prologue: smog of the thickest . gray

[fernando silph]

The sharp clatter of polished heels resonated within the hollow staircase that descended into Veilstone's infamous underbelly. Each pace broke the stern, seemingly abandoned silence with a shrill clack - Tauros Oxford by the sound of it. Such elegant leather is reserved to show the presence of wealth amongst the company of others. Shoes etched in status - made for wealthy men who could squander their money on something trifling as a name as opposed to the actual practicality of an object. It's the luxury that come with abundant wealth, the ignorance of humility. This is the underground; a void of virtue made for slackened sloths with a knack for avarice, a home to villains ensnared within their own vice. Herein lied Fernando's concern: how much garbage would he have to wade through to find what his heart desired most? Somewhere, amidst the dredges of gambling, under table dealings, and narcotics was a dirtied gem that only he acknowledged. If only he could get his lithe digits on them, he would strangle it in the delight of sating his demanding gluttony. But wealth does not equate to instant gratification. Money is just a means of convenience, appropriating resources in an exchange for time and labor. Even Fernando must wait his turn. He, as does everyone else who wishes to do trade, has to prove that he belongs. And, the easiest way to divert skepticism is to allow your money to flow freely. Etiquette dictates that no one is allowed to question the newcomer as to who he is or what he's doing here. All they ask if that he matches the current blind. Only then will he be dealt his hand. Noire Clegane

[Noire Clegane]

It's barely been a week, too much is unknown as of the moment. Her orders on him are clear, if not concise. Observe. Do not engage. Report when necessary. She was to be a shadow, another face in the crowd, to only watch from a safe distance. But she knows she can do so much better, if not to hasten her and her employer's goals. A small amount of files had been handed to her, previous assessment of her target and mannerisms, before she promptly fed it to her Arcanine. She was good with concise information, but this wasn't concise, this was bare and empty, which hinted of what her current goals ought to be. He was sneaky, clean, but that made her all the more attentive. No one with such history didn't have a few demons in their pockets, a mention of a mysterious acquisition of persons, but not much else on that matter. Which was why she had taken it upon herself to provide a bit of a kickstart, a risky venture, but if she factored in her variables correctly, then this would provide a worthy payout.

Which was why she found herself, dressed in a tight hot rod red dress, her back a generous display for all to see, and unforgiving heels which she wore with certain familiarity. She feels the eyes on her, even as she walks, but she's familiar with that too. She might as well strut naked for all the dress hid, but then that wouldn't have gotten her into the deep underground, nestled between pads of money and fame. She has money to burn, courtesy of her employer, a good allowance to keep up with her facade for the night.

She winks as a man gives her dirty eyes, inwardly snarling at his pathetic attempt to claim her attention, at least she lets him buy her a vodka first before shooing him away. Noire notices Fernando, but settles herself at a different table that gives her a good view of him and his actions. The banker seems only slightly distracted, before reminding her of the minimum. And she's been in enough of these backroom games to know that the price is ludicrous. Straight cash too, she expected no less. She whips out the said amount from her purse, flashes him a smile and asks for her cards, playing with the straw of her drink as he deals out her hand.

She could watch, she could wait. She was patient where it counted.

fernando silph

[fernando silph]

Play with the hand you've been dealt. Fernando's obstinate refusal shows by the dwindling amount of chips. Each round yields another fold. All he offers is a momentary peek at his cards before forgoing the round. Every player's pot fluctuates except for his which is being stripped bare. No one jest. No one pokes fun. They mind their own business. It's unanimous that he's not here to gamble. His defiance screams of an ulterior motive. His destination lies elsewhere. So, the authetic gamblers graciously accept his offering. Half his pot is gone. Unamused by these charades, he gestures for a waitress for a flute of champagne. It's an open opportunity to glance around unhindered, without interrogation for his wandering eye. A different set have bore into his spine. He's felt them for a while now. They're different - not cameras, not security - someone else. Perhaps paranoia has taken him. Perhaps. Guarded, he pivots his gaze onto several individuals. Those that stuck out, those that didn't, neither found themselves immune from his prying eyes. Scopaesthesia is an odd phenomenon. Some say that it stems from the innate extrasensory powers that all creatures possess. Others say it's the brain's subconscious calculations of what the eyes recognize via peripheral vision but cannot assess through a lack of recognition. Fernando concludes that it's a stark concoction of both -- an art. For an obnoxious period of time he would leer, hounding an unexpecting individuals with predatorial eyes. Most of them never noticed. They shouldn't. It's the one that matches his glare that he suspects. It's an art that he surmises only a few are aware of, the few in his line of trade. But therein lies the conundrum: what would they do? Avoid all eye contact. Blend in with the unnaturals. Keep the facade. Don't falter. Never falter. Fear, anxiety is nothing but a tool of the enemy. Wait it out. But one cannot out wait Fernando. He is firm. He is patient. He holds the stare. And, in line with his sweep, his eyes fall upon Noire. Noire Clegane

[Noire Clegane]

The only way she can get even more into character was if she was absent-mindedly clicking her heels and blowing on bubblegum. But as it happened, she had no gum in hand. She flirts, she teases, all the while playing aggressively with her cards. She is neither winning nor losing, but that isn't the point of tonight's game. Any tension that might have aggravated her table by her sudden appearance was quickly shallowing out, quietly being fed by shrinking stack of coinage, which are doing enough work for what they are intending to. They're keeping her within the premises after all, so long as she lined someone's pockets they weren't going to get rid of her so easily. Her fellow players are getting used to her brashness it seemed, as she fires off one insult after the other, and they seemed amused by it. No, I'm not prim and proper. Yes, I like it dirty. It was difficult to miss the glint in their eyes, even with their feeble attempts to be subtle.

They were all the same, she had learned this long ago.

She's having another drink, a fruity mix, necessarily girly, as their eyes meet, just a short moment where she can take a lewd sip from her straw and winks at him, before returning to her hand. It's a losing combination, but she puts in her chips, calls their raises and loses an amount from her pile. She sighs dramatically, pushing away her cards and watches as they get shuffled back into the deck. She makes it seem like a split-second decision, quickly standing up and gathering the rest of her chips. They groan and mutter back, but she replies with a snooty 'It's hard to get lucky, boy, I might as well try every table' and unceremoniously dumps her belongings onto Fernando's table. She makes it very obvious that she's ignoring him, and only looks at the banker.

"I do hope I still have enough to play."


fernando silph

[fernando silph]

play coy as she might, fernando will have none of it. a flutter of her lashes will do little to entice him, instead bringing about a sour taste of disdain for their new player. such a straightforward advance can only mean one of two things: a slight psyche out for the game ahead or an inherent interest in something more. he cares for neither. and, at first glance neither does she. apathy is what keeps him steady against any type of slight. not that he really cares about anything in general. a few more rounds of cards and he's out. what started as a moderate pot is now diminished to a few stray chips. if she's looking to reclaim what she lost, now's her chance. another round starts up and fernando antes up what's left of his pool. Noire Clegane