[/ruby] that allowed the user to calculate the future based on present information. Vaguer. . . no, not divining the future, or rather not just that. More animalistic, instinctual as if the troll had naturally been reeling in the most probable result, seven each time. Reeling was a poor word, the troll was no angler, baiting then plucking out sinking fish, so the proper diction was bridg—

"You always did prefer polishing them yourself, Kishur. Couldn't care less that you shattered ten for one with an acceptable cut." Van wouldn't kill this troll no matter how many cats it may have killed. "Let your Master know that I have no objections to his proposal. In fact, I wish you the best luck. . . Retch." The name sparkled on Van's tongue as foully as the degenerate champagne that was prepared for national superyacht events.

A slight shock ran through the Ancestor's Magic Circuit. Ah, Katerina must have regenerated her head and subsequently lost it pounding on the bounded field around the underground workshop. He would need to settle her. Although new hires were easy enough to make, it was becoming more difficult to find competent subordinates among unfettered Apostles these days. Why back when the Crimson Moon looked down from the ramparts of the Millennium Castle. . . . He should have extended his blood to that magus. Enough reminiscing about the old days and lost old friends. After all, did not wishing this troll the best of luck set Van's own last [ruby=bridge]attachment[/ruby] alight?

The greatest gambles of all time were the ones never made. Too sacred. Too fragile. Something that could not be chanced or rather that one could not allow to be chanced. The further gone the Dead Apostle, the more she absconded from such a decision, deciding to find new cats and flatten their bones. Truly, a promising subordinate.

With a self-mocking smile, Van pushed the enchanted pair of dice across the counter and watched as the troll half reached out to snatch the dice before restraining himself with difficulty.

"A parting gift."

The troll finally looked into Van's eyes, for now he was unable to see Valery Fernand Vandelstam, the fourteenth Dead Apostle Ancestor, puppet master and Demon Lord of the Financial Sector. The troll could only see someone who had gifted him a pair of dice, so it smiled.

What a [ruby=horrifying]sincere[/ruby] smile.