Izurich
Force and Fury
Alby47
Cleveraptor
Jumbus
Damycles
TiMemoire of a Gambler
Mentions: Tommy, Zast - @Jumbus
Who knew when this was? There are plenty of rowdy pubs in Mudville, none moreso than this one: a quaint shithole - the type of place Tommy is more than familiar with. Somehow, he's gotten roped into a card game with a bunch of locals he'd honestly rather not be playing with. Blokes damn near twice his size and a record of gutting anyone who pissed them off. Yet here he is, 8 pints deep and 10 magus in the hole. He shivers slightly. Did someone leave the door open?
The only thing in his sight is the table and the fellows at the other end that he really didn't want to be on the bad side of. Tommy Kavanaugh was not a scared individual. He's rowdy, confident, and collected. But for some reason, these individuals make his skin crawl. The gnashing of teeth, the gargling of salt water and chugging of pints is a cacophony of noises that drowns out his confidence as he looks at his unrevealed hand, face down on the table.
Yet, behind him, peering over his shoulder, is an individual he swears he knows - and in some ways considers a friend - but cannot remember the name of.
The small, green hand of this friend was placed on the boy's shoulder comfortingly. His grinning face just behind the boy's line of sight and yet he somehow could perceive it regardless.
"Play your hand, Tommy." The friend encouraged him further. "You have a winning hand and, even if you lose, you can always leave the table and run. They're strong, but they don't look very fast." The goblin didn't whisper, but spoke normally such that the entire room could hear. And yet, his words fell short of the ears of bad company.
Tommy hesitated, a lump formed in his throat. He wasn't used to stakes like this before. He didn't know why he cared so much about what he'd put down and what he'd lost. Maybe he could run again? But he felt this sense of attachment to the chips that were down on this grubby table. The others seemed to eye them hungrily, as if they so craved to take them away from him. Perhaps that's why he didn't want to lose them.
But when had he grown so sentimental? They were just coins? Right?
He lifted up the hand, the table slightly sticky from spilled ale. It was a good hand. A two pair. Any smart man would bet on it. He pushed another two chips forward. He tried to turn but he couldn't, yet it still felt as if he was talking face to face with that green hand of reassurance.
"I don't wanna lose, y'know. I fuckin' hate losin'." he spoke, pinching the bridge of his nose, before exhaling and pushing more chips forward, the last of what he had as he raised once more. "I'm not scared. I c-can take 'em." he spoke, the lump still in his throat, causing him to stutter. An obvious lie. "I'm poor. I need the money." He thought of spoiling someone, of giving them a gift so they'd love him back. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, yet the room was so cold at this point he was shivering. Who'd left that damn door open?
The hand on his shoulder grew firm, giving him a sense of certainty but pressure as well. "No Tommy, no one ever needs the money. You want it and there's nothing wrong with that. Want drives us Tommy. It's the reason you sat at this table, not because you want to keep what you have, but because you want to get more."
"I know you hate losing Tommy, I do too. If you don't care about the chips on the table, you can't lose, no matter how the cards fall. Heavy pockets, weak knees."
He cracked his neck as he exhaled deeply. The others were shuffling about, moving chips across the table but his eyes were stuck on the ones that were there in front of him. His chips. In a way, the hand on his shoulder spoke the truth. He wouldn't lose if he didn't care. But, oh how he did. He'd won those chips through great trials and tribulations. They were... precious to him.
"If I lose this, it's like the rest of the wins didn't matter. What's the point of winning if you don't get to keep it?" He spoke a name, but he never heard it. "What's the point of even sittin' down? I get whatcha sayin', but if it's all for nothin', what's the point?" he slammed his hand down onto his cards. They were good cards. The best he'd gotten since his last win that had earned him his chips. He'd folded the rest, and started to play the game like everyone else. Close to the chest, afraid to risk.
And for what? Hadn't he been risking everything since he'd grown up? His teeth were chattering, as this room was so cold. Why didn't he hear the others shivering? The same noises as before. Swigs of ale, the crunching of bones and flesh beneath their vile maws. Just how long were they going to keep eating?
The friend chuckled as if speaking to a foolish, foolish man. "It's the thrill of winning and the knowledge that you have won that drives you, Tommy. You could try to sit on those winnings but the joy won't last long. Its stagnancy, the monotony, the antithesis of who we are. You could try be happy for a time, but you'll think about where you could have been. That will bring you back to the cards, but by that time the chips will have their claws in you and you will no longer be able to run."
"Gamble those chips, Tommy."
All he could perceive at this point was low, guttural chuckling. Both from the man behind him, and the several faceless horrors in front of him. How he hated it. The mockery of the powerful to the powerless. He'd lived by the philosophy - to never take less than everything from people. He'd cheated, lied, murdered, scammed, anything under the sun to get a win. But now that the prospect of that happening to him was on the table, he was shivering. Was it the cold or was it fear? Would somebody shut that fuckin' door!?
'How did I get here?'
'What did I put up?'
'Why does it matter? I've never been one to cut losses.'
He looked down at his hand again. A sinking feeling, as if he knew he’d lost. The laughter came to a close and the room got colder still. His teeth chattered together in a desperate attempt to stay warm, and he found himself hugging himself. Even with that hand on his shoulder, he felt so lonely and cold in this place.
"They're already on the table." He paused, and melancholy filled him. "I've finally gotta piece of the pie, and they're about to take it from me. Fuckin' help me, man! Aren't we friends?" he lashed out in shallow anger at the figure behind him, as if it was somehow the cazenax's fault he'd put those chips down.
The others lay their cards down on the table. The first was a two pair, the same as his but a lower suite. He'd managed to dodge that bullet. The second was a straight. The third was a flush.
How had they all been luckier than him? How had he misread? It was then, and only then, he remembered that he never once looked at their faces. He peered up, and he saw them. There was Chad. There was Juulet. And there was Riu Kai-tan. Insurmountable enemies, terrifyingly so. But, why were they in a bar in Enth, or Mudville, or wherever they were now?
He desperately clawed at the chips on the table, raking in what was his. But it was so frigid, and his hands were shaking. He couldn't let them go. But he didn't want to go either. He could barely piece them together before they began dropping on the floor. He flung himself down there, desperate to keep them to himself, to protect them from the other, hungry gamblers.
"You could've run, Tommy." The friend had a tone of disappointment in his voice. "You would have been fine if you just left the chips. A nun and an ex-mercenary: too many of those in the world to count, and yet you stayed for these ones."
"The truth is, Tommy, that this isn't the first time you've lost, not even close. You ran every time before; you had no problems then. But now you decided to stay, and because you stayed, you let it all catch up with you. You were complacent, Tommy, and now you have to face the weight of your actions."
Family
The world was often kissed by Lor’s light, but it never seemed to shine upon Barrowton. Enth was a land of clouds and rain, unloved by the gods and perhaps that was why the inhabitants didn’t quite love the gods as much as they should have. And just like any other day, it was raining.
Tommy Kavanaugh was a man who wanted to come up in the world. Fourteen years of age, and still a resident of the city, he found himself ducking through alleyways to steer clear of the sheer cold that came in the months of Somnes. It was not so much the temperature as it was the frigid winds that blew between the tall townhouses and apartments that housed so many of Barrowton’s citizens that caused this. His mother had warned him of the dangers of being wet and cold. The old baker Gregory, on Moat’s End, had been thrown out of the house one night for being too drunk, and had died of the fluid by the time the morrow came.
But he couldn’t die. He had a family to go home to, and a room to sleep in, even if he shared it with four other siblings. The Kavanaughs never seemed to move out of the nest, and he’d never known the feeling of having his own personal space save for nights like this. The streets were dark and quiet, and he’d long since learned how to hide the sounds of his footsteps, even in the squelching wet mud that filled the city when the rain came.
It was a job, after all. Some petty noblewoman's estate on Coral Lane. The lanes were nothing new to him, but these were fancier footsteps than he was used to taking. Alley to alley before he was upon his mark, and it was easy as cake. No latches, just simple reliance on a good lock. Jimmy had done the scouting prior and saw the woman's relatives visit a couple of days ago, with no sign of any higher security. He’d earned that name for that particular skill, and Tommy had learned it from the lad, which was why it was no surprise when he was in the door in 20 seconds flat.
And, immediately, a sense of emptiness hit him. Inside this room was just as cold as the outside. There was no roaring hearth as he’d come to expect in these months. Obvious places where paintings and heirlooms had been placed upon the walls were now empty, only dustmarks remained. A place where he imagined a plush carpet once sat was no longer there. The place had been cleaned out before he’d even gotten to it, but the intel had been good, from what he’d remembered.
It was as he stepped through the house, dark, empty and seldom cleaned save for the valuables that he forgot to muffle his footsteps. A giant audible creak was heard that elicited a muffled noise from another room he couldn’t quite make out. He gripped a knife on his belt and continued to survey, moving to the kitchen. He opened the drawers and even the silverware had been completely cleaned out.
‘Fucker must’ve been hungry’
Every room in the house seemed to be in the same state, and the edge from hearing that sound never left him until he settled upon the last room in the house of interest, presumably a living quarters, or some kind of repurposed office. “Toby? Have you come to visit again?” He heard the voice of an older woman muffled through the thicker stone walls of the house. Slowly, he opened the door and found a very old woman, wrapped in bundles of blankets in an old rocking chair. Even here, the room had been emptied. His heart sank immediately looking at this shivering old woman. She turned to face him, and smiled, missing many of her teeth. ”You’ve gotten thin, Toby. Should I fix you some supper?”
A whirring of the cogs inside his brain began, followed shortly by the strongest emotions he’d ever felt. He wanted to cry for the lady, to smash the wall in anger at what they’d done to her, to yell to the sky in hypocrisy about how the world was an unfair place, as if he hadn’t been planning to do the same thing. As if he wouldn’t have taken everything if it were there. But most of all, was a deep, empty pit in his stomach that had taken the place of the trust he’d given to others.
This wasn’t bad intel by Jimmy. If he’d cleared the place out, he wouldn’t have wasted time relaying it to Tommy. That’d be a way to end up with bad blood and broken kneecaps. No, the only logical explanation was… whoever this ‘Toby’ was, had already taken everything from his own family.
He sat in stunned silence as this old woman shivered in the cold, underneath all that was left, a few blankets, a wooden rocking chair and a hearth devoid of fire. He knew not her story, of whether she’d been a loving mother to her children, a loving grandmother to their descendants, a good daughter to her father or what she’d accomplished in her life. All he saw was a woman who undoubtedly loved her family, and received nothing in return.
Was this how he’d end up? He knew he wouldn’t live long given the symptoms were already starting to show, but he’d kept that a secret. At the age of thirty or so, he’d probably sound exactly like this woman who couldn’t even recognize her own grandchild from a robber. Would his family and friends do the same? Leave him in the cold and take everything he’d worked toward at this age?
The gears stopped turning as the woman coughed, reminding him of where he was. He wouldn’t end up like this woman, not if he could help it. He would spend every penny he got when he got it. What was the point of building for a future if it was taken gratuitously from your hands the moment you became unable to protect what was yours. He knelt down by the unkindled fireplace and used a touch of his magic to light the hearth and what little firewood remained inside.
It was done out of pity, but he felt a sense of disgust. Not just for the people that’d done this, but for her. They must have had a reason beyond desire for material gain. He’d stolen from plenty, deserving and not, and he’d never done so from those he’d treasured. There had to be some semblance of justification? A survival of the fittest perhaps?
”Thank you Toby. It was getting cold in here… I don’t remember where I left my flint… she mumbled to herself, shivering and tucking herself further in her blankets, her fingers red from the frigid atmosphere. Once again, Tommy’s stomach turned in knots and he felt like puking. But he resolved himself, slapping his cheeks to bring him to. Were he generous or kind, he might have left her with that sweet last memory of her darling grandson. But spite and resentment was all that filled his heart, as he turned and retorted: ”That’s cause I took it, and everythin’ else in this house. You didn’t need it anyway, right?”
And although his words held venom, the grandmotherly woman simply laughed, her chuckle eliciting a deep throaty cough that followed, probably due to bad lungs and the frigid air. “That’s a mean joke, Toby.” and he laughed in turn. It was a mean joke, after all. Tommy turned and shut the door without replying, clenching his fist in anger on the other side. He didn’t care about this woman, but his heart was filled with a desire for a vague sense of vigilante justice. The next step would be to find Toby.
The next two days were to mark his prey. He’d relayed to Jimmy that the mark had been cleared out already and he’d already bought in to help with this operation, so the pair got to work on finding out more about the situation. Information gathering about the Mistress Cossale they’d fully intended to clean out. Toby Cossale was her grandson, and had been looking to prove himself a worthy suitor for the lady Avis Faylare, a junior branch of the Maycots. They held good standing in the city given the Ashdales’ relatively fresh betrayal.
He hadn’t been sneaky about his robbery. Flaunting a gain of recent wealth was the mark of a young, arrogant noble and he’d done as much. Expensive gifts paid for with treachery, and Tommy grit his teeth in hypocrisy. Deep down, he knew why this angered him so, but he still pretended in his heart that he was going to perform this act out of some sense of honor or compassion for the woman he didn’t know the name of.
The third day came: a crisp night that the rain hadn’t taken hold of quite yet. The would-be couple went from street to street, chatting and walking. Again, an arrogance of the nobility to walk about the streets that the gangs knew so familiarly. They held pride in the fact that they had an aptitude with the Gift, but money talked, and their purses were heavy. A slight jingle to their step as Jim followed behind Tommy, an accomplice in the crime.
And although the night had been dry and the lamps of Barrowton flickered, at some point, it came pouring down. The couple ducked for cover in an alley while the lady Avis reached for an umbrella that she held on her person. That moment of distraction and hesitation was all it took for a blade to find purchase in her body. Nobles held the gift in high regard, and it was unthinkable for a commoner to possess it to a degree enough to close such a distance, but there he was, a knife plunged in her back. Jimmy had already begun moving to secure the coin pouch.
There it was, though. He’d consciously wounded a third party to secure money. This pretty noble girl with her frilly dress and braided hair turned and regarded him in horror and panic as she tried to scream, but the air had simply been taken from her lungs and all that came was a raspy final gasp before the collapse. Tommy’s hands shook slightly as he retrieved the blade, and the dark thoughts would come later.
Tobias, or Toby as he’d been known by his grandmother, reached out in panic and drew with magic of his own but the moment he’d begun to cast, a slash formed from condensed air came from the young Enthish lad. A left hand that had been reached out to cast was flung further into the alley and a scream of pain followed. A swift punch to the jaw silenced it as Tommy began to rifle through the body, blood mixing with the rain and flowing into the gutter. The two would most likely die, and he didn’t feel anything about it. But he didn’t get the joy he’d anticipated from liberating their belongings, or from delivering this vigilante justice.
The pair of commoners walked away, a bag of coin to their name each. He didn’t go and return it to that grandmother, that Lady Cossale. In fact, she died perhaps a day after her grandson, to the sheer cold. Avis died for gratuity and perhaps earned Tommy his greatest sin, a pair of potential lovers who’d never reached their potential, snuffed out for money that was gone in a matter of days.
For Tommy knew to keep his pockets light. And he taught himself to never trust or love another. A betrayal like that, coming from your own flesh and blood to an affliction all too similar to his own was enough for him to be scared of attachment and love. Why then, had he abandoned his principles so quickly when shown kindness at the school?
In the moment, perhaps too consumed by his own ideals of what the world should be like, he never considered the late Lady Avis. It crossed his mind once or twice that she was a pretty, clean looking girl but he hadn't considered anything about her. Was she like him? Did she do anything wrong, save for courting a man who he’d had a problem with? How many others had he dealt this hand of fate? But he could still remember her face, even now. That look of anguish and ‘why?’ splattered across her face. The roles could have been reversed. Perhaps she wouldn’t have responded so violently? Was it because… he wanted Toby to suffer? Or was it a spur of the moment decision. So many questions that he didn’t have answers for.
And why was he seeing this scene before his eyes now? Was it because the prophecy he saw had come around? He’d trusted, and he’d died and been left for the ravens and the rats.
Just… who was he?
Left to Rot
That question was answered by a trial of the gods. Every event in his life had been recounted in great detail, and this is what he had to show for it. He wasn’t well read in religious textbooks, but hell had always been described as fire and brimstone, filled with demons and lava and punishment. Yet, somehow, this felt crueler.
A life with no substance or meaning. Water that could never sate your thirst, no matter how much you drank. What was there to do in a place like this. He could run in the grass but there was nothing, nary a soul and the sun never seem to set, nor did it seem to rise. Night never came, In such a beautiful place, he’d never felt so empty. His brain rattled and he slept and awoke only to find himself in the same scenery, more and more parched and hungry and desperate.
And with nothing to do, or hunt, or see, there was only his memories to dwell on. He begun to remember the last images of what he’d seen. A bullet, spinning toward him at a speed he’d never comprehended, even faster than that mans punches. Had Desmond died too? Maybe so, but he doubted that guy would end up here. For all he’d probably done, he still had a true sense of goodness to him. And Laska, had she made it out? If anyone was unlikely of hell, it was probably her. Maybe they’d reunited in Eshiran’s heaven. Or maybe they’d both made it out alive.
Without him.
He’d been left alone, as foretold. Perhaps it was his destiny for them to leave him for dead. He doubted they’d host a vigil, or a funeral for him. Perhaps they’d take his belongings and sell him. Maybe somebody would do him the duty of throwing his corpse in a pit and covering it with soil so the crows didn’t feast on it, but he doubted that too. It’d all come true and it made him furious. He ripped at the soil, he blew the dandelions away and pounded his fist at trees and foliage. For how long is uncertain, but eventually, he stopped and gave up.
He didn’t know how long it’d been, but he’d begun to decay. His body had begun to rot in the open. Little pieces of flesh withering off his form. Maybe it was related to his body on the surface, probably being eaten by scavengers. Or perhaps it was rotting in the sun. He’d all but given up when he finally found other life in this place. It was hard to distinguish at a distance, and his knuckles had gone bloodied and scabbed from his prior fury, and his feet barely wanted to move. But… he saw someone in a similar state as him eat another, and begin to rejuvenate. He left as quickly as he came into eyeshot. He didn’t know if it was a test, or futile, but a hope had been re-ignited in him to try and stay existing.
All he had to do was wait for another.
