Making Wagers

Caeden leaned back into the gentleman's armchair, tempted to put a boot on the table, but instead, reaching for a cigar from a wealthy box of them. He squeezed his chin and narrowed his eyes at his hand, before looking questioningly back at Henrik Witclaw from time to time. The man had a few tells, but they weren't consistent. Still, worth a shot. As his partner clapped his hands to welcome a bustling servant, Caeden put his cards facedown on the table to focus on the cigar.

You've taken just as much of mine yourself, a charming grin plastered his face, more for the cigar he fuddled with than the other man, as he flipped a knife out to cut the tip. Henrik Witclaw had interesting contracts and the best whiskey and leaf money could buy on this side of the Free Marches. This lovely day, Caeden sat like a cat fat with a face covered in cream in the luxuries he had savored for the past hour, playing cards with the client. The treasure hunter was beginning to stuff a couple extra cigars in his pocket, when he reached for his empty glass to hand to the server. He was so quick, sharply filching it all away, that he was properly distracted with all these goodies until she was right up beside him.

Turning to the elf, glass in hand, he froze. Caeden's eyes widened in an instant as they met the heavenly curves of a she-elf, with skin like velvet and a cascade of marigolds for hair. He didn't see a pretty thing like that every day - jungles and camping and all. His fingers forgot themselves. The glass fell to the floor, and the sound of it interrupted his short trance. A heat pressed his cheeks by now, and he looked away with an quickness he hoped no one noticed was too quick. Irritated by the distraction, he cleared his throat. Henrik Witclaw sure liked them pretty, but Cae had business, and one of Witclaw's slave girls wasn't anything extra he could afford. No matter how good she smelled.

One more round, Witclaw. I heard you had that map, by the way. Want to wager it? I've got something new now. You might like it, he said. He pulled from one of the pockets inside his shirt a handkerchief, and wrapped in the handkerchief, was the most brilliant of opals, round as a baby's fist. He laid it smugly on the table. Then, he turned back his attention back to the beverage and the irresistible servant. He watched her for a few seconds, the wheels of his mind turning, as she went about her business.

Thanks, but next time, gotta do a bit more than look at me pretty, he finished with a lower voice to keep between them, sliding a flirtatious thumb across one of her fingers, and shooting her a shit-eating grin. She had a goody, innocent look to her. All eyes, no guts. He doubted there would be much more of a play from Witclaw.