Kings of the castle

[Jon Little Bird]

A sudden chill cut through the warmth of the drink in Jon's veins, like icy fingers trailing across his back and shoulders. His skin prickled with goosebumps and he shivered ever so slightly. He wondered where a cold draft might have come from in the middle of summer.

The man jerked his legs off the table, almost as if he'd had some sort of spasm. Had he come in here drunk and lost his balance? Certainly he hadn't drunk enough here, the larger part of the bottle had gone to the man's companion at the table. What odd behavior for a man attempting to display such a compelling air of confidence.

That icy sensation on Jon's skin persisted. Honestly it was enough to ruin a good buzz. Perhaps he could do something about that. In his boldness, he dismissed the little voice that reminded him what had happened the last time he'd attempted such a thing and accidentally called down lightning from the sky. No, he knew what he had done wrong and had learned.

The Great Spirit beckoned him. Jon reached out with his third eye and grasped the primeval force. It came to him easily enough, and raw power flooded through him, an exhilarating, intoxicating force that dwarfed the effects of the whiskey. Colors bloomed brighter, sounds and smells became more detailed. The crisp aroma of his drink mixed with the odors of a dozen different concoctions in the room. He removed his glasses – yes, he could see better than he had ever been able to on his own. With this, he could do anything.

Jon sought out the base element of fire, easily identifiable amidst the raging maelstrom that comprised the power coursing through him and sent out gentle strands – the threads of the Great Spirit woven through destiny, as he'd once read – tiny invisible filaments into the air. Not for them to actually do anything, only for them to exist for a moment, expand ever so slightly, and dissipate. Yes, that was the way to do it properly.

Jon let the threads vanish, and continued to hold onto the power. His enhanced senses could tell the air had grown warmer, but the chill was still there.

[Jaxen Marveet]

Oriena's comment briefly twisted Jax's attention back her way. Then something strange happened.

Goosebumps. Not the tormenting trail of ice down flushed skin. And not the pain of jumping in frozen lakes. But from something tameless. A feral chill that seeped to his bones and swapped out the oblivion of the night with a warning that something was different. Wrong? A second later, his feet were kicked out from under him and his heels landed hard on the ground. Funny thing was, he'd been sitting.

Whatever was going down, Jaxen sat to attention and looked around. Only to land a suspicious stare on his coyly strung companion. Oriena glowed with mirth. The cat flipping its tail at the mouse to have crossed its path. Then again, Jaxen was too strung out himself to dismiss coincidence so casually. "You're--"
he started, but quickly cut himself off, expression drawn to grim surprise.

He felt it loud and clear. Ominous and imposing. And seemed to sweep out of nowhere yet exploded from wall to wall. Resolved to find the source, Jax twisted around, studying the faces in the room, seeking -- well, Tony or Michael -- honestly. Though something told him they weren't to blame.

His chest thrummed with anticipation. Then suddenly, the sensation expanded into something visible, and Jaxen stared at what flickered through the air with sheer wonder.

From sitting straight and attentive, he pushed to stand, the lean shade of a puppet-master seeking the strings of a colleague. His study followed the source of it back to one man at the bar. The pup. Definitely not Mickey or Tony.

"Interesting,"
he spoke to himself with a twisted smile. After a moment of contemplation, he waved the man over.

Jaxen's expression glimmered with life anew, having found a competitor unlike that of what he'd known with Oriena. The fury and fire in the back of his mind curled a tempting finger that he snatch it up, but for now, Jaxen was the one holding the cards, and he wasn't ready to show his hand. Yet.

[Oriena]

Satisfying. A coy shrug answered Jaxen’s stare, though the curl of her smile was undiminished. You’re - what? He cut dead, though, with an abruptness suggesting something else captured his attention - in fact he actually twisted about as though someone – or something – had just walked over his grave. That certainly had nothing to do with her, and she watched his expression with uninhibited interest, particularly when it coalesced to something like wonder. It unravelled some of the casual darkness of his manner like a breeze dispersing smoke, and her eyes followed him up as he stood. What was left was purposeful. Intent. Interesting, indeed.

A couple of seconds later she followed his line of gaze.

And found their friend at the bar.

Ori was still contemplating what that meant when Jaxen called the guy over, and he wasn't the only one invigorated by the invitation. Challenge sparked her gaze; exhilaration, though perhaps at least some of that owed its source to the light she'd not yet let go of. Friend or foe? She hadn't quite imagined the opportunity to find out would come so readily. Not that her reaction to such fortune was anywhere near as dramatic as Jaxen's - though what he'd reacted to, she did not know. One thing she did know; her actions had catalysed... something. And that something was intriguing.

She had not moved, bar to turn her head in the stranger's direction and run her gaze over him anew. Curious. Welcoming; though hers was the smile of a lioness welcoming potential prey into the den.

[Jon Little Bird]

Fingers of seductive liquid fire pulsed through Jon. The force threatened to wash him away, engulf him and burn him to ash, but it begged him to hold on for just a little longer, take control and wrestle it to his will. Reluctantly he let go, and replaced his spectacles upon his face as his eyesight began to dim again.

The man at the table stood, showing perhaps a hint of surprise that permeated his air of control over his own self-image. No, the movement Jon had seen earlier – the strange jerking of his feet – that hadn't been voluntary. It had been unexpected.

“You're --”
Jon had caught the man saying to his companion, in a clearly accusatory tone, while still in connection with the power. Did the man think she was to blame there? And if so, why?

And now, the man was standing and had deliberately turned to Jon. He raised a hand to beckon Jon over. Surely he hadn't thought Jon had knocked – no, that couldn't be. Perhaps he was just interested in the attention he was getting.

And now they were both looking at him. Well, well. So the players were beckoning the third wheel to crash their duet. This was bound to get interesting. In Jon's current state, he was feeling particularly bold and whimsical at the moment, ready to find out what kind of games he could play as well. How could he resist such an invitation?

Jon noticed the bottle at the table was nearly empty. It wouldn't do to arrive without bringing something to the table. Plus he was still in the mood to have a little more. He flagged down the attendant at the bar and ordered another bottle of the same drink that had been ordered with three empty glasses. The woman behind the bar smiled, perhaps in a bit of relief – and brought it to him. Vodka, clear as the crystal glasses set beside him at the bar.

Jon stood – taking just a moment to balance himself lest he fall, he was reasonably certain he knew how to walk, and do so in a straight line, as long as he stuck to the basics – and crossed the floor to the table. The man remained standing, and offered a hand, with a small smile, just a simple nudge of the left corner of his mouth – perhaps a parody of a smile, or a smirk. Yes, the man was intrigued, his curiosity stoked by Jon. Perhaps his tastes included those other than the woman at the table, and that was the reason Jon had been invited over. The man was definitely paddling up the wrong river if that was the case.

“Jaxen,”
the man said.

Jon set the glasses upon the table and shook the man's hand. “Jon,”
he replied.

There was a spare chair sitting to the side of the table, across from where Jaxen and the owner were sitting, so Jon moved over to it. Certainly he wasn't going to get in between the two and ruin the opportunity for closeness that, well, they both might be playing for.

Jon set the bottle he was carrying upon the table, next to the nearly empty one upon the serving tray. “It is customary where I come from to bring something to drink when invited. I hope it is to your liking.”


He sat, fiddling idly with his cufflinks – his shirt itched a bit around the wrists. The owner was still looking at him as she had earlier, a mix of curiosity, humor and – perhaps a little apprehension. Yes, there was a puzzle there. The cat playing with a ball of yarn looked more like the cat listening for a noise that just might be a larger beast in the neighborhood.

Jon smiled at her. “Quite an establishment you have here. But I didn't catch your name."


Hm. Three glasses, vodka, lime and ice. Simple enough to put together, but much more fun to allude to previous events that had transpired. He regarded the sultry woman again. "Would you be so kind as to demonstrate for me the proper way to serve this drink?”




Edited by Jon Little Bird, Sep 2 2013, 06:04 PM.

[Oriena]

Ori watched the man slip from his seat, observing the admirable concentration he put into walking; and did not think he was bluffing. He was drunk. Not oblivious, but affected, certainly. Her gaze never broke as he came closer, and she remained silent; content, for once, to rest in the peripheral. The handshake between the two men was civil and explained precisely nothing. Afterwards the newly introduced Jon sat at a well-mannered distance, and she knew exactly how overpriced the bottle he offered was. The guy was certainly courteous; a complete antithesis to the other man sitting at the booth.

The dog yipping at the wrong tree. Now sitting at their table. Curious.

Jon’s cuffs seemed to be bothering him, but it was too perfectly offered a manipulation to suggest he loosen them up. She was wary, but not afraid, and though her resolute nature demanded answers, she did not necessarily take the easy route. She was a languorous predator; more inclined to play than to go straight for the kill, particularly in this mood. So. Someone had done his homework. “You wouldn’t have. It’s Oriena.”


An entertained smirk accompanied the words. She didn’t bother looking at Jaxen; she didn’t expect to see much reaction to that little bit of information, else she didn’t care. If he’d have thought to ask, she would have told him outright that she didn’t work here. Jon was playing with her; she recognised that well enough, and Ori was hard-pressed to ignore the challenge of a good game. In fact she laughed; an amused, husky sound. “Since I’ve been outed. No. I don’t think so. Unless you ask very nicely.”

[Jaxen Marveet]

Suddenly, the menace retreated. Curiosity glinted the corner of Jaxen's eye while the pup pawed over. He lost it, Jaxen thought initially, recalling the frustrating difficulty with which it was to strangle the power, and the disappointment that followed when it was gone. Jax almost felt bad for the guy. Until remembering whatever he'd cast across the room burned near afterimage in Jaxen's retinas. As though on cue, his eyes narrowed. Yes, he was going to have to remember how that was done.

The kid was clearly drunk, but Jaxen made no effort to help him bear the burden of extra alcohol on the way over. At least he had the decency to buy a guy a drink first.

Jax tightened his grip in their handshake to the point of crushing the kid's spindly fingers. Jon had quite the accent, American, definitely. Though Jax wasn't familiar enough to place him to any one region. But geography wasn't his strong suit. Casing potential marks, now. That was something Jax could do in his sleep. Though it was for pure ego. To know everything about a man just from a brief one-two, kind of a thrill, and it told him who to keep a close eye on. It's not like he'd lifted something off an individual guy since -- well. White's lighter -- Shit that was funny. Could have done without the hit to the head though.

So. Jon. The guy's brief interaction with the bartender meant he had a tab running, which meant digital transfer and remote access to cash, which meant he was carrying a Wallet. Jaxen's gaze drifted casually to the most likely pocket in question. There was no discernible demonstration of cash anywhere else.

The man's smile toward Oriena was hardly innocent. Shit, Jax knew better than that. A spike of jealousy distracted him from measuring up this kid any further. Who was apparently another member of Tony's cult. Even if he didn't realize it yet.

"Allow me,"
Jax interrupted them both and pat Oriena fondly on the knee to stop her from being a terrible waitress again, though when he withdrew his hand from her leg, he hovered on her expression a tad longer, both to gauge her reaction and to imagine her in a new light. Jon's compliment on this being her establishment was to blame, and Jaxen smiled, downright approving of this turn of events. It certainly explained why she was such a bad server.

His thumb broke the seal on the bottle which the bartender's knife had sliced through earlier -- seems Kallisti wasn't in the habit of letting customers ring their own knives through wax seals, probably wise -- and went about filling three glasses of ice while he explained. "Oriena here,"
he offered Jon her name on her behalf, "needs some help getting her hands dirty."
He looked at her from the corner of his eye, smirked playfully as though he might be willing to show her a thing or two, and squeezed the life out of a sliver of lime.

A few moments later, he pushed one Jon's way. As it was a handy moment to comment on something else, Jaxen gestured at the man's wrists when the dull gleam of silver would have caught anyone's eye. "Nice cufflinks."


Amused, he offered the second to Oriena. "Try a real drink sweetheart."
His mood diluted the masochistic tone from the suggestion, but the playfulness to his gaze remained. He really wanted to get her alone.

Finally, Jaxen swiped the final glass, resumed his seat and caught himself before lifting a foot, glanced at the table briefly, then repositioned his shoe to cross over to the opposite knee. Call it superstition. And took a taste. A perfectly stirred taste. This was going to be fun.


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Sep 3 2013, 07:02 AM.

[Jon Little Bird]

So that was why it had been so difficult to get the bartender to identify Oriena as the owner. She didn't operate the place with a hand's-on touch, preferring to stay in the shadows and only visit from time to time. More like a silent partner who came to her playground when she desired. And she had been keeping this secret from Jaxen, the patron she'd deliberately approached to toy with.

He gave Oriena a small nod at her refusal to serve the drinks. He thought he'd been polite enough. “You must tell me sometime what you mean by 'asking you nicely.' Unless that is another secret you wish to keep.”


And speaking of secrets...Jaxen offered to pour the drinks. Jon's lips twitched a bit at the subtle barb Jaxen had slung at Oriena. Doesn't like to get her hands dirty, is that so? Perhaps she did not like to do so, but it wasn't difficult to tell from her eyes there was a rough past in the trail left behind her. One did not simply come to own such a place like this – and have the luxury of not having to shoulder the brunt of the work to keep it aloft – so young, without a story, or without powerful connections. Or perhaps both.

Speaking of powerful connections...yes, the name Jaxen tickled a memory. It would not do for Jon to come to Moscow without becoming acquainted with the movers and shakers of the town. He was a son of … aw, screw it. He couldn't remember clearly at the moment.

Jon accepted the drink from Jaxen and took a deep swallow. At first the only sensation was lime on dry, tasteless liquid. Then the warmth exploded and a crisp, clean burning sensation spread through his mouth and down his throat. His head told him he wasn't going to be able to drink much more of this – or anything else, for that matter.

Jaxen was admiring his cufflinks. “Thank you,”
Jon replied. He turned his wrists to glance at them. “The coins themselves are relics of a time when money had real value. Fitting the minters would pick Mercury to be the herald of an end to that era.”


He chuckled and grinned at Jaxen. “But what has value is always relative, isn't it?”


Something about the man's appraising glances set Jon a bit on edge. The man was sizing him up, and certainly not in the same way as the glances Jaxen continued to send Oriena's way. From one man to another, there was little doubt in what motive lay behind those glances. Jon wished him the best of luck – but he didn't see it happening without the display of some serious game.

Speaking of games, it concerned Jon he might miss a casual glance, or muttered word, that might put him at a disadvantage here. He opened himself up to the Great Spirit again and seized the power that lay within his grasp. It flooded through him, and his senses...yes. The scurry of an insect across the floor came to his ears, the crisp bite of the vodka...that was almost too overwhelming.

And the sense of confidence that overpowered his buzz and sense of self-preservation had returned as well. He was just itching to have a good time. “I wonder – are either of you taken to games of chance? I am new to the city, and have been looking for a decent game.”

[Oriena]

“If it were a secret, Jon, I can assure you: you wouldn’t know about it.”
No threat there, just a hint of amusement. Her investments ran far deeper than Kallisti, and secrecy had been inured to her blood from a young age; a skill hardened and sharpened as she grew older. So many necessities of survival seemed dependant on the censure of information, and the wrong secret betrayed had all the potency of mortally spilled blood. Worth protecting. Also worth cultivating; Kallisti itself was testament to that.

But there were secrets and then there were secrets. Oriena’s identity was inconsequential, really – a tool of amusement she refined against the unwary because she found the anonymity entertaining. Offer a better game and she did not dwell on an old toy, and right now Ori appreciated the tartness of Jon’s banter. If she was disappointed he had proved not to be a blusher, then she was at least pleased to discover he had a sense of humour. Well, she took it for deadpan humour anyway.

Surprisingly, it was Jaxen who diffused the situation – though not without barb. His palm on her knee was warm, and too casually intimate beneath the flare of her heightened senses, though it served the purpose of garnering her attention. Her eyes tugged up to his face, hazed with impulsive and alcohol-fused lust – though it was dissected sharply by a scald of warning. She was not his, and that pat had erred dangerously on possessive condescension. To her misdirection – or at least her negligence in correcting his assumptions about her – she was defiantly unapologetic; not that he seemed fazed. To his smile, a cynical smirk returned.

She was content to let him pour, docile to the jibe but for a quirk of her lips, and faintly entertained by the reversal of roles. The sly look he threw her earned a flash of playful dare, like the swish of a cat’s tail; an invitation, certainly, but not exactly a benign one. She didn’t take the drink immediately, perhaps expecting some catch, and when she did the brush of her fingers against his was not accidental. She laughed. “Not your sweetheart. Sweetheart.”
If her tone held a reproachful edge, it still sparked against his playful undertones with a reciprocal fondness for banter.

Jaxen didn’t prop his feet back up, though for a moment she thought he had been about to, and she smiled at that, utterly gratified with the victory. Afterwards she tuned out a little on the talk of cufflinks, nursing her glass in her lap and making a study of Jon. What had made Jaxen call him over? The mystery was maddening, and she drowned it in a sip of burning cold. Ori hadn’t been drinking vodka either, and it was a poor idea to mix liquor. Not that she had plans to listen to sensible inner-monologue.

“What’s life without taking a few chances?”
One shoulder tipped in half a shrug in answer to Jon's question, and she flickered her gaze to Jaxen.

[Jaxen Marveet]

The guy liked the sound of his own voice. What? Did the guy talk for a living?

Jaxen lounged comfortably for most of the guy’s rambling. Though at one point, he shifted from resting the glass against his knee to resting it on the cushion alongside his leg. A small ring of condensation had bled through the cloth of his pants, but if Jax cared, he only swiped the wetness away and moved the glass. Let the cushion get wet. If Oriena cared, she should have designed the tables to be within arm’s reach. What’s a guy suppose to do? Hold his own drink for hours on end? Fuck that.

Jon held a disproportional overabundance of sentimental value for accessories as ugly as those cufflinks. He must have missed the sarcasm to Jax’s underhanded compliment then again, the guy was drunk and Jaxen had been subtle about it, to be sure. A hawk complimenting a pigeon on its impressive production of birdshit shouldn’t be taken literally. Jax’s own cuff links were easily twenty times the cost of those coin replicas. If they were authentic, well, that was slightly impressive. In the way a hawk might mistake a pigeon’s boldness for bravery rather than sheer stupidity simply because it couldn't fathom a creature being that oblivious.

So Oriena was a woman of secrets? Jax stifled a chill smile behind the effort of taking his next drink, That an invitation, sweetheart? Her rebellious discard of Jon’s investigative efforts only flared Jaxen’s possessive nature. She’d not been so pessimistic in the moments before the third wheel joined their table. What with the force of power absent from the atmosphere, Oriena was slowly taking over the gears of Jaxen’s imagination once more. Reading into her behavior wasn’t exactly solving the Da Vinci code. The final linger of her fingers on his hand when he offered the drink only stirred up more resolve to --

-- Suddenly, talk of competition slammed the brakes on that determined line of thought. Even a line as pleasant as it had been.

A game, eh?

The last healthy bet Jax took nearly lost him his head… and every other body part one by one. He inwardly shivered at that, and took another drink, biding his time and thinking.

Risk was hardly a foreign word to Jaxen, but he liked to minimize it as much as possible. He was patient, planning, and calculating. Random games of chance were not his style. There was nothing to rig with random. There was no practice to mastering the roll of chance. And he had no issues with losing face if it meant saving his neck in the long run. Then again, he glanced at Oriena. She was in. Then he turned back to the newcomer, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“What did you have in mind?”

[Jon Little Bird]

So. Oriena was game. Judging by the tone of Jaxen's voice, he wasn't quite so certain about it. Jon chuckled to himself. A little gun shy, maybe? Or perhaps...yes, maybe there was some jealousy there, an unspoken irritation that Jon was sniffing around real estate already marked for purchase. Yes, Jaxen was certainly a possessive one. Of course, there were two problems with that line of thought. Jaxen did not possess Oriena at the moment. He merely coveted her affections. And if Jaxen thought Jon was trying to stake a claim on her, well, that certainly wasn't the case. There was another Jon had met recently who had driven thoughts of other women away.

But of course Jaxen didn't have to know that. And neither did Oriena. And he could play with them both for the moment, and maybe...in this atmosphere of posturing and facades they'd both put forward to each other...they'd be better for it in the end.

The power of the Great Spirit continued to flow through him. Yes, he'd been getting stronger recently, able to pull more into himself as he wished. It was truly a violent thing, something Jon had not imagined would be the case when he had first begun his search into controlling this power. He'd imagined the Great Spirit as a tranquil thing, but instead it threatened with every breath to pull him in, ravage his very bones and burn him from inside out. Just to maintain control, it was like walking on the fine blade of a dagger, one foot put wrong and the power would slice clean through you.

He looked down at the table. What game he had in mind...perfect. Jon turned to Jaxen. “There is a game we could play here. A moment, please.”


He flagged down a serving girl and quickly requested she find a set of items for him. Three pens, something to write on – index cards or paper, or even bar napkins would do fine – and a set of dice. The girl frowned at the last – apparently it was not easy to come by dice in this establishment, even though Jon had been told earlier that the rules were lax about allowing gambling on the premises. Eventually, though, she nodded and left.

He turned back to Oriena, on his left side, and Jaxen on his right. “I don't know if you are familiar with Numbers' Gambit?”


Blank stares. Perhaps an eyebrow lifted there. Well, it was kind of Jon's fault for pulling the idea for playing this game out of nowhere.

“It is very popular now in the United States. More of an icebreaker than a game, I suppose...”


Yeah, more of a drinking game among fraternity brothers in the States for times when their sorority sisters came to party, it was almost comical how poorly Jon did the one time he played the game...

“There is an element of skill, as well as chance, but it is what happens with the forfeits that make it most interesting. Losing can be as much fun as winning.”



While Jon waited upon the server to bring back the items he'd requested, Jon quickly laid out how the game was played. It was simple, really. Each person wrote down a number from one to twenty, kept concealed from the others. Then a single die was rolled. In the case of a three-person game, if the roll came up with a 1 or 2, the players passed their number to the person on their left. If the roll came up 3 or 4, the players passed their numbers to the right. If the roll was a 5 or a 6, the players kept their own numbers.

The loser of each round was the one with the lowest number, while the winner was the one with the highest. The loser then had to pay a forfeit to the winner. The third player, who had neither won but lost, acted as the judge in the round. That person determined both whether the loser had satisfied the forfeit and also whether the winner's demand was appropriate.

Some players' strategy was to always write higher numbers, and hope to keep it. Others tended to shoot for the lowers, and hope it got passed onto another. The odds were 2 out of 3 the player wouldn't keep his original number. A third group would shoot for the middle of the road as insurance against either passing along a good number or being stuck with a poor one. And then there was a fourth group that learned the preferred strategies of his opponents, and adjusted accordingly.

As simple as it was, Numbers' Gambit was a perfect game to play among people who didn't really know one another. One way or another, their true natures would become revealed. Especially when it came to the redemption of forfeits.

Speaking of which...Neither Jaxen nor Oriena seemed particularly concerned with money. Understatement of the day? No, money as a wager would not be suitable in a game with these two, and it wouldn't be of particular interest to Jon – although he certainly wasn't affluent to the point of blowing his nose upon CCD dollars, either.

Yes...the forfeits should be of something more precious to them. Oriena's secrets, Jaxen's pride...yes, Jon could put his own dignity and secrets on the line for the sake of getting those two past the almost laughable facades they erected against each other, and the world.

He took another sip of his drink. Ooh, it was so clean and crisp. If Jon were to take up drinking while in Moscow, he would definitely be switching his drink of choice to vodka on ice.

“I propose the forfeits to be...what the winner of each round chooses. The winner may require the loser to truthfully answer a question, or make the loser commit an action, or even take something the loser has – even a piece of clothing. To the victor goes the spoils. Although the victor in one round may be the loser in the next, so take caution with what you demand.”


It was an odd sensation to be in control of the power of the Great Spirit while drunk. Jon's senses, while heightened, were at the same time dampened, as if his sensations were passed through a filter of fine linen before they reached his mind. If he concentrated he could anticipate the delayed reaction of the synapses of his brain to his body's movements. Which was why he was able notice the server's approach without looking, and smoothly turn to take the items she had brought him without either bumping up against her or dropping the things she handed to him.

Jon deposited the items upon the table. Yes, she had done well. Jon would have to be sure to include a tip to her when he settled his tab later. She had brought him a stack of blank white cards, a selection of pens – four, in case one ran out of ink, way to go the extra mile! – and one small cube. Red, with a set of white pips to correspond with each of the six faces – must have come from a craps table operating somewhere in the vicinity.

Jon smiled at the two, and put the cards, pens and the red die in the center of the table. “Shall we play?”