You slip out of the Hagfish and make your way along the wharf through the closed fish market to the alley behind the Fatman's Feedbag. The streets are deserted this late at night, and unlike the boisterous victory party going on at the Hagfish you hear little noise coming from inside the Feedbag.
Entering Shark alley you see two men lounging outside the door your were told to meet at.
This is a little side excursion for Sasha. All other characters shoulf continue to post in the "Local Heroes" thread below.
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Sasha's foot steps echoed against the cobblestones down shark alley. Whistling a few verses of 'violet' she fingers the wooden token in her pocket.
The two men look at her trying their best to intimidate her. They scowl and move like awkward predators bent on showing their muscle-ready prowess as they get to their feet.
Touching the handle of her father's whip a sense of calm flooded back into her nervous stomach. She had killed goblins today and risked some stupid if not heroic deeds. It wasn't her nature to play hero but if she could stab a goblin she could handle a pair of over-sexed farm boys.
"Don't!" She said in the tone she learned from her mother. The very word promised there was worse to come if not heeded.
Tossing the token toward the bigger of the two men it was snatched out of the air with surprising agility.
"So farm-boys can move when they want too" Sasha silently noted to herself.
"Before you ask .." She said addressing the smaller one. "I'm here to play."
Pulling her cloak she showed the hilt of her raper. "I'm also having a bad day - I'm sure you can relate. I've been stabbed, shot at and attacked by goblins. So I 'really' need to relax. I'm sure you can appreciate the position this puts me in."
Sasha smiles at the largest of the two and gives him a mischievous-wink.
"Well if the Halfling doesn't want my affections ... I'm sure I can spare them on someone who might appreciate them" she thought mirthfully.
The man that catches the token takes a step forward and locks eyes with you. Then the other steps up beside him whispers something to his companion. The first man looks startled, then his expression softens and he speaks to you. "It is you! Your one of the ones that stopped the goblins this afternoon - one of the "heroes of Sandpoint" and all that." He looks at you dubiously. "You sure you want in there," he says casting his glance to the door behind him, "its not exactly the social elite back there. Wouldn't want to tarnish your new reputation if you get my meaning."
“Thank you for your concern,” Sasha said to the bigger of the two men.
She looked anxiously at the door. Sasha had acquired many things in last few years: friends, lovers, enemies and even gold.
“Still it would be a shame to wear out my hero’s reputation when it’s still shiny and new,” she thought to herself. It was then the piping up of another internal voice caught her attention. “Do you think they are going to erect a statue of you in the marketplace? You never claimed to be hero or even wanted to be one. What will they do give you a holiday named after you? Maybe you could even get a husband and a cottage. Perhaps you’ll settle down with a good farmer or a merchant.”
Sasha winced involuntary.
It was her mother’s second marriage to a wealthy merchant that caused Sasha to flee her home at an early age. She still bore the scars or ‘respectable people.’
“Sometimes even heroes have to get dirty,” she said to herself. The two guards nodded in understanding. “If everything was a matter of convenience there would be no heroes.”
“Besides,” she smiled, ”I might be a good influence.”
With that Sasha entered passed through the door.
The backroom of the Fatman’s Feedbag is a simple affair. Lanterns hung on the walls give the place an eerie, hazy light. The smell of lantern oil almost masks the smell of the fish market coming from the outside, and that of unwashed bodies and beer from the inside. Kind of reminds you of home actually.
There are sacks and barrels of foodstuffs heaped against the walls. Two large tables, five chairs at each, dominate the centre of the room. All eyes turn to you as the door closes and you step into the room. You recognize Gressel. “Well, you showed up after all, eh girl?” he grins. “Guess these louts will have to earn your stake after all. Take a chair.” He points to a vacant seat at the far table and pushes a pint into you hand. “The rules are simple.” He is talking to the whole room now. “Each table plays till there’s two of ya left. Those two move on to the final table. Last man standing walks away with 150 gold in their pocket. Second to last gets their stake back. The rest of you sods go home broke. Most of you have played here before, so you know we run a clean game here. For the newbs, well we don’t brook no cheating here. “ He pauses, then says, “ All right, get to it then.”
Sasha sized up each of the players before she made her way to the seat. They had chosen her 'seat' for her. It was the oldest trick in the book.
She knew the odds of a peep-hole in position to see her hand was pretty good. But this wasn't the first time when she'd been in disreputable games.
The dealer dealt the cards. She had a good idea of what she already been given by reading the looks of dismay and smug victory on each of the "players" as they looked at their hands.
The player across the table from her was a broad-backed bald militia-man. His scarred face was almost unread-able. "He might be trouble," Sasha thought.
"But the real trouble maker is right there," she whispered internally. Stealing a glance at the teenage girl who sat opposite the militia-man. The girl has all the unfettered exuberance and warmth of a funeral goer.
How a 'kid' could get into a game like this begged more than a question. It literally threw the question against a wall and held it at knife-point.
The animosity between the militia-man and the girl was palpable. They didn't say anything nor did they have too.
The other patrons had made sure to give them plenty of room at the table. This became problematic as it meant they were 'forced' to huddle closer to Sasha.
Sasha lifted the edges of her cards carefully just to catch a glimpse:
The first was a three-point black dragon. It allowed her to steal a few coins from the stakes but not much else. The rest of the cards were the regular mix of mediocrity
and false hope.
The rest of the players were picking their tithing cards to decide the first round of ante.
As she was picked her tithe card - she almost failed to notice that she held the Druid. The purple women with the staff was ironically wedged between a good bronze dragon and an evil wingless-green dragon.
This was her way to victory. She knew the routine well. She would lose every round in the gambit. She would lose feigning disgust, horror and sorrow.
Then when her tally was lowest the druid would come out. All the outcomes would be reversed
In a single heart-beat she would go from being the loser to the winner. The first gambit would be hers. It would be perfect, simple and beautiful.
Still there was something about the militia-man and girl that made her anxious.
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