Pagusel caught something strange--unnatural, stiff perhaps--in her periphery and allowed herself the leeway to very slowly bring her direct gaze to the sight. She felt it necessary to appear casual, so only filled in the picture between glances intended in different directions. That was Daq's head, bowed over one of the 8-ball tables she'd had in mind. That was the acute angle of his elbow as he aimed in preparation for a shot. That was the imposing figure of the opponent, whom she'd heard disparaging the use of props. In all, it was Daq playing a round that didn't factor into her directions. It was a good game, though, and she could slip her way out of line to be a spectator.
She hefted her cloak bundle under her arm and stepped gradually out of the line she hadn't intended to follow through with anyway. A few others had their eye on Daq's game as well. From a distance of a couple of yards, she watched his shots go down reliably. It wasn't long before he'd finished the game. He was good, but he wasn't exactly subtle.
She started to mosey over to the table to claim a challenge to the victor--this could work out her way, after all--when she saw a snap for service, followed by a re-rack. A strain of disbelief bubbled up from her chin and out through her gaze, directed at Daq. Her nostrils flared and she glanced about for recourse.
There was a short, middle-aged man standing near her, also watching them play. He rubbed his chin and grinned at her, or maybe he was just baring his teeth against the scratch of his own stubble. Pagusel had to inclined her head downward just slightly to address him. She took a shallow breath to steady her wits and offered up, in a tone just slow enough to seem offhanded, "'Bishan says the blond one recovers this time."
"Heh, I'm not betting against him." The short man shook his head. He scratched at his stubble again and watched Daq from behind. As he did, his eyes glazed slightly and his gaze dropped to just below Daq's waistline. "Not gonna bet against him either," he murmured.
Pagusel felt a wave of illness wash over her brain as she realized a few of the stares Daq had attracted were watching more than his game. Still, her hustle relied heavily on distraction, and she would just have to steel herself against the wretchedness it aroused in her, if Daq's physical appearance helped the cause.
The short man had meant something else, when he said he wouldn't bet against Daq's opponent. There was the rub, with hustling: one had to remain unknown and anonymous, but it could be dangerous not to have familiarity with the neighborhood. She did not know who that opponent was.
The best thing to do, if her nervous mind would just hold still for a moment, would be to methodically eliminate all the possible bad turns she could take at this juncture. Betting on this game seemed risky. Daq was being willful, and betting for or against him could put her in a position of losing capital she didn't have, depending on if he threw this game. Even if she could signal Daq somehow, the opponent was a potentially volatile wildcard. She couldn't start her own game--now the only other 8-ball table was taken up by another pair, and she wasn't going to risk venturing outside her game of choice. Biding her time left too many open ends; she needed to make some sort of move.
She braved another glance at the leering short man and sidled away from him, closer the action at the table. The bartender was delivering drinks.
Pagusel had settled on a course of action that could get the opponent's attention without giving herself away as shrewd or of a wagering mind. "Oh, try using the bridge this time!" she said rather louder than her normal tone. An actress she was not--while she was attempting the pesky tone of an amateurish peanut gallery gawker, the forced sound may have come across sarcastic. Or drunk. She only wanted to be a pest, not an instigator. Fighting the urge to blink rapidly, Pagusel widened her eyes and attempted to look as obtuse as possible for meeting the sandy-haired man's eye.
The Hustle
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Oblivious to the subtleties employed in an expert hustle, Daq locked his attention on Pagusel as the balls were being re-racked. She'd approached the table and was doing an admirable job of looking like a spectator, except that she was appeared to be ending a conversation with a short, somewhat unkempt middle-aged man, who was staring at him rather intently. He wondered what Pagusel had said to him. Had she made the bet already?
When the man seemed to notice Daq staring back in his direction, Daq gave him an awkward smile. A strange look came over the man's face, and he turned away. What had Pagusel said to him? Daq continued to stare at the man for a few moments, but his attention was ultimately redirected to the pool table by a flurry of insistent snaps.
"Hey! We gonna play, or are you gonna just stand around checkin' people out?"
Daq saw that the balls had been re-racked. The guardsman obviously wanted him to break. "Sorry," he started. "I'm just a little.." Midsentence he realized the kind of followup questions that might come on the heels of admitting that he was distracted by something. "..a little bit of a light-weight." He indicated the half-finished beer in his hand.
"Heh, well, then this will be easy revenge," the blond guardsman replied, evidently buying Daq's lie. He was about to say something else when Pagusel jumped in with a comment about the bridge. The words died in his mouth, and his good-natured smile faded away. He glowered for a moment at Daq before turning to Pagusel.
"Shove it up your ass, you saggy-titted slant!" the guardsman shouted at her. He wasn't particularly loud about it, but the crowd had fallen silent when he turned to acknowledge her heckling. In the sudden quiet of the tavern, his nasty reply seemed to hang in the air for a long while. "Get this ugly bitch out of here," he said, presumably to the barkeep. "I ain't nearly drunk enough to keep lookin' at her."
Daq knew, of course, that the hustle wasn't going to work if Pagusel got kicked out of the bar, so he moved in and closed his hand around the guardsman's wrist. He could feel that the blond man was covered in a layer of sweat and grime.
"Wouldn't it be better if she stayed to watch you prove her wrong?" Daq said to him quietly. Though the guardsman wasn't particularly burly, he was tall, and Daq felt an odd sort of discomfort standing so close to him with his eyes at the level of the man's windburned lips. He could smell the alcohol on his hot breath as it washed against his cheeks.
The guard shook Daq's hand off of his wrist and said, "Yeah, whatever. Let her stay.. what the fuck do I care? Let's just get on with this."
Daq had no sense of how the con was supposed to go from here, but he felt like the prudent thing to do would be to lose and allow the guardsman to save face. Moving away from the guardsman, he set up the break. After a solid break, he put up a few good rounds of pocketed balls and unintentional-looking fouls. Ultimately, though, he lost with flying colors. As the guardsman shot the 8-ball into the declared pocket, Daq glanced carefully in Pagusel's direction, looking for an indication of what he ought to do next.
When the man seemed to notice Daq staring back in his direction, Daq gave him an awkward smile. A strange look came over the man's face, and he turned away. What had Pagusel said to him? Daq continued to stare at the man for a few moments, but his attention was ultimately redirected to the pool table by a flurry of insistent snaps.
"Hey! We gonna play, or are you gonna just stand around checkin' people out?"
Daq saw that the balls had been re-racked. The guardsman obviously wanted him to break. "Sorry," he started. "I'm just a little.." Midsentence he realized the kind of followup questions that might come on the heels of admitting that he was distracted by something. "..a little bit of a light-weight." He indicated the half-finished beer in his hand.
"Heh, well, then this will be easy revenge," the blond guardsman replied, evidently buying Daq's lie. He was about to say something else when Pagusel jumped in with a comment about the bridge. The words died in his mouth, and his good-natured smile faded away. He glowered for a moment at Daq before turning to Pagusel.
"Shove it up your ass, you saggy-titted slant!" the guardsman shouted at her. He wasn't particularly loud about it, but the crowd had fallen silent when he turned to acknowledge her heckling. In the sudden quiet of the tavern, his nasty reply seemed to hang in the air for a long while. "Get this ugly bitch out of here," he said, presumably to the barkeep. "I ain't nearly drunk enough to keep lookin' at her."
Daq knew, of course, that the hustle wasn't going to work if Pagusel got kicked out of the bar, so he moved in and closed his hand around the guardsman's wrist. He could feel that the blond man was covered in a layer of sweat and grime.
"Wouldn't it be better if she stayed to watch you prove her wrong?" Daq said to him quietly. Though the guardsman wasn't particularly burly, he was tall, and Daq felt an odd sort of discomfort standing so close to him with his eyes at the level of the man's windburned lips. He could smell the alcohol on his hot breath as it washed against his cheeks.
The guard shook Daq's hand off of his wrist and said, "Yeah, whatever. Let her stay.. what the fuck do I care? Let's just get on with this."
Daq had no sense of how the con was supposed to go from here, but he felt like the prudent thing to do would be to lose and allow the guardsman to save face. Moving away from the guardsman, he set up the break. After a solid break, he put up a few good rounds of pocketed balls and unintentional-looking fouls. Ultimately, though, he lost with flying colors. As the guardsman shot the 8-ball into the declared pocket, Daq glanced carefully in Pagusel's direction, looking for an indication of what he ought to do next.
Re: The Hustle
Daq's opponent was most definitely a wild card, a variable that really unhinged the subtlety of the hustle Pagusel had hoped for.
To handle his offensive remarks, Pagusel fell back on feigning ignorance of some dialectal peculiarity. She met his gaze only briefly and then let her eye wander over the almost physical hush of the immediate crowd, vague and unmoved. She couldn't very well pretend not to know what he meant when he called her ugly, but she nearly forgot to react beyond a quick frown. Pagusel glanced back and shrugged at him as they started up their game. She was no longer pretending to be obtuse.
Though she preferred not to think about it, the possibility flitted through her mind that this Daq was a homosexual. She didn't like the way he touched the big man's wrist and whispered to him as a few furtive others ogled his backside, but ultimately that situation, if true, would be far preferable to a fondness for females. If her theory that this Daq was currently ascending mental adolescence held true, then everything could get very frustrating if his inclinations were anything like his forebear's.
Pagusel realized she was frowning more deeply throughout the game. This one drew on longer. A few shots in, she had worked out the assumption that Daq intended to lose this game. That would do, probably, to keep the intimidating man calm.
When the tall man did win, Pagusel grasped her cue near its end with both hands and leaned on it, nodding humbly. Daq caught her eye and she held it for a moment as she waited the few moments she deemed necessary to seem casual enough. She didn't need to fight for a spot--nobody else seemed to want to play against the victor or Daq.
She stepped up to the edge of the table when the victor turned to accept a congratulatory handshake and knelt to put her cloak, in which was bundled Daq's box and her trinkets, on the floor underneath. "Maybe you can play more my speed?" she suggested to Daq, loudly enough for one or two others to hear. The intent was to downplay their mutual skill level, but how she was to distract from his initial immaculate victory was a puzzle. She placed the ball of her hand on top of the cue ball and rolled it back and forth a few inches. She gave Daq a pointed look.
A few bystanders had helped dig out the other balls, and soon she was reracking. It remained to be seen whether the sandy-haired man would protest, but he was for the moment caught up in receiving a victory drink. Pagusel took a bit more time than necessary shuffling the rack around on the table's worn surface; the balls produced a clacking satisfactory to muffle what she muttered across the table for Daq to hear: "Lose." She only glanced up from her work for a moment to catch his eye for acknowledgment, then turned her face down again and settled the rack. "Attractively," she added over a final *clack* when she lifted the rack and clipped it on the edge of the table.
To handle his offensive remarks, Pagusel fell back on feigning ignorance of some dialectal peculiarity. She met his gaze only briefly and then let her eye wander over the almost physical hush of the immediate crowd, vague and unmoved. She couldn't very well pretend not to know what he meant when he called her ugly, but she nearly forgot to react beyond a quick frown. Pagusel glanced back and shrugged at him as they started up their game. She was no longer pretending to be obtuse.
Though she preferred not to think about it, the possibility flitted through her mind that this Daq was a homosexual. She didn't like the way he touched the big man's wrist and whispered to him as a few furtive others ogled his backside, but ultimately that situation, if true, would be far preferable to a fondness for females. If her theory that this Daq was currently ascending mental adolescence held true, then everything could get very frustrating if his inclinations were anything like his forebear's.
Pagusel realized she was frowning more deeply throughout the game. This one drew on longer. A few shots in, she had worked out the assumption that Daq intended to lose this game. That would do, probably, to keep the intimidating man calm.
When the tall man did win, Pagusel grasped her cue near its end with both hands and leaned on it, nodding humbly. Daq caught her eye and she held it for a moment as she waited the few moments she deemed necessary to seem casual enough. She didn't need to fight for a spot--nobody else seemed to want to play against the victor or Daq.
She stepped up to the edge of the table when the victor turned to accept a congratulatory handshake and knelt to put her cloak, in which was bundled Daq's box and her trinkets, on the floor underneath. "Maybe you can play more my speed?" she suggested to Daq, loudly enough for one or two others to hear. The intent was to downplay their mutual skill level, but how she was to distract from his initial immaculate victory was a puzzle. She placed the ball of her hand on top of the cue ball and rolled it back and forth a few inches. She gave Daq a pointed look.
A few bystanders had helped dig out the other balls, and soon she was reracking. It remained to be seen whether the sandy-haired man would protest, but he was for the moment caught up in receiving a victory drink. Pagusel took a bit more time than necessary shuffling the rack around on the table's worn surface; the balls produced a clacking satisfactory to muffle what she muttered across the table for Daq to hear: "Lose." She only glanced up from her work for a moment to catch his eye for acknowledgment, then turned her face down again and settled the rack. "Attractively," she added over a final *clack* when she lifted the rack and clipped it on the edge of the table.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
It was a relief for Daq to see the guardsman leave the table, surrounded by drinks and congratulating fans. During their game, every one of the instincts Morax had implanted in him had been screaming for a quick escape, an unassuming apology and an excuse about having to get up early the next morning.
Furthermore, he'd had the distinct impression that he was only on his way to making himself even more unpopular with his opening game, but the fouls at the start were the only way he could lose with flair. The final few play he'd made--where he'd pocketed several balls in a row and looked like he was about to rally--must have convinced the onlookers that he wasn't just throwing the game for the guardsman to save face. The guardsman must have bought it as well, as evidenced by the way he slapped him on the shoulder and gloated as he passed by to sit at the bar.
Daq's watched as Pagusel put her belongings under the table, staring intently for any clue as to what his next move should be. He was even more confused about the direction Pagusel was trying to take with her hustle than he had been at the start, most likely because he had gotten distracted from their ploy by a sudden, possibly irrational fear of wrongful arrest and imprisonment.
He waited anxiously for a sign as Pagusel began reracking, and was grateful to hear her quiet instructions passed along in the midst of the activity's sound. He was to lose attractively. Did that mean to imply that he'd lost in an unattractive manner during the last game? Assuming so, he motioned for Pagusel to break. After getting a feel for her playstyle, he made an impressive play that smoothly pocketed three of his solids in a row, leaving just one left before he could shoot on the 8-ball. He decided that to end the play, he'd sink his last ball but allow the cue ball to bounce off the felt and sink one of Pagusel's, which would leave her in prime-position to win with the 8-ball in the side pocket.
As he was setting up the shot, though, he began to pick up a whiff of a floral scent, like that of an expensive perfume. He took a few moments to bring his focus back to the delicate task of hitting the cue ball, but the rich, cloying smell overcame him as he started the movement of shooting, and, by the time he was even aware that he'd screwed up, the cue ball was already in motion. He sank his intended target, and didn't even touch her ball. Instead, the cue ball scratched, leaving Pagusel with a difficult shot--a ball-in-hand behind the headstring with all of her balls in the kitchen. She'd have to bounce a shot off of the opposite cushion to shoot on any of the stripes.
He looked up at her apologetically but grimaced and shook his head as soon as he realized the face he was making--if he acted like he was sorry for making such a good play, everyone would suspect they were somehow in cahoots. There was scattered laughter among the onlookers. Apparently several people thought he was taunting her with the faces he'd just pulled.
Daq sniffed the air for another hint of the flowery smell, but it seemed to have dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared.
Furthermore, he'd had the distinct impression that he was only on his way to making himself even more unpopular with his opening game, but the fouls at the start were the only way he could lose with flair. The final few play he'd made--where he'd pocketed several balls in a row and looked like he was about to rally--must have convinced the onlookers that he wasn't just throwing the game for the guardsman to save face. The guardsman must have bought it as well, as evidenced by the way he slapped him on the shoulder and gloated as he passed by to sit at the bar.
Daq's watched as Pagusel put her belongings under the table, staring intently for any clue as to what his next move should be. He was even more confused about the direction Pagusel was trying to take with her hustle than he had been at the start, most likely because he had gotten distracted from their ploy by a sudden, possibly irrational fear of wrongful arrest and imprisonment.
He waited anxiously for a sign as Pagusel began reracking, and was grateful to hear her quiet instructions passed along in the midst of the activity's sound. He was to lose attractively. Did that mean to imply that he'd lost in an unattractive manner during the last game? Assuming so, he motioned for Pagusel to break. After getting a feel for her playstyle, he made an impressive play that smoothly pocketed three of his solids in a row, leaving just one left before he could shoot on the 8-ball. He decided that to end the play, he'd sink his last ball but allow the cue ball to bounce off the felt and sink one of Pagusel's, which would leave her in prime-position to win with the 8-ball in the side pocket.
As he was setting up the shot, though, he began to pick up a whiff of a floral scent, like that of an expensive perfume. He took a few moments to bring his focus back to the delicate task of hitting the cue ball, but the rich, cloying smell overcame him as he started the movement of shooting, and, by the time he was even aware that he'd screwed up, the cue ball was already in motion. He sank his intended target, and didn't even touch her ball. Instead, the cue ball scratched, leaving Pagusel with a difficult shot--a ball-in-hand behind the headstring with all of her balls in the kitchen. She'd have to bounce a shot off of the opposite cushion to shoot on any of the stripes.
He looked up at her apologetically but grimaced and shook his head as soon as he realized the face he was making--if he acted like he was sorry for making such a good play, everyone would suspect they were somehow in cahoots. There was scattered laughter among the onlookers. Apparently several people thought he was taunting her with the faces he'd just pulled.
Daq sniffed the air for another hint of the flowery smell, but it seemed to have dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared.
Re: The Hustle
Watching Daq play, Pagusel could not even assume the usual expression of impassivity she gave to events around her. Even when Daq had earlier brained the young guard at the necromancer's estate--even then her brow hadn't twitched as it did with each passing shot he sank on the table. It may have been part of her act, anyway. All through the game, she had the grim look of engagement amateurs attempt in trying to look more savvy, marked here and there with giveaway cringes.
If it was an act, though, it was probably for naught: few people were watching their match with much interest, and most of the handful of those who were had their eyes primarily on Daq. With each of his successes came a fluttering sigh from one or two young ladies in tight-bodiced dresses that exaggerated their ripeness; each miss was invariably punctuated with the leering short man clearing his throat.
The ladies were probably uninterested in betting games except when it came to gleefully protesting their own charming company being put on the line. That man would be the mark.
Pagusel flexed her wrist as she contemplated the cool white ball in her palm. It was nearly the same color as the pale tattoos, the fronds of which peeked above the top of her shirt and the bottom of her shorts, and it was webbed with thin gray fissures of wear. The understanding of angles and trajectory she had gleaned from some years studying surveying could only take her so far; as how the surface cracks wound their way around the cue ball, she too would have to take an ungeometric approach. The hustle, she reminded herself, was more about what was going on outside the table than in. She peered over the mess of color-banded balls, and slowly her lower lip dropped to form a satisfied gibbous.
She raised her gaze across the green plateau to meet Daq's grimace. Her loosened jaw pulled her cheeks into hollows. She didn't seem to notice a solo snicker from a new onlooker who sat lounging in a wooden chair he had pulled up near the tables. She hefted the ball in her hand as she took a step away from the head of the table, towards Daq. "Up and down the river," she said.
A few sudden intakes of breath from the spectators lent weight to her cryptic phrase. She was, in fact, invoking a local rule sometimes agreed upon at the beginning of the game, which allowed each player the option to, one time, ignore the head marks on the table and play a ball-in-hand from any spot he or she wished. The rule was usually brought up only by older players, who recalled a time before the fancy imported tables came, when Marn's tables had no head markings, or by unskilled players in a mutual acknowledgment of greenness.
Daq probably didn't know the old rule, so Pagusel counted on him not to object. Then, the onlookers would just imagine they hadn't heard clearly when the two had agreed on the rule at the beginning of the game. Furthermore, she hoped the invocation of the rule would help cement her status as an amateur.
She walked around to Daq's end of the table, a much better vantage point for a tidy game. As she lifted her hand to scratch her upper lip with her thumb and hide her mouth behind the cue ball, she muttered, "You should try to look impressed when I win." She gave the short middle-aged man a long look. If he had any hopes to "cue up" with Daq later (Pagusel suppressed a grimace), he would want to impress him, perhaps by beating the victor.
Pagusel dropped the cue ball down on the clear end of the table and nudged Daq out of the way with her stick. The shots that would have been confounding from the kitchen were quite simple from here. As long as she could manage the cue ball carefully, she could drop two stripes in her first shot and the last in her second. From that point, the 8-ball was all hers. For effect, she nudged Daq further away with her stick.
The comely ladies watching assumed pretty pouts as Pagusel sunk her remaining balls in quick succession. She glanced up at her unwitting mark as she gestured at the side pocket with her tip of her stick. She took her time walking around the table to take her shot, and then struck the cue ball to glance off the 8-ball and tip it cleanly in.
Pagusel stuck out the tip of her tongue out thoughtfully, as if still awaiting some tense conclusion, and glanced only briefly up to Daq to see that he held up his end. Her mark bore a similar look of anticipation.
If it was an act, though, it was probably for naught: few people were watching their match with much interest, and most of the handful of those who were had their eyes primarily on Daq. With each of his successes came a fluttering sigh from one or two young ladies in tight-bodiced dresses that exaggerated their ripeness; each miss was invariably punctuated with the leering short man clearing his throat.
The ladies were probably uninterested in betting games except when it came to gleefully protesting their own charming company being put on the line. That man would be the mark.
Pagusel flexed her wrist as she contemplated the cool white ball in her palm. It was nearly the same color as the pale tattoos, the fronds of which peeked above the top of her shirt and the bottom of her shorts, and it was webbed with thin gray fissures of wear. The understanding of angles and trajectory she had gleaned from some years studying surveying could only take her so far; as how the surface cracks wound their way around the cue ball, she too would have to take an ungeometric approach. The hustle, she reminded herself, was more about what was going on outside the table than in. She peered over the mess of color-banded balls, and slowly her lower lip dropped to form a satisfied gibbous.
She raised her gaze across the green plateau to meet Daq's grimace. Her loosened jaw pulled her cheeks into hollows. She didn't seem to notice a solo snicker from a new onlooker who sat lounging in a wooden chair he had pulled up near the tables. She hefted the ball in her hand as she took a step away from the head of the table, towards Daq. "Up and down the river," she said.
A few sudden intakes of breath from the spectators lent weight to her cryptic phrase. She was, in fact, invoking a local rule sometimes agreed upon at the beginning of the game, which allowed each player the option to, one time, ignore the head marks on the table and play a ball-in-hand from any spot he or she wished. The rule was usually brought up only by older players, who recalled a time before the fancy imported tables came, when Marn's tables had no head markings, or by unskilled players in a mutual acknowledgment of greenness.
Daq probably didn't know the old rule, so Pagusel counted on him not to object. Then, the onlookers would just imagine they hadn't heard clearly when the two had agreed on the rule at the beginning of the game. Furthermore, she hoped the invocation of the rule would help cement her status as an amateur.
She walked around to Daq's end of the table, a much better vantage point for a tidy game. As she lifted her hand to scratch her upper lip with her thumb and hide her mouth behind the cue ball, she muttered, "You should try to look impressed when I win." She gave the short middle-aged man a long look. If he had any hopes to "cue up" with Daq later (Pagusel suppressed a grimace), he would want to impress him, perhaps by beating the victor.
Pagusel dropped the cue ball down on the clear end of the table and nudged Daq out of the way with her stick. The shots that would have been confounding from the kitchen were quite simple from here. As long as she could manage the cue ball carefully, she could drop two stripes in her first shot and the last in her second. From that point, the 8-ball was all hers. For effect, she nudged Daq further away with her stick.
The comely ladies watching assumed pretty pouts as Pagusel sunk her remaining balls in quick succession. She glanced up at her unwitting mark as she gestured at the side pocket with her tip of her stick. She took her time walking around the table to take her shot, and then struck the cue ball to glance off the 8-ball and tip it cleanly in.
Pagusel stuck out the tip of her tongue out thoughtfully, as if still awaiting some tense conclusion, and glanced only briefly up to Daq to see that he held up his end. Her mark bore a similar look of anticipation.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
It was difficult for Daq to keep a look of surprise and bewilderment from appearing on his face and ruining their ploy. He wasn't used to there being gaps in the extensive compendium of tidbits and folklore that had been imbued in him, but the phrase--or was it a rule?--that had just been invoked was certainly a gap. The sounds from the people clustered around them indicated that the "up and down the river" business was not something Pagusel had made up on the spot, but Daq was having trouble believing that Morax, who was a stickler for rules, would have left such a stone unturned.
As Pagusel gave him one last instruction for the match, Daq willfully focused his gaze elsewhere to further mask the whisper. His eyes drifted for a moment before settling on a strikingly red handkerchief. As soon as it caught his eye, it seemed to occupy his entire field of vision. How had he not noticed it before? He only had a few moments to observe it before Pagusel began taking her shots, but as soon as he could tear his attention away, he noticed that it seemed like it was in the pocket of the man who'd given him the odd look earlier, except that the man wasn't quite as bald, or as fat, or as short as he'd remembered. In fact, there was a certain subdued handsomeness about him.
After Pagusel had called and made her shot on the 8-ball, Daq did his best to do as she'd asked and look impressed. At first, the distractions of the crowd, the odd rule, and the alluring red cloth made this seem like an almost insurmountable task, but Daq found an alternative route to the desired physiognomy--merely considering Pagusel's ability to keep her cool and maintain her side of the charade was enough to leave him impressed.
"It seems that this poor fellow has just learned a valuable lesson about women," Daq heard from across the table. The voice was as slick and smooth as ice. It was the man with the handkerchief, and he'd already picked up a cue. "Whenever you agree to one of their rules, they'll always find a way to use it against you. How about a match with the victor--standard rules only this time?"
As Pagusel gave him one last instruction for the match, Daq willfully focused his gaze elsewhere to further mask the whisper. His eyes drifted for a moment before settling on a strikingly red handkerchief. As soon as it caught his eye, it seemed to occupy his entire field of vision. How had he not noticed it before? He only had a few moments to observe it before Pagusel began taking her shots, but as soon as he could tear his attention away, he noticed that it seemed like it was in the pocket of the man who'd given him the odd look earlier, except that the man wasn't quite as bald, or as fat, or as short as he'd remembered. In fact, there was a certain subdued handsomeness about him.
After Pagusel had called and made her shot on the 8-ball, Daq did his best to do as she'd asked and look impressed. At first, the distractions of the crowd, the odd rule, and the alluring red cloth made this seem like an almost insurmountable task, but Daq found an alternative route to the desired physiognomy--merely considering Pagusel's ability to keep her cool and maintain her side of the charade was enough to leave him impressed.
"It seems that this poor fellow has just learned a valuable lesson about women," Daq heard from across the table. The voice was as slick and smooth as ice. It was the man with the handkerchief, and he'd already picked up a cue. "Whenever you agree to one of their rules, they'll always find a way to use it against you. How about a match with the victor--standard rules only this time?"
Re: The Hustle
The onlookers were beginning to disperse. Pagusel craned her neck in the opposite direction, that she might seem to be a cocky winner by refusing to meet the glances of her detractors. Also, it wouldn't do to stare at her mark and wait for him to make the move she wanted.
Then, as quickly as if she'd had a sudden cramp, she turned back to look over the length of the table, for that voice. Could that really have been her mark? Daq was looking at him . . . he was looking at her . . . she felt as if a prickly heat was rising from the felt of the empty table.
"Absolutely," she replied. Her breath had formed the words too hastily, before she was ready to lay out her terms. She was more nervous than she liked to be, when gambling. Staring at an opponent for several seconds--as she really wished to do, to re-evaluate him--could often have desirable results. Pagusel really did need the drink she couldn't yet afford.
To mitigate her nerves a bit, she resorted to a soft tic. As she bounced on the balls of her feet, she twiddled the chalk cube against the tip of her cue stick, perhaps excessively. A dry sigh came when she finally put down the chalk and began scooping balls out of their pockets and on to the table.
"Only if you're willing to make it interesting," she said slowly. The cool, smooth balls were salve to the itching skin in the creases of her palms.
The only other patron who was still watching the table gave another low, snide laugh, which he covered unconvincingly with his hand. Pagusel caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, and after a very brief stiffening of her posture, moved on, not letting so much as the corner of her eye travel back in his direction again. Oddly, dry, frigid Pagusel began to look the slightest bit damp around the brow and neck.
She finished pulling the balls up onto the table and crouched down to her belongings. Perhaps she'd have to make a specific offer before he would agree to anything. On her part, being entirely broke shouldn't be a problem. The scrap she had picked up at the junkyard was just that: the rinds and scraps of someone's better lifestyle. They might pawn, but she couldn't assume anybody would accept them as collateral. The most valuable of her score was probably the rusty hairpin, but removing that would reveal its state of decay and give her up.
The items were bundled deep under layers of her matted fur cloak. She stuffed one hand inside and tucked her fingers around the edges of her lacquered tin saucer. When she ran the lacquered surface of the plate over the belt of thin copper discs she had also hidden there, a clicky-clinky sound was produced. Muffled by the cloak, it actually sounded rather convincingly as if she were running her fingers over a pile of crystalline bishani.
Beneath the table, and some distance away, she caught sight of a pair of leather shoes in that spot she had forced herself not to look at. She quickly withdrew her hand and stood up, with her face turned resolutely away from where that snide onlooking man sat.
"How about ten," she said curtly to the short man. Maybe it would help that Daq seemed even more interested in staring at him than he should be. She had to hope he would both agree to play for money, and also be duped into thinking she had just been appraising her own nonexistent finances.
Then, as quickly as if she'd had a sudden cramp, she turned back to look over the length of the table, for that voice. Could that really have been her mark? Daq was looking at him . . . he was looking at her . . . she felt as if a prickly heat was rising from the felt of the empty table.
"Absolutely," she replied. Her breath had formed the words too hastily, before she was ready to lay out her terms. She was more nervous than she liked to be, when gambling. Staring at an opponent for several seconds--as she really wished to do, to re-evaluate him--could often have desirable results. Pagusel really did need the drink she couldn't yet afford.
To mitigate her nerves a bit, she resorted to a soft tic. As she bounced on the balls of her feet, she twiddled the chalk cube against the tip of her cue stick, perhaps excessively. A dry sigh came when she finally put down the chalk and began scooping balls out of their pockets and on to the table.
"Only if you're willing to make it interesting," she said slowly. The cool, smooth balls were salve to the itching skin in the creases of her palms.
The only other patron who was still watching the table gave another low, snide laugh, which he covered unconvincingly with his hand. Pagusel caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, and after a very brief stiffening of her posture, moved on, not letting so much as the corner of her eye travel back in his direction again. Oddly, dry, frigid Pagusel began to look the slightest bit damp around the brow and neck.
She finished pulling the balls up onto the table and crouched down to her belongings. Perhaps she'd have to make a specific offer before he would agree to anything. On her part, being entirely broke shouldn't be a problem. The scrap she had picked up at the junkyard was just that: the rinds and scraps of someone's better lifestyle. They might pawn, but she couldn't assume anybody would accept them as collateral. The most valuable of her score was probably the rusty hairpin, but removing that would reveal its state of decay and give her up.
The items were bundled deep under layers of her matted fur cloak. She stuffed one hand inside and tucked her fingers around the edges of her lacquered tin saucer. When she ran the lacquered surface of the plate over the belt of thin copper discs she had also hidden there, a clicky-clinky sound was produced. Muffled by the cloak, it actually sounded rather convincingly as if she were running her fingers over a pile of crystalline bishani.
Beneath the table, and some distance away, she caught sight of a pair of leather shoes in that spot she had forced herself not to look at. She quickly withdrew her hand and stood up, with her face turned resolutely away from where that snide onlooking man sat.
"How about ten," she said curtly to the short man. Maybe it would help that Daq seemed even more interested in staring at him than he should be. She had to hope he would both agree to play for money, and also be duped into thinking she had just been appraising her own nonexistent finances.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Daq noted the shift in Pagusel's demeanor. However, he couldn't make out what, if anything, this shift signified. If it were he in Pagusel's position, the light sheen of sweat and the restless movements would be the product of his nerves. Or was this a game of hers? A calculated act to make the mark feel more confident? He wondered if she had realized that her "mark" was not as average as he seemed at first glance. For one, the voice didn't fit Daq's initial impressions of his appearance. It was too sonorous, as if it had been trained all the way from timbre to cadence. And then there was the matter of appearance itself--Daq was, admittedly, no astute observer of people, but he didn't suspect that he could have formed such a wildly inaccurate mental image. As the man strode past him to approach Pagusel's position at the table, Daq noted that they were almost the same height. So why had he initially thought of the man as short and fat? And yet, it was same man as before, only significantly more attractive.
Despite knowing that staring could get him in trouble, Daq continued to study the man warily. Sniffing at the air, he got a hint of what he believed was a perfume the man was wearing. It resembled the cloying smell that had distracted him during his earlier game, a maddeningly rich, rose-like scent. Just as he was processing this smell, he noticed it--a golden 'Z' embroidered at the corner of the handkerchief poking out of the man's pocket. The pieces of the puzzle began to fit together as, one by one, Daq's observations matched up with Morax's memories of his brother.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the man's smooth voice. "Ten? Why, that's hardly interesting..."
The remark was pitched just perfectly. The man barely avoided sounding cocky, yet he maximized the incredulity and disappointment in his tone, such that they were strong enough for Daq to feel twinges of the emotions. He had to remind himself that he had earlier wished for Pagusel to bet nothing at all.
All around him, Daq could see that interest was growing in their game. Though few patrons were openly eyeing the table, many were stealing furtive glances from time to time. The man (how was Daq to describe him now? Tall? Well-proportioned?) leaned with his left hip pressed against the table and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper to Pagusel. "How about fifty?" he said. "I heard the clinking of bishani in your pack." Daq didn't perceive his whispering as loud, but the sound of it carried, so that he could hear it easily. The sound, in fact, had an odd shape.. or color.. that compelled him to reach across the table and grab the man's arm. The cool, smooth fabric of the man's shirt felt good against his palm.
"Don't worry," the man cooed. "Leave this one up to your woman. There will still be plenty left of her when we're done."
The insinuation--your woman--hit Daq like a jolt of electricity, and he withdrew his arm with reflexive speed. He realized that he couldn't do or say anything without risking blowing their cover to all of those people in the bar who suddenly seemed rather intent on watching events unfold at the 8-ball table.
Despite knowing that staring could get him in trouble, Daq continued to study the man warily. Sniffing at the air, he got a hint of what he believed was a perfume the man was wearing. It resembled the cloying smell that had distracted him during his earlier game, a maddeningly rich, rose-like scent. Just as he was processing this smell, he noticed it--a golden 'Z' embroidered at the corner of the handkerchief poking out of the man's pocket. The pieces of the puzzle began to fit together as, one by one, Daq's observations matched up with Morax's memories of his brother.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the man's smooth voice. "Ten? Why, that's hardly interesting..."
The remark was pitched just perfectly. The man barely avoided sounding cocky, yet he maximized the incredulity and disappointment in his tone, such that they were strong enough for Daq to feel twinges of the emotions. He had to remind himself that he had earlier wished for Pagusel to bet nothing at all.
All around him, Daq could see that interest was growing in their game. Though few patrons were openly eyeing the table, many were stealing furtive glances from time to time. The man (how was Daq to describe him now? Tall? Well-proportioned?) leaned with his left hip pressed against the table and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper to Pagusel. "How about fifty?" he said. "I heard the clinking of bishani in your pack." Daq didn't perceive his whispering as loud, but the sound of it carried, so that he could hear it easily. The sound, in fact, had an odd shape.. or color.. that compelled him to reach across the table and grab the man's arm. The cool, smooth fabric of the man's shirt felt good against his palm.
"Don't worry," the man cooed. "Leave this one up to your woman. There will still be plenty left of her when we're done."
The insinuation--your woman--hit Daq like a jolt of electricity, and he withdrew his arm with reflexive speed. He realized that he couldn't do or say anything without risking blowing their cover to all of those people in the bar who suddenly seemed rather intent on watching events unfold at the 8-ball table.
Re: The Hustle
Things had gone awry. Hustling was not an exact science, and Pagusel was aware of a miscalculation on her part even before her new opponent had raised the stakes five-fold. The rack was already in her hands; it would be unspeakably poor form to back out now, like haggling after a handshake. If she did, surely nobody else would agree to play her.
Pagusel hesitated to accept his counter-wager. Truly, she'd have no real choice but to accept, but the protocol did allow her to pretend otherwise. In her moment of hesitation, her gaze ticked over to the man in the chair nearby.
He was, most vexingly, smiling at her, as if all along. Some might object to characterizing an expression so sarcastic, so lacking in kindness, as a smile, but the sum of Pagusel's experiences was that she hardly considered kindness a common component of others' smiles, much less a requisite. He raised his eyebrows at her. His fingers were pressed against his simpering lips. It was either a flicker of his gaze or a twitch of his fingers that indicated to Pagusel exactly where she didn't want to look. She instead locked her gaze on the triangular frame in her hands and muttered a dry "You're on."
Perhaps Daq would attribute the growing flush in her cheeks to a reaction to the off-color comments of the mark. In truth, she had not even heard the exchange between the men, for the pounding of her own blood in her ears. She was more concerned that the surrounding crowd would hear the thrum of her own pulse than that they might suspect she and Daq had arrived together.
In reality, Pagusel's paranoid tendency was getting the better of her, and the attention they were receiving was not so great as she feared. Several parties in the bar were uninterested in the proceedings, including the three other men at the booth Pagusel feared looking at. Her smiling man had been sitting there, before he'd pulled up a chair to watch. There were two blond-haired young men there, and another with messy black hair. The blond boys were prodding the other man, telling him jokes and scribbling crude cartoons on parchment to elicit some reaction. He had a heavy brow, that man, and an unfocused, slightly angry gaze. Occasionally his gaze would twitch over a drawing and he'd bob his head in response. When a string of drool escaped his dully parted lips, one of the blond men giggled and blotted the spot with parchment.
Pagusel knew what she would see if she looked, so she didn't. She'd heard that giggle before: how loathsome. To run into them again was almost too humiliating to bear, as if the last time hadn't been shameful enough. She shuffled the rack to settle the balls within and exhaled sharply through flared nostrils.
As she glanced up to her opponent, about to offer him the break, she misjudged his position, and found her gaze falling on the black-haired man at the booth in the corner. Too cruelly, her pulse pounded, and despite the widening dilation of her pupils, she felt her vision tunnel. What a profoundly disorienting experience, this itch. Pagusel could not imagine how others lived each day with their overactive needs.
Suddenly overwhelmed by dizziness, Pagusel crouched again, with the rack in her hands to steady her grip and her very being. After a few moments' blinking, she found herself staring at her bundled cloak. The box of pills was in there. She hadn't thought she'd have occasion to make use of the white ones, for her tastes ran entirely opposite the allure of stimulants. Generally, her mind was obsessive enough. But this was one case where her senses needed focusing.
"I need to check," she said quickly as she shuffled around under the table, "that I have enough money." In a few moments, she had teased a single white pill from its vial in the wooden box.
She paused to scratch her thumbnail against an irritating itch on her index finger before downing the tiny pellet. Its taste was more acrid than that of the green one she'd had earlier. When she stood up, she felt she could already sense its effects beginning; it was more powerful than the sleeping pill had been. It was not as unpleasant as she'd feared, this unfamiliar breed of drug.
It was sometimes said that the most sharpshooting of the Elven archers had chemical assistance in the form of a stimulating leaf of some sort. Whether this was true or just the jealous grumbling of less talented human hunters, Pagusel felt suddenly much more certain of her own aim. Before the break was even made, she found her mind working ahead of itself, hypothesizing difficult shots and racketing an imaginary cue ball around to sink the hapless balls. The green plane of the table might as well have been a grassy field, for how keen Pagusel's sense of relative distance and angles felt, and for how fully the space occupied her working mind.
"Fifty," she said with a tight nod. "Break."
Pagusel hesitated to accept his counter-wager. Truly, she'd have no real choice but to accept, but the protocol did allow her to pretend otherwise. In her moment of hesitation, her gaze ticked over to the man in the chair nearby.
He was, most vexingly, smiling at her, as if all along. Some might object to characterizing an expression so sarcastic, so lacking in kindness, as a smile, but the sum of Pagusel's experiences was that she hardly considered kindness a common component of others' smiles, much less a requisite. He raised his eyebrows at her. His fingers were pressed against his simpering lips. It was either a flicker of his gaze or a twitch of his fingers that indicated to Pagusel exactly where she didn't want to look. She instead locked her gaze on the triangular frame in her hands and muttered a dry "You're on."
Perhaps Daq would attribute the growing flush in her cheeks to a reaction to the off-color comments of the mark. In truth, she had not even heard the exchange between the men, for the pounding of her own blood in her ears. She was more concerned that the surrounding crowd would hear the thrum of her own pulse than that they might suspect she and Daq had arrived together.
In reality, Pagusel's paranoid tendency was getting the better of her, and the attention they were receiving was not so great as she feared. Several parties in the bar were uninterested in the proceedings, including the three other men at the booth Pagusel feared looking at. Her smiling man had been sitting there, before he'd pulled up a chair to watch. There were two blond-haired young men there, and another with messy black hair. The blond boys were prodding the other man, telling him jokes and scribbling crude cartoons on parchment to elicit some reaction. He had a heavy brow, that man, and an unfocused, slightly angry gaze. Occasionally his gaze would twitch over a drawing and he'd bob his head in response. When a string of drool escaped his dully parted lips, one of the blond men giggled and blotted the spot with parchment.
Pagusel knew what she would see if she looked, so she didn't. She'd heard that giggle before: how loathsome. To run into them again was almost too humiliating to bear, as if the last time hadn't been shameful enough. She shuffled the rack to settle the balls within and exhaled sharply through flared nostrils.
As she glanced up to her opponent, about to offer him the break, she misjudged his position, and found her gaze falling on the black-haired man at the booth in the corner. Too cruelly, her pulse pounded, and despite the widening dilation of her pupils, she felt her vision tunnel. What a profoundly disorienting experience, this itch. Pagusel could not imagine how others lived each day with their overactive needs.
Suddenly overwhelmed by dizziness, Pagusel crouched again, with the rack in her hands to steady her grip and her very being. After a few moments' blinking, she found herself staring at her bundled cloak. The box of pills was in there. She hadn't thought she'd have occasion to make use of the white ones, for her tastes ran entirely opposite the allure of stimulants. Generally, her mind was obsessive enough. But this was one case where her senses needed focusing.
"I need to check," she said quickly as she shuffled around under the table, "that I have enough money." In a few moments, she had teased a single white pill from its vial in the wooden box.
She paused to scratch her thumbnail against an irritating itch on her index finger before downing the tiny pellet. Its taste was more acrid than that of the green one she'd had earlier. When she stood up, she felt she could already sense its effects beginning; it was more powerful than the sleeping pill had been. It was not as unpleasant as she'd feared, this unfamiliar breed of drug.
It was sometimes said that the most sharpshooting of the Elven archers had chemical assistance in the form of a stimulating leaf of some sort. Whether this was true or just the jealous grumbling of less talented human hunters, Pagusel felt suddenly much more certain of her own aim. Before the break was even made, she found her mind working ahead of itself, hypothesizing difficult shots and racketing an imaginary cue ball around to sink the hapless balls. The green plane of the table might as well have been a grassy field, for how keen Pagusel's sense of relative distance and angles felt, and for how fully the space occupied her working mind.
"Fifty," she said with a tight nod. "Break."
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
There was nothing left for Daq to do but attempt to keep his cool. He turned away from Pagusel to head for the bar, where he might keep a more disinterested-looking watch over her game. As he walked, he had to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other. It wasn't drunkenness, he reasoned, not after just a drink or two; the new metabolism was too efficient for that. Indeed, it felt less like an altogether stupor and more like a strong compulsion--he was having to will himself to turn and walk away. Giving in to temptation, Daq took one last look back. There was the man, poised gracefully against the table, and Pagusel, flushed, looking away from him at someone in a chair nearby.
At the bar, he took a seat and ordered another of the same beer the guardsman had purchased for him. The stool beneath him felt unpleasantly hard, the floor disconcertingly sticky. Even his clothes seemed to be rubbing his skin raw. As he shifted uncomfortably, trying to get situated, he got the smell of it--or was it a taste? What was he to call it when he intuited the shape of a molecule? This one was.. a terpenoid.. Geraniol? Close to it, but with something else about it that he couldn't quite pin down.
Having gotten further away from the table, he felt his head clearing up again. He no longer felt such an impulse to return. In fact, he felt a reluctance--if Pagusel were to lose or get uncovered as a hustler, his position at the bar might give him enough distance to slip away and leave her. If the man who'd challenged her was really Morax's brother, though, he suspected that his slipping away was not part of the plan.
Daq was so intently focused on Pagusel's 'mark' that he didn't really take notice of her repeated glances at the man seated nearby. What he did notice was how she stooped down to fiddle with her belongings again. He wondered if it was part of the ruse, but when, after a few minutes, Pagusel's demeanor had changed, he had another theory.
Better living through alchemy, he thought. Perhaps it would help her combat the haze he'd been feeling when standing near the table. Or maybe that had just been a personal experience--he hadn't exactly had time to compare notes. On the other hand, if there was really a chemical at play, he doubted that the effects would oppose each other. In fact, the interplay between the two might produce some truly odd behavior. Sipping his beer, he resigned himself to watching, waiting, and hoping.
The man picked up the queue and was holding it in an awkward, amateurish way as he tried to line up the shot until an onlooker stepped forward and gently corrected him. The intrusion shifted Daq's attention to the spectators. There were a handful more than before, and a sparse ring was beginning to form. The man broke, and from what Daq could see before someone moved to stand in his line of sight, it hadn't managed to sink any balls. The play was handed off to Pagusel.
At the bar, he took a seat and ordered another of the same beer the guardsman had purchased for him. The stool beneath him felt unpleasantly hard, the floor disconcertingly sticky. Even his clothes seemed to be rubbing his skin raw. As he shifted uncomfortably, trying to get situated, he got the smell of it--or was it a taste? What was he to call it when he intuited the shape of a molecule? This one was.. a terpenoid.. Geraniol? Close to it, but with something else about it that he couldn't quite pin down.
Having gotten further away from the table, he felt his head clearing up again. He no longer felt such an impulse to return. In fact, he felt a reluctance--if Pagusel were to lose or get uncovered as a hustler, his position at the bar might give him enough distance to slip away and leave her. If the man who'd challenged her was really Morax's brother, though, he suspected that his slipping away was not part of the plan.
Daq was so intently focused on Pagusel's 'mark' that he didn't really take notice of her repeated glances at the man seated nearby. What he did notice was how she stooped down to fiddle with her belongings again. He wondered if it was part of the ruse, but when, after a few minutes, Pagusel's demeanor had changed, he had another theory.
Better living through alchemy, he thought. Perhaps it would help her combat the haze he'd been feeling when standing near the table. Or maybe that had just been a personal experience--he hadn't exactly had time to compare notes. On the other hand, if there was really a chemical at play, he doubted that the effects would oppose each other. In fact, the interplay between the two might produce some truly odd behavior. Sipping his beer, he resigned himself to watching, waiting, and hoping.
The man picked up the queue and was holding it in an awkward, amateurish way as he tried to line up the shot until an onlooker stepped forward and gently corrected him. The intrusion shifted Daq's attention to the spectators. There were a handful more than before, and a sparse ring was beginning to form. The man broke, and from what Daq could see before someone moved to stand in his line of sight, it hadn't managed to sink any balls. The play was handed off to Pagusel.
Re: The Hustle
In the several seconds it took the opponent to, somewhat clumsily, line up his break, Pagusel's heart rate began to increase and the drug made some progress into her system. She blinked only every several seconds, and then twice or three times, rapidly. Her reaction to her opponent's apparent awkwardness and fruitless break was only to smile in her stiff, straight-lipped fashion.
Pagusel found herself keenly aware of many things at one; each fleeting and exact. She was accustomed to new drugs opening new avenues of languorous contemplation, but this sensation was not familiar. She was like a hawk--a shining mechanical hawk, as she poised her shoulder over the edge of the table, crooked her elbow acutely--with no concept of melancholy, and in fact no emotion hampering her efficiently ticking brain. None except an extreme sense of confidence.
She'd lined up a shot to sink two smalls and claim the suit. It was a tricky shot, that would require a few tight angles to be realized, but she took the risk. There were goosebumps along her lanky forearm as she thrust the stick She only sank the first ball, and the ricochet missed the second entirely, nearly scratching the cue ball. Her response was to intake a sharp breath as she stood upright and blink again several times.
No matter, no matter, this was supposed to happen . . . her mind clipped along briskly to restore her overconfidence. Another sharp breath, and she was certain she had made the perfect shot. She was on fire. A red-hot, mechanical hawk.
Pagusel went on to sink two balls with her next shot. She let out a satisfied huff of air.
Her gaze darted around the table to trace the angles of other potential shots. She paced the table twice before practically rapping her cue stick down on the edge and settling on a tight shot along the rail. The fire of confidence swelled in her, and she glanced up at the black-haired man sitting with the giggly boys. She scratched.
She stood up more slowly, overwhelmed by the reality of not having completed the perfect game she'd just assured herself of. Her mind chattered endlessly, no matter, no matter, so that there was no room for another thought for some moments.
Pagusel fidgeted, tightened her fist around her cue stick and pounded the butt of it against the floor. A tiny splinter of wood lodged into the crook of her thumb, and the sharp sensation was enough to focus her attention again.
It was no matter. I was only sporting of her to give the mark a chance at the table. This was exactly how her game was supposed to go, and she'd win.
She threw a glance towards the bar, in Daq's direction; her expression was much sharper than she realized, and she probably looked irritated. She was certainly not accustomed to have to moderate her expressions when high, and instead usually had to remind herself to move her features once in a while. For several seconds, she glared at Daq, who'd had the nerve to distance himself from her.
The movement of her opponent readying his shot yanked her attention back to the table. Suddenly, among the acute sensations she acquired each second, there was a floral musk. Something smelled nice. If she were high on one of her preferred drugs, she might imagine the table was a field of numbered flowers, releasing their perfume in gentle encouragement. Or, if she were feeling low, she'd trace the scent to an unseen lady interloper, come to seduce the object of her distanced affection.
In her current state, though, she had no patience to swim through a haze of convoluted mental connections. The explanation had to be simple: it was she herself who was so fragrant, for she was perfectly desirable, and she knew exactly what she was going to go after once she got the business of winning over with.
The business of winning: Pagusel snapped her gaze back to her opponent and stared him down as fiercely as she had Daq.
Pagusel found herself keenly aware of many things at one; each fleeting and exact. She was accustomed to new drugs opening new avenues of languorous contemplation, but this sensation was not familiar. She was like a hawk--a shining mechanical hawk, as she poised her shoulder over the edge of the table, crooked her elbow acutely--with no concept of melancholy, and in fact no emotion hampering her efficiently ticking brain. None except an extreme sense of confidence.
She'd lined up a shot to sink two smalls and claim the suit. It was a tricky shot, that would require a few tight angles to be realized, but she took the risk. There were goosebumps along her lanky forearm as she thrust the stick She only sank the first ball, and the ricochet missed the second entirely, nearly scratching the cue ball. Her response was to intake a sharp breath as she stood upright and blink again several times.
No matter, no matter, this was supposed to happen . . . her mind clipped along briskly to restore her overconfidence. Another sharp breath, and she was certain she had made the perfect shot. She was on fire. A red-hot, mechanical hawk.
Pagusel went on to sink two balls with her next shot. She let out a satisfied huff of air.
Her gaze darted around the table to trace the angles of other potential shots. She paced the table twice before practically rapping her cue stick down on the edge and settling on a tight shot along the rail. The fire of confidence swelled in her, and she glanced up at the black-haired man sitting with the giggly boys. She scratched.
She stood up more slowly, overwhelmed by the reality of not having completed the perfect game she'd just assured herself of. Her mind chattered endlessly, no matter, no matter, so that there was no room for another thought for some moments.
Pagusel fidgeted, tightened her fist around her cue stick and pounded the butt of it against the floor. A tiny splinter of wood lodged into the crook of her thumb, and the sharp sensation was enough to focus her attention again.
It was no matter. I was only sporting of her to give the mark a chance at the table. This was exactly how her game was supposed to go, and she'd win.
She threw a glance towards the bar, in Daq's direction; her expression was much sharper than she realized, and she probably looked irritated. She was certainly not accustomed to have to moderate her expressions when high, and instead usually had to remind herself to move her features once in a while. For several seconds, she glared at Daq, who'd had the nerve to distance himself from her.
The movement of her opponent readying his shot yanked her attention back to the table. Suddenly, among the acute sensations she acquired each second, there was a floral musk. Something smelled nice. If she were high on one of her preferred drugs, she might imagine the table was a field of numbered flowers, releasing their perfume in gentle encouragement. Or, if she were feeling low, she'd trace the scent to an unseen lady interloper, come to seduce the object of her distanced affection.
In her current state, though, she had no patience to swim through a haze of convoluted mental connections. The explanation had to be simple: it was she herself who was so fragrant, for she was perfectly desirable, and she knew exactly what she was going to go after once she got the business of winning over with.
The business of winning: Pagusel snapped her gaze back to her opponent and stared him down as fiercely as she had Daq.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
To Daq, Pagusel's gaze looked oddly intense and somewhat angry, as if she were reproaching him for something. Was it dissatisfaction with the drug? No; if she'd ingested the appropriate chemical, she should not have experienced any noticeable side-effects. Was it his leaving the table, then? Was he about to spoil her ruse somehow?
He felt several conflicting instincts and judgments at once. Something, likely a vestige from his imprinting, was urging him toward the table, toward Pagusel's opponent. It was the same part of him that felt certain the man was his maker's brother in disguise.
Daq glanced at the table briefly and felt a startling shock of confusion. Standing where the opponent had been, holding a cue was not a man, but a vivacious young woman. Had he missed the hand-off, the exchange of players? Surely Pagusel wouldn't have allowed something like that, yet none of the onlookers he could see seemed particularly perturbed by the change.
The same intuition that alerted him to the suspicious particles was urging him to stay away from the game as he'd earlier decided. Pagusel did not seem to be experiencing any of the haziness he'd felt while standing at the table, but he figured that he'd be just as susceptible as before. If not.. more so. The woman with the cue piqued his interest, his curiosity. He felt as if he needed to find out what had happened to replace the old opponent with this one.
Ultimately, though, it was the memory of Pagusel's stern glance that tipped the scales and made him decide to approach the table again. Even after a just a few steps toward the game, Daq could feel the haziness creeping over him. He could smell the rich, sweet musk from earlier. Looking at the table more closely, he felt a rush of thrill welling in his chest. Pagusel had done it--she was about to win!
He glanced toward the woman to gauge her reaction, but as soon as he saw her, he knew he'd made an error in returning to his original position. She was looking right at him with her ruby-red lips curled upward in the slightest hint of a smile. Daq's glance lingered until it became a proper gaze, fixated on her dark, curly hair and her piercing, ocean-blue eyes. A brief flicker of recognition seemed to dart across her features and disappear, taking the hint of a smile with it. She turned away from him and began to look at Pagusel with an expression powerful distress.
"She's cheating!" she said in a loud voice filled with such a calculated tone of helplessness that Daq could tell she was bound to attract attention. Surely enough, the guardsman who'd played a round with him before approached the table.
"What's going on here?" he asked. The question appeared to be directed toward Pagusel, in a tone more accusatory than inquisitive.
He felt several conflicting instincts and judgments at once. Something, likely a vestige from his imprinting, was urging him toward the table, toward Pagusel's opponent. It was the same part of him that felt certain the man was his maker's brother in disguise.
Daq glanced at the table briefly and felt a startling shock of confusion. Standing where the opponent had been, holding a cue was not a man, but a vivacious young woman. Had he missed the hand-off, the exchange of players? Surely Pagusel wouldn't have allowed something like that, yet none of the onlookers he could see seemed particularly perturbed by the change.
The same intuition that alerted him to the suspicious particles was urging him to stay away from the game as he'd earlier decided. Pagusel did not seem to be experiencing any of the haziness he'd felt while standing at the table, but he figured that he'd be just as susceptible as before. If not.. more so. The woman with the cue piqued his interest, his curiosity. He felt as if he needed to find out what had happened to replace the old opponent with this one.
Ultimately, though, it was the memory of Pagusel's stern glance that tipped the scales and made him decide to approach the table again. Even after a just a few steps toward the game, Daq could feel the haziness creeping over him. He could smell the rich, sweet musk from earlier. Looking at the table more closely, he felt a rush of thrill welling in his chest. Pagusel had done it--she was about to win!
He glanced toward the woman to gauge her reaction, but as soon as he saw her, he knew he'd made an error in returning to his original position. She was looking right at him with her ruby-red lips curled upward in the slightest hint of a smile. Daq's glance lingered until it became a proper gaze, fixated on her dark, curly hair and her piercing, ocean-blue eyes. A brief flicker of recognition seemed to dart across her features and disappear, taking the hint of a smile with it. She turned away from him and began to look at Pagusel with an expression powerful distress.
"She's cheating!" she said in a loud voice filled with such a calculated tone of helplessness that Daq could tell she was bound to attract attention. Surely enough, the guardsman who'd played a round with him before approached the table.
"What's going on here?" he asked. The question appeared to be directed toward Pagusel, in a tone more accusatory than inquisitive.
Re: The Hustle
Pagusel felt as if she could hear the clacking of the balls before they even made contact, sparks of electricity flying from one body to the next and exchanging their energies. The game thus progressed for her with what felt like precision; even the missed shots seemed finely tuned. Her eyes only left the table to glance periodically at her intended, who glowered dully into his refilled mug.
The man who had been chuckling at her earlier was still there, sitting near their table. When Pagusel, pacing the table, chanced to catch a glimpse of him, he was no longer smiling at her, but at her opponent. She brushed her hair back over her shoulder and saw something odd in her periphery.
The opponent had changed out for another. A vertical line of annoyance dimpled the space between Pagusel's eyebrows. The former opponent had been intimidated by her and tagged out. This new girl had the dark hair and cool eyes found in many of the locals of this geography, a combination that Pagusel found unsettling and ghostlike. But, she was in no mood to be daunted by tactics of player substitution and facial spookiness. She'd still win.
When Daq came over, she was about to line up her next shot, with only two smalls to go before finishing with the 8-ball. She noticed he seemed a little out of sorts, but she didn't have time to be concerned about that. There was a great pile of money and a gentleman companion in her near future, only a few sparks of electricity away.
She didn't look up from her pacing of the table when the girl called foul. It didn't have anything to do with her winning the game. In a moment, as she was leaning over to make her shot, her concentration was broken by an awareness of too many bodies in her work space.
That man wanted to know what was going on? Pagusel's moment was already broken; she had to get rid of the distractions so as to re-enter her state of focus on the game. She'd have to assuage him with an answer.
"That girl has announced her opinion that another female is cheating at something," she repeated for the intrusive man. She proceeded to bend back down over the table and redirect her attention to the balls.
The man who had been chuckling at her earlier was still there, sitting near their table. When Pagusel, pacing the table, chanced to catch a glimpse of him, he was no longer smiling at her, but at her opponent. She brushed her hair back over her shoulder and saw something odd in her periphery.
The opponent had changed out for another. A vertical line of annoyance dimpled the space between Pagusel's eyebrows. The former opponent had been intimidated by her and tagged out. This new girl had the dark hair and cool eyes found in many of the locals of this geography, a combination that Pagusel found unsettling and ghostlike. But, she was in no mood to be daunted by tactics of player substitution and facial spookiness. She'd still win.
When Daq came over, she was about to line up her next shot, with only two smalls to go before finishing with the 8-ball. She noticed he seemed a little out of sorts, but she didn't have time to be concerned about that. There was a great pile of money and a gentleman companion in her near future, only a few sparks of electricity away.
She didn't look up from her pacing of the table when the girl called foul. It didn't have anything to do with her winning the game. In a moment, as she was leaning over to make her shot, her concentration was broken by an awareness of too many bodies in her work space.
That man wanted to know what was going on? Pagusel's moment was already broken; she had to get rid of the distractions so as to re-enter her state of focus on the game. She'd have to assuage him with an answer.
"That girl has announced her opinion that another female is cheating at something," she repeated for the intrusive man. She proceeded to bend back down over the table and redirect her attention to the balls.
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Daq Bekkar
- Citizen
- Posts: 369
- Joined: Wed Oct 17, 2007 8:49 pm
- Name: Daq Bekkar
- Race: Humanoid Construct
Re: The Hustle
Pagusel's response to the guard conflicted with Bekkar's memories and expectations of her. She was normally so precise with her words, as if she needed to have her meanings and intents exactly understood. Was this the drug acting upon her? He wondered if some peculiarities of her metabolism had made her sensitive to its effects, or if this was part of her act.
Either way, she was putting herself in a dangerous situation. From what he could glean from Morax's experience, Marnian guardsman tended to be intolerant--if not aggressive--to drug users. Not to mention that her suspicious response only seemed to lend credence to her opponent's claim.
"I've.. uhh.." Daq started to say. He felt half-surprised at the sound of his own voice. "I've been watching... and... uhh.."
"And you've seen her behavior?" Pagusel's opponent interjected. "So you agree with me--that she seems to be under the influence of some... performance enhancer, perhaps an illegal one?"
Daq was attempting to protest when she smiled at him. He could feel blood rushing to his cheeks, and all of the objections he'd been toying with seemed to evaporate. More like a sublimation, he thought, correcting himself, given how drastic and sudden the change had felt.
"Well that's a serious--err," the guard said haltingly. "A serrrious allegation."
An icy feeling settled in Daq's stomach as she turned away from him and pouted at the guard. "I know," she said. "That's why I was hoping we might find an expert to back me up. An alchemist, maybe?"
Daq felt driven by that awful feeling. Desperate to combat it, he blurted out, "I'm one. Uh. I mean, I'm an alchemist."
After that, the best he could do was to clamp his mouth shut. He'd said more than enough, and now it was simply the time to hope that Pagusel could salvage the situation.
Either way, she was putting herself in a dangerous situation. From what he could glean from Morax's experience, Marnian guardsman tended to be intolerant--if not aggressive--to drug users. Not to mention that her suspicious response only seemed to lend credence to her opponent's claim.
"I've.. uhh.." Daq started to say. He felt half-surprised at the sound of his own voice. "I've been watching... and... uhh.."
"And you've seen her behavior?" Pagusel's opponent interjected. "So you agree with me--that she seems to be under the influence of some... performance enhancer, perhaps an illegal one?"
Daq was attempting to protest when she smiled at him. He could feel blood rushing to his cheeks, and all of the objections he'd been toying with seemed to evaporate. More like a sublimation, he thought, correcting himself, given how drastic and sudden the change had felt.
"Well that's a serious--err," the guard said haltingly. "A serrrious allegation."
An icy feeling settled in Daq's stomach as she turned away from him and pouted at the guard. "I know," she said. "That's why I was hoping we might find an expert to back me up. An alchemist, maybe?"
Daq felt driven by that awful feeling. Desperate to combat it, he blurted out, "I'm one. Uh. I mean, I'm an alchemist."
After that, the best he could do was to clamp his mouth shut. He'd said more than enough, and now it was simply the time to hope that Pagusel could salvage the situation.
Re: The Hustle
Pagusel reluctantly pulled herself away from the game again and straightened her back. She turned incredulous eyes on Daq and found him to be blushing and staring at that replacement opponent. Her brow pinched in at the center with the realization that he was probably not a homosexual. She kneaded the ball of her itching palm against the shaft of her cue stick.
The big argumentative man was still there, to the result of the deepening crease of Pagusel's brow. This drug was making her a great deal more irritable than she was accustomed to being. The fact that both men had their attention focused somewhat clumsily on the pretty female was also having the unexpected effect of bothering Pagusel, when normally she would be at least ambivalently satisfied to have male headiness turned in the direction opposite herself. The drug was starting to play with her focus. She was lingering on the wrong things entirely. A very slightly shaking hand lifted to slip the rusty hair pin away from her crown and deposit it on the edge of the table.
She let her cue stick go. It toppled from its vertical position like a slim tree felled at its base. By the time it hit the ground with a high "pong!" she was down on the floor. Under the cover of the pool table, around which their small group had gathered, and below which she could hope they didn't see, she changed. She was human to cockroach to human again in the course of two seconds.
When she stood up, cue in hand, she accidentally bumped her head on the edge of the table. That was disorienting, for she usually could keep her bearings between short-term changes. Even a process as brief as that was enough to evacuate the great majority of the drug from her system; it may have been that effect which was so initially confusing to her senses.
Pagusel rubbed the sore spot above her temple and glanced at Daq. She made nothing even close to eye contact with the others. "Unless alcohol is illegal in this pub . . ." She trailed off and took a deep inhale of the scented air through her nose.
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and gestured to the cue she was holding by tipping it back and forth on its butt. "Dropped my stick," she murmured.
The big argumentative man was still there, to the result of the deepening crease of Pagusel's brow. This drug was making her a great deal more irritable than she was accustomed to being. The fact that both men had their attention focused somewhat clumsily on the pretty female was also having the unexpected effect of bothering Pagusel, when normally she would be at least ambivalently satisfied to have male headiness turned in the direction opposite herself. The drug was starting to play with her focus. She was lingering on the wrong things entirely. A very slightly shaking hand lifted to slip the rusty hair pin away from her crown and deposit it on the edge of the table.
She let her cue stick go. It toppled from its vertical position like a slim tree felled at its base. By the time it hit the ground with a high "pong!" she was down on the floor. Under the cover of the pool table, around which their small group had gathered, and below which she could hope they didn't see, she changed. She was human to cockroach to human again in the course of two seconds.
When she stood up, cue in hand, she accidentally bumped her head on the edge of the table. That was disorienting, for she usually could keep her bearings between short-term changes. Even a process as brief as that was enough to evacuate the great majority of the drug from her system; it may have been that effect which was so initially confusing to her senses.
Pagusel rubbed the sore spot above her temple and glanced at Daq. She made nothing even close to eye contact with the others. "Unless alcohol is illegal in this pub . . ." She trailed off and took a deep inhale of the scented air through her nose.
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and gestured to the cue she was holding by tipping it back and forth on its butt. "Dropped my stick," she murmured.