The agreement for peace was met and the card game commenced. Nicki settled in to amuse herself with the game. It had been years since she had last held cards, but she had not forgotten the trick and the patterns of numbers and probability came back to her like a nursery melody, something learned so long ago that one could never truly lose it. 

She pulled off her coat, ruined with blood and cuts from stray daggers and sat before them in white linen shirtsleeves and brocade vest, breeches and boots. A few of the slashes in her clothing were rimmed with blood that was likely hers, though nothing was deep. She seemed to pay it no mind as she idly brushed back an errant blonde lock and focused on the cards in her hand as she played with her crew-mates. 

Numbers, cards, coins and wagers, she sought for patters in them, not to win, no she had no intention of that though she was confident that she could, if she wanted to. That the reality of that assumption was one she’d never have to face, troubled her not. She played with the numbers, the patterns for fun, to amuse herself. To let her ego have its way. She played to soothe herself for her deliberate loss. Anyone could throw a game, some could even do it convincingly. But such was not for Nicki. She could no more throw a game in such mundane ways than she could grow actual stones between her thighs. For Nicki to lose she needed to control the loss, to orchestrate it in a way that amused her. Control, it all came back to that. For her, it always came back to that.

So with artifice, confused expressions, looks of dawning understanding and frequent requests for clarification she threw the game, winning rounds that were multiples of three, losing all others. She bet only even numbers and made certain through complex numerical alchemy to end each losing round with a set fraction of her starting pot. It amused her and entertained her and she found herself crooking the corners of her lips more than once in what passed as a smile for her, at some of the banter that flew around her. Each proto-smile revealed bewitching hints of dimples in her cheeks that would be given light if she but smiled deeper. 

Often during the play she lifted the bottle of Rum to her lips but rarely did more than let a trickle through, simply wetting her lips, swallowing then licking the sweet spirit off of her lips as she scowled at her cards as if in reproach. 

“I am almost out.” She said as she looked at her pile of coin, exactly 1/12th of what she’d started with, inwardly she was pleased, there had been a bit of scrambling she’d needed to do to make the numbers work, but she’d managed it. “It seems your worries about losing to the Navy brat are unfounded.” She said to Jax, her honeyed voice holding more satisfaction than someone about to lose should hold, the effects of rum accidentally ingested perhaps? She paid it no mind, too pleased with herself and slid the rest of her coins across to the pile.