This is a private fantasy adventure for Krystal Ruby and Slappy the Halfling. This roleplay is invite only and we are not accepting any other players. If you have not been invited to participate, DO NOT POST HERE.
In the small, sleepy town of the Last Vigil, the shops are preparing to close up for the day. Meanwhile, business begins picking up at the local tavern, The Ribald Reeve, and of course, things are also becoming lively at the local brothel.
Locals congregate at Last Vigil’s only watering hole, a rundown tavern with accommodations run by Blanche, a cigar-chewing, middle-aged woman who hasn’t said a kind word about anyone for as long as she can remember. She is thin with a pinched face and long gray-black hair pulled back in a bun, and commands just a server and a cook to keep the place running despite its shabby appearance.
The Reeve caters to locals and the many caravans passing through town en route to someplace far more interesting than Last Vigil. The Reeve offers standard fare, usually stew with bread, and has a full bar stocked with local ale and spirits. A standard room in the attic with cots for up to twenty people is the only accommodation provided. All but Blanche herself live in and around town; Blanche lives in a small room off the kitchen. The main floor appears worn and broken in, but clean.
Eight tables with four or five chairs each are arranged around the middle of the room, with booths against the walls, and a bar with ten stools at the back. A fireplace warms the place, and Blanche keeps a pot of brown bubbling on the flames for folks without the coin for something better. A staircase near the door leads up through the floor of the drafty standard room above.
Locals congregate at Last Vigil’s only watering hole, a rundown tavern with accommodations run by Blanche, a cigar-chewing, middle-aged woman who hasn’t said a kind word about anyone for as long as she can remember. She is thin with a pinched face and long gray-black hair pulled back in a bun, and commands just a server and a cook to keep the place running despite its shabby appearance.
The Reeve caters to locals and the many caravans passing through town en route to someplace far more interesting than Last Vigil. The Reeve offers standard fare, usually stew with bread, and has a full bar stocked with local ale and spirits. A standard room in the attic with cots for up to twenty people is the only accommodation provided. All but Blanche herself live in and around town; Blanche lives in a small room off the kitchen. The main floor appears worn and broken in, but clean.
Eight tables with four or five chairs each are arranged around the middle of the room, with booths against the walls, and a bar with ten stools at the back. A fireplace warms the place, and Blanche keeps a pot of brown bubbling on the flames for folks without the coin for something better. A staircase near the door leads up through the floor of the drafty standard room above.
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Map: Last Virgil
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Blanche Greaves (tavern owner)
Race: Human
Age: Late 40s
Occupation: Tavern Owner, Informant, Former Mercenary
________________________________________
Appearance
Blanche is a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a weathered face and sharp gray eyes that miss nothing. Her dark hair is tied back in a tight braid, and her arms are crisscrossed with old scars — visible reminders of a violent past. She often wears a faded leather vest over a linen shirt and carries a long knife on her belt, not for show.
Despite her age and limp (from an old war injury), there's a predatory stillness to Blanche — the kind that makes rowdy patrons think twice.
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Personality
• Pragmatic and fiercely independent. Blanche doesn’t suffer fools and demands respect in her establishment.
• Though gruff, she protects her staff and the vulnerable with a quiet ferocity.
• She has a sharp wit, a dry sense of humor, and a booming laugh she rarely shares.
• Deeply distrusts authority and religion, but has her own code of honor.
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Role in the Story
• Blanche hears everything that happens in Last Virgil. Her tavern is the town’s nerve center, and she keeps tabs on every traveler and whisper.
• She trades in information and favors, not gold — and knows more than she lets on about the growing corruption.
• Some say she once fought in a war, others whisper she made a pact to survive a battle no one else did.
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Secrets and Hooks
• Keeps a locked cellar door below the tavern, which no staff member is allowed near.
• Has an old iron ring with unknown runes, which she touches when she thinks no one’s watching.
• Might secretly work with or against a cultist organization, depending on the tone of your campaign.
Race: Human
Age: Late 40s
Occupation: Tavern Owner, Informant, Former Mercenary
________________________________________
Appearance
Blanche is a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a weathered face and sharp gray eyes that miss nothing. Her dark hair is tied back in a tight braid, and her arms are crisscrossed with old scars — visible reminders of a violent past. She often wears a faded leather vest over a linen shirt and carries a long knife on her belt, not for show.
Despite her age and limp (from an old war injury), there's a predatory stillness to Blanche — the kind that makes rowdy patrons think twice.
_______________________________________
Personality
• Pragmatic and fiercely independent. Blanche doesn’t suffer fools and demands respect in her establishment.
• Though gruff, she protects her staff and the vulnerable with a quiet ferocity.
• She has a sharp wit, a dry sense of humor, and a booming laugh she rarely shares.
• Deeply distrusts authority and religion, but has her own code of honor.
________________________________________
Role in the Story
• Blanche hears everything that happens in Last Virgil. Her tavern is the town’s nerve center, and she keeps tabs on every traveler and whisper.
• She trades in information and favors, not gold — and knows more than she lets on about the growing corruption.
• Some say she once fought in a war, others whisper she made a pact to survive a battle no one else did.
________________________________________
Secrets and Hooks
• Keeps a locked cellar door below the tavern, which no staff member is allowed near.
• Has an old iron ring with unknown runes, which she touches when she thinks no one’s watching.
• Might secretly work with or against a cultist organization, depending on the tone of your campaign.
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Ribald Reeve (tavern)
The Ribald Reeve is the beating heart of Last Virgil— a grim, smoke-choked tavern where miners, mercenaries, hunters, and refugees gather to drown their fears in cheap liquor and lies. It’s one of the few places in town where people can pretend, even briefly, that the world isn’t ending. Despite its name, only blood, rotwood, and the sour stench of sweat, spilled ale, and despair fills the air in this tavern.
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Appearance
• A two-story timber-and-stone structure, leaning slightly from age and disrepair.
• Inside, the lighting is low — just smoky lanterns and a perpetually flickering hearth.
• The floorboards creak constantly, and there are suspicious stains no one talks about.
• A central bar made from a repurposed church pew stretches across one wall.
• Tacked to the walls are wanted posters, crude carvings, bones, and old weapons — all dusty, all real.
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Atmosphere
• Loud, tense, and dangerous. Fights break out frequently, but Blanche (the owner) keeps a tight lid on chaos.
• Locals sit in tight groups, always watching the door. Outsiders are stared at — or worse, tested.
• Most patrons drink Rotgut Red (a cheap, spicy liquor) or Blackroot Ale, brewed with questionable local ingredients.
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Special Features
• Back Room: Used for private meetings, back-alley deals, and sometimes cult rituals (unbeknownst to Marta, or so she claims).
• Cellar: Off-limits to staff. Rumored to contain smuggled goods, alchemical brews, or something... alive.
• Stage: An old corner platform where bards used to play. Now used more often for public punishments or dark storytelling.
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Regulars
• Retired mercenaries and miners swapping horror stories.
• Traders from the south, always looking to buy something illegal.
• A hooded stranger who never speaks but always listens.
_______________________________________
Plot Hooks
• A missing person was last seen drinking here — their belongings turn up behind the bar.
• Someone is poisoning the drinks... but no one notices or cares until it’s too late.
• A trapdoor behind the hearth leads into a hidden tunnel — older than the town itself.
• Some people gathered at the gambling table discussed a plan to visit the temple at night
The Ribald Reeve is the beating heart of Last Virgil— a grim, smoke-choked tavern where miners, mercenaries, hunters, and refugees gather to drown their fears in cheap liquor and lies. It’s one of the few places in town where people can pretend, even briefly, that the world isn’t ending. Despite its name, only blood, rotwood, and the sour stench of sweat, spilled ale, and despair fills the air in this tavern.
________________________________________
Appearance
• A two-story timber-and-stone structure, leaning slightly from age and disrepair.
• Inside, the lighting is low — just smoky lanterns and a perpetually flickering hearth.
• The floorboards creak constantly, and there are suspicious stains no one talks about.
• A central bar made from a repurposed church pew stretches across one wall.
• Tacked to the walls are wanted posters, crude carvings, bones, and old weapons — all dusty, all real.
________________________________________
Atmosphere
• Loud, tense, and dangerous. Fights break out frequently, but Blanche (the owner) keeps a tight lid on chaos.
• Locals sit in tight groups, always watching the door. Outsiders are stared at — or worse, tested.
• Most patrons drink Rotgut Red (a cheap, spicy liquor) or Blackroot Ale, brewed with questionable local ingredients.
________________________________________
Special Features
• Back Room: Used for private meetings, back-alley deals, and sometimes cult rituals (unbeknownst to Marta, or so she claims).
• Cellar: Off-limits to staff. Rumored to contain smuggled goods, alchemical brews, or something... alive.
• Stage: An old corner platform where bards used to play. Now used more often for public punishments or dark storytelling.
________________________________________
Regulars
• Retired mercenaries and miners swapping horror stories.
• Traders from the south, always looking to buy something illegal.
• A hooded stranger who never speaks but always listens.
_______________________________________
Plot Hooks
• A missing person was last seen drinking here — their belongings turn up behind the bar.
• Someone is poisoning the drinks... but no one notices or cares until it’s too late.
• A trapdoor behind the hearth leads into a hidden tunnel — older than the town itself.
• Some people gathered at the gambling table discussed a plan to visit the temple at night
Last Vigil, another seedy little town with an equally seedy tavern... not one of Slappy's favorite places by any means, but very typical of the type of place he frequented on his route as a postal hobbit. As usual, he had other business beyond delivering the mail to Blanche, owner of Ribald Reeve, his last stop for the night as the sun retired from the sky.
Having parked his postal wagon and made sure his oxen were secure in the nearby stable, he made his way to the door of The Reeve. The halfling didn't get the usual shake down or dirty looks from the locals. He was known here because of his trade. Being a courier did have its benefits. He made his way to the bar.
"Top of the evening, Blanche," the halfling said in a jolly voice. When he had her attention he handed her some documents. These letters were the sort that had gone through proper channels. The kind that helped legitimize what he did. The kind that didn't require a secret handshake, sign or alternate secret location to be shared.
"A cup of your finest Blackroot Ale and some warm bread and a bowl of stew for a wary postal hobbit," he then asked once she had her mail in hand. It was Slappy's hope she'd offer him a free cot upstairs as a courtesy. Many of taverns he frequented did such things as a courtesy.
Once he had his drink and food, the halfling had other business in this place. A card game... and what he called an 'unscheduled delivery'. This was the type that required discretion. In this case, he had an unknown object. Unknown to him anyway. It was in a box wrapped in a small sack and could pass for a large amount of gold or gems if unopened.
After dinner, he would wager this sack at the card table. He would know he was at the right one as his contact had a code phrase he would say when he was invited into the game. It was simple. He'd play a few hands, go 'all in' and lose it all around the 5th hand. That was when the handoff took place. Slappy would play the part of the fool and excuse himself. At that point, he would wander upstairs and retire to the hopefully free bed the tavern mistress was about to offer him. In the morning, it was on to the next town on his route.
OOC: Although not listed, I will assume one of the unmarked buildings or out buildings near the tavern is a stable for animals. Slappy parks his postal wagon with 2 oxen here.
Having parked his postal wagon and made sure his oxen were secure in the nearby stable, he made his way to the door of The Reeve. The halfling didn't get the usual shake down or dirty looks from the locals. He was known here because of his trade. Being a courier did have its benefits. He made his way to the bar.
"Top of the evening, Blanche," the halfling said in a jolly voice. When he had her attention he handed her some documents. These letters were the sort that had gone through proper channels. The kind that helped legitimize what he did. The kind that didn't require a secret handshake, sign or alternate secret location to be shared.
"A cup of your finest Blackroot Ale and some warm bread and a bowl of stew for a wary postal hobbit," he then asked once she had her mail in hand. It was Slappy's hope she'd offer him a free cot upstairs as a courtesy. Many of taverns he frequented did such things as a courtesy.
Once he had his drink and food, the halfling had other business in this place. A card game... and what he called an 'unscheduled delivery'. This was the type that required discretion. In this case, he had an unknown object. Unknown to him anyway. It was in a box wrapped in a small sack and could pass for a large amount of gold or gems if unopened.
After dinner, he would wager this sack at the card table. He would know he was at the right one as his contact had a code phrase he would say when he was invited into the game. It was simple. He'd play a few hands, go 'all in' and lose it all around the 5th hand. That was when the handoff took place. Slappy would play the part of the fool and excuse himself. At that point, he would wander upstairs and retire to the hopefully free bed the tavern mistress was about to offer him. In the morning, it was on to the next town on his route.
OOC: Although not listed, I will assume one of the unmarked buildings or out buildings near the tavern is a stable for animals. Slappy parks his postal wagon with 2 oxen here.
The stale air of The Ribald Reeve, thick with smoke, sweat, and sour ale, suddenly carried something else, a hint of jasmine threads through the murk. The fragrance didn't belong here, not in this worn-down tavern where even hope seemed to have a film of grease on it. The aroma followed a female elf who entered the tavern and headed toward the bar. Her attire was striking, made of fine materials and vibrant colors, which gave her an undeniably feminine and almost princess-like appearance.
Blanche approached slowly, her gray eyes narrowing as she took in every detail, her pristine looks, clothes that cost more than most locals saw in a month. She chomped down harder on her cigar, letting the smoke drift between them like a wall.
“What’ll it be?” The words came out flat, already tired of whatever this elven girl was about to say.
The blonde elf’s voice was smooth as silk, and with a smile that lit the entire tavern. “Good evening! I’d absolutely adore to order something to eat. How about some honey-glazed duck, and perhaps a glass of your finest elderflower wine?.”
Blanche’s laugh was short and harsh. “You lost your way, princess. This ain’t the Gilded Swan or whatever establishment you wandered out of.” She leaned forward, her scarred arms crossing over the bar. “We got stew. Brown stew. And ale that’s mostly stale.”
“Oh!” The young elf’s disappointment lasted exactly one heartbeat before her smile returned. “How… rustic! Then I’ll have your brownest stew and your stale-est ale, please!”
Blanche’s eye twitched, but there was something, maybe respect or perhaps wariness—flickering in her eyes. “That’ll be three coppers.”
The green-eyed elf reached for her coin purse, then a gravelly voice called her out from across the room. “Oi, sunshine!” One of the thugs at the gambling table, a man whose nose had been broken enough times to resemble a potato waved at her. “Why waste good coin when you could win that drink? We’re playing cards, how about a round of blackjack?”
“Oh my! You mean Gambling?” Her emerald eyes lit up like two gemstones. She looked at the coins in her hand, then at the table, then back at Blanche. “Oh, how marvelous! In that case…” She placed the coins on the bar with a flourish, then sat beside the halfling, offering a gentle handshake with a soft smile. “I’m Krystal Ruby, well-versed in the divine arts. May fortune favor the bold, shall we begin?”
The cards seemed to sing to her. Not literally, that would be too obvious but Krystal’s fingers hesitated over her cards, then looked at your cards facing down. Twenty-one. The thugs’ smirks soured slightly. “Mine! Beginner’s luck,” she chirped, scooping up her winnings with both hands like a delighted child.
A young man approached the table, radiating the kind of confidence that made mothers lock up their daughters and merchants count their coins twice. “The more, the merrier… Room for one more?“ His voice was smooth as the breeze, and everyone turned to see a young man with curly blonde hair and an easy smile. “My name is Edgar Tolliver, a wandering bard looking for some fun.”
The thug was three sheets to the wind, fumbled the cards, and dropped half the deck to the ground. “Sure, sure… “
Edgar smoothly scooped up the fallen cards, his fingers dancing as he reassembled the deck. “Perhaps I should deal? Steadier hands and all that.” His blue eyes twinkled with something that might have been mischief or might have been calculation.
Blanche approached slowly, her gray eyes narrowing as she took in every detail, her pristine looks, clothes that cost more than most locals saw in a month. She chomped down harder on her cigar, letting the smoke drift between them like a wall.
“What’ll it be?” The words came out flat, already tired of whatever this elven girl was about to say.
The blonde elf’s voice was smooth as silk, and with a smile that lit the entire tavern. “Good evening! I’d absolutely adore to order something to eat. How about some honey-glazed duck, and perhaps a glass of your finest elderflower wine?.”
Blanche’s laugh was short and harsh. “You lost your way, princess. This ain’t the Gilded Swan or whatever establishment you wandered out of.” She leaned forward, her scarred arms crossing over the bar. “We got stew. Brown stew. And ale that’s mostly stale.”
“Oh!” The young elf’s disappointment lasted exactly one heartbeat before her smile returned. “How… rustic! Then I’ll have your brownest stew and your stale-est ale, please!”
Blanche’s eye twitched, but there was something, maybe respect or perhaps wariness—flickering in her eyes. “That’ll be three coppers.”
The green-eyed elf reached for her coin purse, then a gravelly voice called her out from across the room. “Oi, sunshine!” One of the thugs at the gambling table, a man whose nose had been broken enough times to resemble a potato waved at her. “Why waste good coin when you could win that drink? We’re playing cards, how about a round of blackjack?”
“Oh my! You mean Gambling?” Her emerald eyes lit up like two gemstones. She looked at the coins in her hand, then at the table, then back at Blanche. “Oh, how marvelous! In that case…” She placed the coins on the bar with a flourish, then sat beside the halfling, offering a gentle handshake with a soft smile. “I’m Krystal Ruby, well-versed in the divine arts. May fortune favor the bold, shall we begin?”
The cards seemed to sing to her. Not literally, that would be too obvious but Krystal’s fingers hesitated over her cards, then looked at your cards facing down. Twenty-one. The thugs’ smirks soured slightly. “Mine! Beginner’s luck,” she chirped, scooping up her winnings with both hands like a delighted child.
A young man approached the table, radiating the kind of confidence that made mothers lock up their daughters and merchants count their coins twice. “The more, the merrier… Room for one more?“ His voice was smooth as the breeze, and everyone turned to see a young man with curly blonde hair and an easy smile. “My name is Edgar Tolliver, a wandering bard looking for some fun.”
The thug was three sheets to the wind, fumbled the cards, and dropped half the deck to the ground. “Sure, sure… “
Edgar smoothly scooped up the fallen cards, his fingers dancing as he reassembled the deck. “Perhaps I should deal? Steadier hands and all that.” His blue eyes twinkled with something that might have been mischief or might have been calculation.
Quote:
Edgar Tolliver
Race: Human
Age: Mid 20s
Occupation: Scoundrel, Thief, Scammer
Appearance:
Edgar is a young man, handsome and lithe, with a mop of curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He has an easy smile and an air of confidence others find appealing.
Personality:
He has a knack for reading people and telling them what they want to hear. The best thing Edgar got from the whore who birthed him was his silver tongue. A liar, cheat, and unrepentant thief, Edgar has made his way through the world using any and every dishonest trick he has been able to devise. He looks out for himself and has no loyalty to anyone or anything.
Role in the Story:
A few weeks ago, however, he learned about the relic in Last Virgil and recruited some thugs to help him steal it. Once they reached town, his hirelings got drunk at the Ribald Reeve and started a fight. Frustrated at their unreliability, Edgar slipped away to carry out his plan on his own, leaving the brutes to whatever fate they had earned themselves.
Age: Mid 20s
Occupation: Scoundrel, Thief, Scammer
Appearance:
Edgar is a young man, handsome and lithe, with a mop of curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He has an easy smile and an air of confidence others find appealing.
Personality:
He has a knack for reading people and telling them what they want to hear. The best thing Edgar got from the whore who birthed him was his silver tongue. A liar, cheat, and unrepentant thief, Edgar has made his way through the world using any and every dishonest trick he has been able to devise. He looks out for himself and has no loyalty to anyone or anything.
Role in the Story:
A few weeks ago, however, he learned about the relic in Last Virgil and recruited some thugs to help him steal it. Once they reached town, his hirelings got drunk at the Ribald Reeve and started a fight. Frustrated at their unreliability, Edgar slipped away to carry out his plan on his own, leaving the brutes to whatever fate they had earned themselves.
The old croon thanked the halfling for the letters and placed food and drink in front of him. She mentioned no charge for the meal indicating it was free. She did not, at least so far, offer Slappy a bed for the night. He longed for a hot apple tart, but such fare was not available in a place such as this. These smaller, seedier taverns were among the halfing's least favorite stops for that reason.
Being half-starved and eager to get to the final part of his evening's work, Slappy ate quickly. "Great as always, Blanche," Slappy complimented. He sensed she knew he was fishing for a free bed and just gave the slightest hint of acknowledgement before removing the dishes.
Now with a full belly, it was time to play some cards. The halfling wandered to the table. There were no vacant seats. The dealer, whose name was unknown to Slappy, took notice of him. "Evening stranger, want to play a round," he inquired. This was the first part of the signal he was at the right place.
"I'd love to, but there doesn't appear to be an empty seat," Slappy responded, a bit disappointed. This was the cue his contact was looking for. Without a word, another player at the table cashed out his chips and stood up.
"There is always room for one more," the dealer replied gesturing to the now vacant seat. This was the expected answer and Slappy nodded politely and took the empty chair. As the next hand was dealt, Slappy glanced around at his opponents. Trying his best to keep a blank face, he tossed in a few gold coins. "Raise me," he instructed a moment later, sounding confident.
The first hand played out, and everyone still in the game showed their hand. The pot went to the halfling.
"Lucky start," one of the players at the table remarked.
"Aye," Slappy agreed. "Luck is with me, tonight. I can feel it!"
The gamblers at the back of the room didn't notice the elf woman enter the bar and order a meal except for one.
The green-eyed elf reached for her coin purse, then a gravelly voice called her out from across the room. “Oi, sunshine!” One of the thugs at the gambling table, a man whose nose had been broken enough times to resemble a potato waved at her. “Why waste good coin when you could win that drink? We’re playing cards, how about a round of blackjack?”
The halfling realized, he was calling out to the newest patron to enter the tavern. She was unknown to him. There seemed to be a bit of amusement among the other players. Another player beside the halfling cashed out and opened the seat to the elven maiden.
“Oh my! You mean Gambling?” Her emerald eyes lit up like two gemstones. She looked at the coins in her hand, then at the table, then back at Blanche. “Oh, how marvelous! In that case…” She placed the coins on the bar with a flourish, then sat beside the halfling, offering a gentle handshake with a soft smile. “I’m Krystal Ruby, well-versed in the divine arts. May fortune favor the bold, shall we begin?”
"Uh, Slappy," The halfling answered, a bit confused. There was nothing in the plan about this woman joining the game. Was something amiss? Could there be some sort of double-cross at work?
"Mail courier and master card player," he boasted, dismissing his suspicions. She looked well off and naive. Surely, they saw her as an easy target to lighten her purse.
That hand was the last round he was scripted to win. The cards were dealt. Slappy had another pretty good hand and went all in, although he didn't wager the purse he was supposed to hand off. That was next round.
The cards seemed to sing to her. Not literally, that would be too obvious but Krystal’s fingers hesitated over her cards, then looked at your cards facing down. Twenty-one. The thugs’ smirks soured slightly. “Mine! Beginner’s luck,” she chirped, scooping up her winnings with both hands like a delighted child.
The elf woman won. That was not supposed to happen! He looked a bit nervous. Had the plan gone awry? This next hand was supposed to be the big one. What if the purse with the handoff ended up going to the wrong person? There was no way to take his contact aside to sort this out. Slappy decided to stick to the script. He had not invited the woman to the table. That was another's doing.
A young man approached the table, radiating the kind of confidence that made mothers lock up their daughters and merchants count their coins twice. “The more, the merrier… Room for one more?“ His voice was smooth as the breeze, and everyone turned to see a young man with curly blonde hair and an easy smile. “My name is Edgar Tolliver, a wandering bard looking for some fun.”
Another player cashed out and offered the newcomer his seat. Something is definitely not right, now.
The thug was three sheets to the wind, fumbled the cards, and dropped half the deck to the ground. “Sure, sure… “
Edgar smoothly scooped up the fallen cards, his fingers dancing as he reassembled the deck. “Perhaps I should deal? Steadier hands and all that.” His blue eyes twinkled with something that might have been mischief or might have been calculation.
Slappy had a bad feeling now. Should he withdraw from the game? His contact was no longer the one dealing the cards. He glanced at him nervously trying to read this unexpected plot twist with the interlopers joining the game. He realized he'd pulled out the purse. The one he was supposed to lose and pass to his contact. Absently, he pulled it out and sat it in front of him and the eyes off all those in the game were on it.
Being half-starved and eager to get to the final part of his evening's work, Slappy ate quickly. "Great as always, Blanche," Slappy complimented. He sensed she knew he was fishing for a free bed and just gave the slightest hint of acknowledgement before removing the dishes.
Now with a full belly, it was time to play some cards. The halfling wandered to the table. There were no vacant seats. The dealer, whose name was unknown to Slappy, took notice of him. "Evening stranger, want to play a round," he inquired. This was the first part of the signal he was at the right place.
"I'd love to, but there doesn't appear to be an empty seat," Slappy responded, a bit disappointed. This was the cue his contact was looking for. Without a word, another player at the table cashed out his chips and stood up.
"There is always room for one more," the dealer replied gesturing to the now vacant seat. This was the expected answer and Slappy nodded politely and took the empty chair. As the next hand was dealt, Slappy glanced around at his opponents. Trying his best to keep a blank face, he tossed in a few gold coins. "Raise me," he instructed a moment later, sounding confident.
The first hand played out, and everyone still in the game showed their hand. The pot went to the halfling.
"Lucky start," one of the players at the table remarked.
"Aye," Slappy agreed. "Luck is with me, tonight. I can feel it!"
The gamblers at the back of the room didn't notice the elf woman enter the bar and order a meal except for one.
The green-eyed elf reached for her coin purse, then a gravelly voice called her out from across the room. “Oi, sunshine!” One of the thugs at the gambling table, a man whose nose had been broken enough times to resemble a potato waved at her. “Why waste good coin when you could win that drink? We’re playing cards, how about a round of blackjack?”
The halfling realized, he was calling out to the newest patron to enter the tavern. She was unknown to him. There seemed to be a bit of amusement among the other players. Another player beside the halfling cashed out and opened the seat to the elven maiden.
“Oh my! You mean Gambling?” Her emerald eyes lit up like two gemstones. She looked at the coins in her hand, then at the table, then back at Blanche. “Oh, how marvelous! In that case…” She placed the coins on the bar with a flourish, then sat beside the halfling, offering a gentle handshake with a soft smile. “I’m Krystal Ruby, well-versed in the divine arts. May fortune favor the bold, shall we begin?”
"Uh, Slappy," The halfling answered, a bit confused. There was nothing in the plan about this woman joining the game. Was something amiss? Could there be some sort of double-cross at work?
"Mail courier and master card player," he boasted, dismissing his suspicions. She looked well off and naive. Surely, they saw her as an easy target to lighten her purse.
That hand was the last round he was scripted to win. The cards were dealt. Slappy had another pretty good hand and went all in, although he didn't wager the purse he was supposed to hand off. That was next round.
The cards seemed to sing to her. Not literally, that would be too obvious but Krystal’s fingers hesitated over her cards, then looked at your cards facing down. Twenty-one. The thugs’ smirks soured slightly. “Mine! Beginner’s luck,” she chirped, scooping up her winnings with both hands like a delighted child.
The elf woman won. That was not supposed to happen! He looked a bit nervous. Had the plan gone awry? This next hand was supposed to be the big one. What if the purse with the handoff ended up going to the wrong person? There was no way to take his contact aside to sort this out. Slappy decided to stick to the script. He had not invited the woman to the table. That was another's doing.
A young man approached the table, radiating the kind of confidence that made mothers lock up their daughters and merchants count their coins twice. “The more, the merrier… Room for one more?“ His voice was smooth as the breeze, and everyone turned to see a young man with curly blonde hair and an easy smile. “My name is Edgar Tolliver, a wandering bard looking for some fun.”
Another player cashed out and offered the newcomer his seat. Something is definitely not right, now.
The thug was three sheets to the wind, fumbled the cards, and dropped half the deck to the ground. “Sure, sure… “
Edgar smoothly scooped up the fallen cards, his fingers dancing as he reassembled the deck. “Perhaps I should deal? Steadier hands and all that.” His blue eyes twinkled with something that might have been mischief or might have been calculation.
Slappy had a bad feeling now. Should he withdraw from the game? His contact was no longer the one dealing the cards. He glanced at him nervously trying to read this unexpected plot twist with the interlopers joining the game. He realized he'd pulled out the purse. The one he was supposed to lose and pass to his contact. Absently, he pulled it out and sat it in front of him and the eyes off all those in the game were on it.
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