#we as a fandom owe you a debt brawl
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Caller, You’re on the Air
@thehumantrampoline requested ‘radio DJ and frequent caller AU’
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Pairing: Hawke x Varric
Word Count: 970
Rating: PG
“...and that was On Brand by the Dust Town Devils, released straight out of Orzammar this week. If you’re a fan of celebrating the destruction of social structures that keep the common folk down - and since you’re here, you do - check them out.
“For those of you just joining us, welcome to WK-one-one, Kirkwall’s only independent radio station. I’m your resident dog-lord, Hawke, here to bring you what you want when you want it, whether the Chantry likes it or not.
“It’s 2 am, which means it’s time to open the phone lines and let the weirdos get some air time. Questions, grievances, and musical requests are all welcome - although I will remind our listeners that we have already hit the maximum number of plays for ‘Rock My Boat, Baby’, so don’t ask, you know who you are. Caller on line one, you are on the air.”
“Play me a song for a woman about to lose it all.”
Hawke had taken a lot of weird calls in the year since she’d started the radio station. She knew how to handle the breathers, the conspiracy theorists, and the zealots on both sides of pretty much every possible argument.
This…was new.
“Is this a song I might not be familiar with, or…?”
“I’m not really sure what I need. See, I’ve reached the part of the story where it all comes crumbling down around the hero, but I’m having trouble getting into the character’s mindset. Could you find me something?”
Dead air was bad air, but Hawke needed a few seconds to wrap her mind around the request. She’d never had someone ask for a vibe before.
“Well,” she said, trying to sound less thrown than she was, “that depends on what sort of loss it is. Love? Business? Family?”
“Yes.”
“A-haaa, one of those stories.”
“She’s been framed for murder. This is her big fall from grace.”
“Well how much did she have to start with? Falling out of a first floor apartment hurts a lot less than falling out of a penthouse suite.”
A laugh, as nice to listen to as the rest of him.
“Nice metaphor. She’s a high-ranking politician, just engaged, slightly estranged from her family but calls on the holidays.”
“Coming up next, ‘The Fires Ahead’ by No Less Blessed.”
“Much obliged.”
-
“I need a fight scene.”
This time he sounded impatient, slightly on edge. Hawke thought she could hear the irritated finger tapping already.
“You sound like you’re about to start one yourself.”
A pause, and a slightly self-conscious laugh.
“Sorry. I’ve got the idea in my head and I have to get it out before I lose it.”
“Apology accepted, this time. What sort of fight scene? Bare fists, magic, swashbuckling swords?”
“Fists, mostly, with whatever makeshift weapons you can make in an apartment.”
“Bar brawl in a penthouse. Coming up, the entirety of the album Good Witch, Bad Bitch by The Annulled, first song ‘In the Tower’.”
-
“Something triumphant, but mellow, if you have it. A song to drink a glass of whiskey to.”
“Absolutely, a song to celebrate your new book! To all my lovely listeners, be sure to pick up a copy of Beneath Suspicion by Varric Tethras, out in stores today!”
Oh but that astonished silence felt good. Hawke smirked as he burst out laughing. Bang on the money.
“You figured me out!”
“You used my metaphor for your tag line!” Hawke said, indignant, to further laughter. “You’re a thief, Serrah Tethras. I should demand royalties.”
“Hey, I credited you in the acknowledgements!”
“What, really?” Hawke snatched up her copy and flipped through it, making sure to rustle the pages in the microphone for proper effect. “Well I’ll be damned, there I am. ‘To Hawke and WK-11, for the company and accompaniment.’ ”
“See? Credit where it’s due.”
“It’s all the way at the end, though! No one ever reads the acknowledgements unless they’re in them.”
“What do you think would be better?”
“Hmm. I’m thinking either you dedicate the next book to the station or cut us a check.”
“Tough call.”
“Let’s do a listener poll. Listeners, call in now and let us know how, exactly, Ser Tethras-”
“Master Tethras, technically-”
-Varric can even begin to repay the debt he owes us.” Over the sound of his laughter, she added “Coming up next, ‘Dance With Me’ by the Sabers.”
-
“Hawke, I assume.”
She jumped and yelped, whirling around to see a startled dwarf standing by the door.
“Bloody hell,” she gasped, hand over her heart. “Varric Tethras, I assume, master at introductions.”
“Sorry. You sound more aware of your surroundings on the radio.”
She snorted and laughed.
“Not at the end of my shift, I’m not. If you’re here to make a request, this isn’t exactly how we do it.”
“I’m here to pay a debt.” He reached into the inside pocket of his leather coat and drew out an envelope. “Since the next book won’t be out for a while, and I don’t like to owe.”
Aware that it was rude, and doing it anyway, Hawke flipped open the envelope. Her eyes went wide. And then wider.
“Bloody hell,” she said again. “That’s a bit much.”
“You got me through some pretty tough blocks.”
She tucked away the check and pushed her hair back to disguise her hesitation.
“Still. I think you’re over by just a tad.”
Varric tilted his head, his eyes shining expectantly. “By how much?”
“The cost of a drink at your hole-in-the-wall of choice?”
She was rewarded when his smile grew. It really did match his voice quite wonderfully.
“Given that it’s 6 in the morning, how about we find a coffee shop, instead of a bar.”
“Well if you want to be conventional about it.”
The laugh sounded even better in person.
#dragon age#dragon age 2#vhawke#hawkexvarric#varricxhawke#hawke x varric#da2#otp: my trusty dwarf#audrey writes#edited to fix the formatting which came out wonky agaaainn
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Meeting Nero
Because I need to write Nero at some point and he’s by far my weakest character to write about in DMC. Gotta start somewhere though. This is set after DMC4 but before DMC5, so Nero’s starting to become more mellow but isn’t quite there yet.
Fandom: Devil May Cry
Characters: Nero, Dante, OC
Tags: @nimnox @furyeclipse @synchronmurmurs
Summary: Nero drops by the shop for the first time since the events of Fortuna. Of course someone gets brawled.
“Dante!” Cassandra called, staring down at the fancy neon sign just sitting in the main room of Devil May Cry. It was still wrapped in it’s protective plastic wrapping but that unmistakable silhouette told her everything. “Dante, why do we have a new sign? The old one’s still kicking!”
“It’s not for me!” Dante replied, walking down the stairs. He hoisted his coat on. “Nero’s coming on over.”
“Nero?” Cassandra turned on her heel, tilting her head at the older hunter. “The new kid you picked up?”
“Yep.” He looked over to the clock. “Should be coming any minute now.”
“You’re giving the new kid...a neon sign.” Cassandra repeated slowly. “No wonder you can’t pay the bills, you keep splurging on fancy neon signs!”
“Hey!” He pouted. “Morrison’s the one who commissions them, I just put my seal of approval on the stuff I like.”
“It does not change the fact that they're expensive as tits.” She pointed out. “You’re lucky that you don’t owe Lady money anymore.” She paused. “Unless you did something else that got you in debt again.”
“Not this time.” He grinned. “We got paid so well, we won’t need to worry about bills for a while.”
“Was that before or after Lady’s cut?”
“After.” Before Cassandra could ask more, the door opened. She turned to the door, watching as a young man walked in. She wasn’t sure what surprised her more: his silvery-white hair or the demonic right arm. She took a look to Dante, then back to the stranger.
“That’s Nero.” Dante said with a grin.
“Dante, that boy looks like he hasn’t had a good meal in years.” Cassandra huffed, stepping forward. “Name’s Cassandra. Cassandra Sagefire.” She held out her right hand for him to shake. Nero stood there for a moment before shaking her hand back.
“You’re a devil hunter too, right?” He asked.
“Yep.” Nero let go of her hand.
“Why weren’t you at Fortuna then?”
“Because Dante’s a tit.” She replied simply, ignoring the playfully indignant ‘hey!’ from the older devil hunter. “And someone needs to make sure Red Grave City doesn’t get overrun by demons while Dante’s gone. Dude’s got a reputation.” She paused, glancing back to Dante. “And because he’s a tit.”
“Ok, ok! I get it, I’m such a terrible big brother.” Dante ruffled her hair. “I was worried about you, ok Cass? Didn’t want you to get hurt in enemy territory.”
“Enemy territory is your middle name, Dante.” Cassandra threw off his hand, taking the moment to smooth out her hair. “But enough about you.” She refocused her attention onto Nero, who was just standing there watching the two banter. “Come on Nero. I’ll go make something for us because I’m not going to grill you for information while we’re standing in the doorway.” She pulled away, walking back to the kitchen. She heard footsteps behind her, presumably of the two devil hunters following her to the kitchen.
“You don’t have to-”
“I’m doing it anyway Nero.” Cassandra interrupted him. “Didn’t you feed him anything Dante?”
“Well...we kinda had a couple scuffles.”
“Scuffles.” She shot Dante a glare. “Your definition of scuffles usually translates to ‘full on bar fights’ but Fortuna doesn’t strike me as a place with a pub.” She ducked into the refrigerator. “Any preference of meat Nero?”
“Wait what?”
“I’ll take that as none.” She pulled out a package of lamb. “Unless you’re vegetarian-”
“No, that’s not it. I just had fish for the longest time.” Nero explained. She looked up, seeing the flustered look on his face.
“Huh.” She threw the package onto the counter. “What else...what else…” She muttered, closing the fridge. She set the oven to preheat before making her way to the cabinet. “Why only fish?” She asked.
“Only thing you could catch.” Cassandra paused at Nero’s explanation.
“No cow? Lamb? Not even chickens?” She asked.
“I mean, we had chickens. They just didn’t taste very good…”
“Oh you poor soul. No wonder you look like a stick.” She huffed, ignoring the ‘hey!’ she got in return. She rolled up her sleeves and reached up, grabbing an old cookbook. She flipped through the pages before settling on a savory spiced lamb recipe. She began to pull out spices from the cabinet, glancing from the book to the bottle to pick out the correct spices.
“Don’t worry kiddo, she’s always like this.” Dante said with a laugh.
“Only because I believe that a certain someone shouldn’t gorge himself on pizzas and sundaes all the time.” She retorted, not even giving Dante a look. Satisfied with the selection of spices, she set the cookbook on a book rack. “You boys better sit, this is gonna take a while to cook and I want to hear all about the shit that went on in Fortuna.”
“You’re never gonna let up on the fact that I didn’t take you, did I?” Dante groaned.
“You can bet on that.” She said, washing the lamb.
“I mean, I did take out the target that I was asked to take out.” Dante started.
“By jumping in from the ceiling and shooting him point-blank, asshole.” Nero said flippantly. Cassandra let out a groan.
“I bet you learned quick that Dante never learned the meaning of the word subtlety.” She sighed as she set the washed lamb in a glass cooking tray. “What else?”
“Everything went to shit.” Dante and Nero said in unison. Cassandra rolled her eyes as she went back to the fridge for the butter.
“That’s the case in any mission Dante’s involved, to be honest.”
“Excuse you, it was organized chaos.” Dante corrected her. Cassandra chuckled at the correction as she rubbed butter on the lamb.
“That’s still chaos, old man!” Nero snapped. As she finished buttering the lamb, she went to the sink to wash her hands.
“Ok ok, before you two start ripping each other apart, tell me more about Fortuna. Sounds like an island nation if all you had to eat was fish and shitty chicken.” Cassandra shook the water off her hands before drying it with an old grey hand towel.
“Well, they worshiped Sparda like a god.” Dante began. Cassandra hummed as she began to shake spices onto the lamb. “They were isolated from the world until Trish convinced me it was worth my time.” Cassandra snorted. That was quite the interesting way to say that Trish got him involved by going to Fortuna with the Devil Sword Sparda in hand. “So I went, took out some demons, and called it a day!”
“That’s not what happened and you know it.” Nero hissed.
“Oh yeah, I met this kid.”
“Dante!”
“I will take your heads and slam them against each other like coconuts if you two keep hissing at each other like cats.” Cassandra reminded them, closing the bottles of spices. She took the glass pan and slid it into the oven, quickly setting the oven to cook for half an hour. She put the spices away into the cabinet.
“Aww, Cass, I taught you better than that.” Dante teased, the kind of tease that she knew would just rile her up.
“You know what Dante? You’re right.” Cassandra whipped around. “How about a spar, Nero?”
“Wait, what?”
“Dante picked you up for a reason, didn’t he?” Cassandra asked. “And the lamb’s gonna cook for half an hour, so we have time to spare for a friendly assessment of skill.” Nero looked to Dante.
“Does she do this with everyone?”
“Yep.” Dante grinned. “She did it with me.”
“Sort of. We were hunting the same demon together when we first met and he offered me a place here. And Lady has a goddamn bazooka gun. I am not touching that with a ten foot pole because I will lose. But if it’s just sword versus sword, then I’ll go for it.” Cassandra explained. Nero stood up, taking the sword off his back.
“You want a brawl, I’ll give you one.”
“Oh, I think I’ll like you.” Cassandra led the way to the sparring room with Nero at her tail. “Hey Dante! You’re mediating if things get too rough!” She called. Dante laughed as they entered the sparring room. Astra snapped into her hand, she noted the lack of a response from Nero. As he took his spot on the other side of the room, he swung out his sword.
“You ready?” Nero growled.
“Gotta lay down some ground rules. I might pride myself on my resilience but I know damn well I’m not a cambion like you or Dante, magic sword or otherwise.” Cassandra pointed out. “No guns, it’s just sword versus sword. Your…” She gestured to the sword in Nero’s hand.
“Red Queen.”
“Her against my Astra.” She gave her rapier a twirl to emphasize it. Nero focused on the rapier.
“Doesn’t look like much.”
“Maybe, but it can pack a punch.” She glanced to Red Queen. “What about your sword? Certainly looks prettier than Rebellion, I’ll give her that.” She ignored the ‘hey!’ from Dante, who was leaning against the wall. “Unless she’s all show and no bite.” Nero scowled at that, slamming the tip of Red Queen into the ground. With a twist of his hand, the sword revved to life with flames encasing the blade.
“You done talking shit?” He growled. Cassandra grinned.
“This is gonna be fun. Let’s see why Dante picked you up!” With that, she sprinted forward. Nero swung Red Queen to his side, the two blades meeting. Cassandra strained to keep steady against Red Queen, the heat of flames encompassing the blade oppressive. Nero pushed her back, the tip of Red Queen slicing into her sleeve. She hissed from the cut but didn’t take long to focus on it. Nero charged forward, making her step to the side. He swung Red Queen to his back, once again hitting the rapier. She had to admit, Nero was skilled in fighting. She kicked against his back, using him as a jumping point to give herself distance between her and Nero. Ignoring the cheer from Dante, Nero twisted his hand against the handle of Red Queen to make the blade flare to life.
“Hey Nero! Do you do parties, because that’s one hell of a party trick!”
“Fuck off!” He rushed forward, Cassandra barely managing to dodge the swipe from Red Queen. She gave him a hard kick in the chest, earning a grunt from the younger hunter.
“Control your fire or you’ll get burned!” She yelled, just moments before Red Queen sliced forward again. Astra caught the blade a moment too late, sending the rapier flying out of her hands. Cassandra huffed, resummoning Astra to her side. She had to admit, he caught her off-guard with that maneuver. She held up Astra to block another swing, only for Nero to kick Astra out of her hands. She winced at the kick.
“You little shit…” She grumbled, holding her hand. “Alright, alright, I yield.”
“Good job kid, you beat me and my sis.” Nero looked at Dante, then to Cassandra, and then back to Dante visibly confused.
“I kinda adopted him as the older brother I never had.” Cassandra quickly explained, Astra disappearing to silver light. “I still have pictures of us back when I first met him. He had no taste in fashion.”
“And still doesn’t.” Nero mused, hooking Red Queen back onto his back.
“Hey!” Dante pouted.
“Look, nothing tops bad fashion by Dante then the time you only had the chest strap of your coat as a shirt.” Cassandra pointed out as she stood back up. “With that being said, I believe the lamb’s done cooking.” With that, casually ignoring the mock hurt on Dante’s face (and Nero’s own expression of disgust at the thought), Cassandra strode back to the kitchen to serve lunch.
---
Cassandra watched as Nero walked away from Devil May Cry, the young man disappearing around the corner illuminated by the setting sun. Nero was a bit rough around the edges but she could tell, there was an admirable young man behind the roughness.
An admirable young man that shared quite a few traits with Dante.
It wasn’t something she missed during her interactions with him. Aside from physical traits (the white hair, blue eyes that looked particularly similar to Dante, the obvious sign of devil blood in his veins if that arm was anything to go by), it was the attitude she got from him. He was, relatively speaking, shyer than Dante but there were still moments where it shone through.
As she closed the door, she looked to Dante. He was leaning against the desk, looking to the packed up neon sign that awaited to be delivered to Fortuna.
“Alright Dante, who’s the mom?” Cassandra asked, crossing her arms. Dante didn’t respond. “Is it Lady? Lucia?” She glanced to the door. “...whose hand did you hold?” She asked, trying to get a joke in to get her answer.
“It doesn’t matter.” Dante finally said, his gaze moving to the ground. Cassandra winced. She knew that tone, the tone that pretty much ended conversations where they stood. It was the kind of tone that Dante had when he went down memory lane, and it wasn’t the fun kind of lane either. Normally, Cassandra would end it at that, but not this time.
“I think it does, since he walked right in and looked almost exactly like you.” She pointed out. “And there’s nobody else I know who has white hair and that specific shade of bright blue eyes.” Dante looked back up to her, the two hunters staring each other down. Finally, Dante let out a sigh of defeat.
“Ok, ok, fine.” He mumbled, walking around the desk. He flopped into his chair, staring at the portrait of Eva. “You already know I...had a brother, right?”
“I sang you to sleep many nights after your return from Mallet Island. You mentioned a Vergil and I figured he was someone important to you. It was only after I asked Lady about it that I got that he was your brother, but not much more than that.” Cassandra explained. Dante nodded but didn’t say much more. He didn’t need to. “Nero’s your nephew then.” Silence met her. “Look, Dante, I might not know much about your history or any scuffles with your kin, but hiding this from Nero...what’s your plan?”
“Just...gotta wait for the right moment.” Dante said softly.
“There will never be a ‘right moment’ to tell anyone anything.” Cassandra pointed out. “Look, I’m gonna keep my mouth shut because by the Earthmother, you just look miserable just talking about your brother.” She let out a sigh. “I am going to warn you that keeping this from Nero, it’s gonna bite ya in the ass one day.” The look on his face, she knew it well. It reminded her of the late nights after his return from the accursed island, when nightmares ripped him out of sleep. She wondered if the events of Mallet Island had made him more protective of her, the sibling he informally adopted. She strode across the room, sat on his lap, and pulled him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around her, sitting there in the stillness of the empty shop.
“Cass…” She heard Dante murmur.
“I know I’m harsh on you Dante.” She pressed her lips against his head. “But I love you. I don’t want to see you hurt any more than you already are.”
“‘M just tired…” He mumbled.
“Well, it is almost time for a nap.” She smiled a little before she began to hum, her hand moving to stroke his hair. She heard Dante’s breathing even out into quiet snores before closing her eyes, drifting off into slumber as well.
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Characters: Makalov
Rating: G
Tags: Drinking, Gambling, Impulse Control
Word Count: ~1800 (~9 minute read)
Summary: (Pre FE9) After leaving the Begnion military, Makalov seeks to raise enough money to pay back his debts. He just needs a little extra cushion of cash before he can start working off his dues...
Prompt: "makalov getting into shenanigans before marcia finds him in por."
Happy @nagamas to you, @bi-naesala! The prompts were all quite interesting, but as one of the only Makalov fans in the fandom, I knew exactly which one I would have to work on the moment I saw it. Writing isn’t really the medium for showing off freckles like you may have hoped, but I hope a quick little line in the middle of it might be enough.
If you prefer to do your reading on Tumblr, you can check out the story below the Read More, as well!
Makalov weighed the small pouch of coins in his hand, before looking back up across the bright lights of the gambling hall. There were cheers of winners, the clacking of wheels. A troupe of minstrels on the center stage played exciting music, and servers wandered about with delicious looking drink orders. Truly, it was a carnival of the senses.
“Careful, Makalov, this is what got you in this mess in the first place,” he muttered to himself. Since finding that debt notice nailed to his door, he knew more would keep coming until he could find some way to pay it back. And he couldn't go through that humiliating ordeal in front of the knights. Not in front of Lady Sigrun. Not in front of his sister.
“Just need a decent cushion, then I can start working off the debt like normal,” he reminded himself, exchanging his coins for ten small chips, and approaching the roulette tables. He watched the wheels for a few spins, trying to see any pattern or fault with it. Once an opening was made in one of the tables, he stepped forward.
“Alright, Makalov, just remember your bad luck...” he said below his breath, before placing two chips on the table. “Just bet small...” He pushed those coins to bet on red. No numbers, just red.
The wheel clicked and clacked as it spun, before coming to a slow crawl... “23 red,” called out the hall employee, and the winnings were dealt out.
Makalov smiled as he held up his new chips. Now he was up two from where he started. Collecting those, and the chips he initially bet with, he placed them down for the next spin. “Red again.”
And so the wheel spun several times. Many times, Makalov's heart jumped into his throat, before relief allowed him to melt and relax into the side of the table. All the while, he continued to bet “small,” always sticking to just picking the colour, never the number.
“13 black,” called out the hall employee.
Makalov cackled and cheered with delight, reaching over the table to start scooping up his winnings. “Fourteen in a row...!” he gasped, unable to believe his luck; in just one night, he had turned two chips into thirty-two thousand. If he did just that, one more time, he'd get enough to pay off his debt. All of it! In one swoop--
Quickly, Makalov started pulling his chips not just towards himself, but off the table entirely. No, no, that was exactly the sort of thinking that landed him in this mess in the first place. He could hear Marcia shrieking in his ear, see the soft but disappointed shake of Sigrun's head. Time to pack it in before anyone got hurt!
“Well, that was fun! Boy, what a night, think it's time for this good old boy to hit the hay,” Makalov quickly rambled, gathering up his chips in his purse, now full to bursting, even with the larger denominations.
“Oh, come, sir, you can't leave now! You're on a hot streak!” insisted the hall employee.
“No ho, no, I'm dreadfully thirsty,” Makalov “explained” with shifty eyes, “I have a particular drink order, and I certainly can't leave all my chips to go get it. But I shall lift my glass to you all, praising your good company, and wishing you all the greatest of--”
---
LIFE SUCKS! SO LET'S DANCE!
LIFE SUCKS! SO LET'S DANCE!
YEAAAAH, MAYBE IF WE HAVE SOME FUN
WE WON'T FEEL SO BAD!
Makalov interrupted his own warbling to grab the trumpet out of one of the minstrels's hands, throwing his still half full glass aside with a wet crash to play quite loudly and enthusiastically. And quite well, too, for someone three sheets to the wind and red in the nose.
Soon the trumpet was tossed aside, and so was Makalov, throwing himself off the stage and towards the crowd. “WHOO!”
KRRSSH!
---
“...300 for the drinks, 2000 for the tables, 8000 for the distress caused to the band,” the head of the gambling hall muttered, counting up the damages Makalov's bender had done to the establishment, while Makalov had buried his head in his hands, not just as part of nursing his hangover.
“All told, you owe us 32,500 gold.”
A weak, shaky smile spread on Makalov's lips. At least he remembered to cash out first before his inadvertent, drunken rampage forfeited it all. So he had reset himself back to square one. He still made more than 200 coins in profit from where he started.
He'd just need another 328 nights just like tonight to pay off all his outstanding debts.
And a couple more gambling halls; he certainly wasn't going to be allowed back in this one in his lifetime.
“Fair's fair,” Makalov whimpered, as he started to pile up his payment for the boss man. “Well, time to find another way to turn a hundred coins into a thousand, quickly...”
“...You're one of the knights, aren't you?” the boss man asked, looking Makalov over.
“H-Huh? Oh, um... Yes? Erm, formerly, admittedly. I, uh...retired? Retired.”
“...Uh-huh. Well, if you want to live out your, ahem, golden years in comfort, we do have a few tables still opened to wild drunks like you.”
“Sir, I must defend my honour and insist I was a splendid drunk.”
“Of course. Follow me, Sir Former Knight.”
The boss man walked with Makalov through the back room of the gambling hall, and down a flight of stairs to a cellar level. Instead of wine barrels or other stored goods, the cellar was made empty and wide open to make room for a large cage in the middle of it. Inside the cage were two men, engaging in a barefisted brawl. One was a Beorc with a bushy brown beard, the other was a Laguz with spiky red hair. Both of them exceptionally well built.
So of course Makalov winced when a punch from the Laguz sent the Beorc flying across the ring, into the cage, landing with a dull thud, drowned out over the roar of the excitable, rough looking crowd.
“The fighting pits aren't usually something we like to advertise,” the boss explained, “but you can make decent money betting on these things. And even more money winning them, Sir Former Knight of Begnion.”
“Mmhm, mmhmm,” Makalov hummed, stroking his chin, nodding his head. “Hmm.” He wagged his finger as though in understanding, before looking up towards the boss. “Alternately...?”
---
Makalov sighed, once again bouncing his small coin purse in his hand, before looking up and over the dingy mercenary campsite. Apparently, the Beorc who got laid out back at the fighting pit belonged to a band of local mercenaries, and his turn as a gladiator left his “spot” open on the team.
Well, it was dirty work, but less expectations of decency and pride than the knights, Makalov thought, wandering through the camp.
“Hey, freckles!” a rough voice called out.
Makalov stopped and looked about; it was a large camp, noises coming from everywhere, maybe he was inadvertently eavesdropping on something. As he whipped himself around, he finally spotted a group of three men sitting around a barrel with a wooden plank resting on top of it like a makeshift table. All three of them looking at him. He pointed to himself and lifted his eyebrows.
“Yeah, you. You're the new guy, yeah?” the rough sounding man asked.
“Erm, yes. Just arrived. Spent, um, spent a few nights traveling from the city to get here,” he explained. “Sorry, I just, those aren't usually what people use to call out to me in a crowd,” he said, bouncing his hand in his pink, frizzy hair.
“Heh heh, I'll bet. You ever play cards, new guy?”
“Certainly,” Makalov answered immediately, before clicking his tongue and wincing, realizing he just compelled himself to join them by speaking up.
“Well then, how about sitting in with us for a round? We could use a fourth.”
Yup, there it was. Makalov sighed, and took the empty stool and plomped down around the barrel, taking out a few coins from his money purse. “This isn't some hazing ritual to dunk on the new guy, is it?” he had to ask.
The other three men at the table laughed, the lead one shaking his head. “Fresh meat like you, probably pretty desperate to join up with us. Definitely not the kind to have a lot of spending money to throw around. What's the point in cleaning you out of what little you got?”
“Fair enough. So, who's dealing?”
And so Makalov sat in with the mercenary for a few hands of cards. A few hands turned to several, and several hands turned into a proper, tournament style game. Raises were called, pots fluxuated and expanded, and purses got lighter and lighter.
And all the while, Makalov was doing pretty well for himself. Soon, he and the rough sounding mercenary were the holders of the majority of the pot, and it was between them on one final hand to take it all home.
Makalov was sweating as the face cards landed on the table. The stakes were called. He and his new “friend” showed their hand.
“Three of a kind,” the mercenary boasted with a grin, which quickly faultered when he saw Makalov's hand.
“A flu—A flush!” Makalov gasped, before cheering, throwing his cards to the makeshift table and quickly scooping up the pot. “Ha ha! I'm not so unlucky after all!”
“You clever dick,” the mercenary grumbled through a teeth bearing smirk. “You had that hand before the last card was revealed!”
“Well, don't really have much of a poker face,” Makalov explained, “so might as well lean into the flop sweats!” He grinned as he started counting up his winnings. With the money he brought with him to the camp, he was now sitting on 500 coins. Not bad for his first day on the job!
“Come on, one more hand!” the mercenary insisted.
Makalov laughed and gently tapped the table. “My friend, I've nearly cleaned you out! I couldn't possibly take away what you have left, leave you with nothing for rations for the next few days! I'll tell you what, though: tonight, I'll buy us all a round, some extra nice rations for the table! Maybe they'll have some decent mead to go with--”
---
WELL I KNOW THAT I'M GONNA GO SCREWING UP IN THE END!
BUT THAT'S OKAY!
'CAUSE I'M YOUR AVERAGE MAN!
With his arms thrown around the shoulders of two other mercenaries, Makalov drunkenly screamed out his song while kicking atop one of the dining hall tables, sending plates and cups flying, stonework crashing on the floor.
“WHOO!”
KRRSSSH!
---
“...100 to replace the beer supply,” the mercenary captain growled through clenched teeth as he tallied up the damages, “one week's pay for the fruit supply crates kicked over, one week's pay for the grain supply, two weeks pay for that drunken brawl...”
Makalov planted his forehead on the captain's desk. He weighed his coin purse in his hand, a purse that was about to get substantially lighter. He let out a deep, exhausted sigh.
This was gonna take a while...
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