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OOC:
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@Queenie @Fenris I'll say you would probably stayed mostly in the Clerk's Ward. Some apparently affluent young strangers offered you rooms at a place called the Civic Festhall, some sort of grand art gallery, opera house, and seemingly some kind of school, all rolled into one. It was so full of shops and cafes that at first you thought it was the whole of the city.
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(Got carried away...
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The small crowd doesn't seem to mind the presence of another spectator. Indeed, a few of them are quite happy to ogle back at the beautiful woman in their midst. Indeed, compared to the onlookers watching the game, to say nothing of the players gathered around the table, Shard is perhaps the least strange stranger present.
On one side, by far the largest part of the crowd, are several burly men and women, muscular arms tanned with the fire of the forge, still wearing the leather aprons of the day. They're standing behind a large metal cube, propped up on an orchard crate and a wooden stool, facing the table. The front of the box is a wide frog-like mouth, two flat eyes like saucers, and an expression of great perspicacity.
A colourful spread of large, dog-eared cards is laid out in front of the modron, for all to see. The cube-shaped creature reaches out with hinged, metallic fingers-- not so different from Rusty's, in fact-- and scoops up the pot one-handed, whereupon it begins quickly piling the coins into neat little stacks of copper and silver. You notice the thing doesn't seem to have any legs underneath it.
A Harmonium guard is his neighbour, who seems to be in an amiable temper despite the dwindling number of coins strewn by his right hand-- a dark-skinned human who, oddly, seems to have two helmets, both the one on his head and one sitting on the table beside him.
Straight across the table the lucky cube, a wizard leans back in his chair, the wide brim of his pointed hat pulled over his lengthy beard. His hand dangles to the floor, still loosely clutching a tumbler of amber liquid. Occasionally, he snores. A tiny, hideous little fiend, which one would assume is the man's familiar, dances anxiously from foot to foot, clutching its horns and tail in dismay at the terrible hand laid out in front of it.
One of the modron's opponents suddenly pushes his chair back and staggers away through the crowd, cursing in oaths both unfamiliar to Shard and yet blasphemous to her on some subconscious level.
"I Win Again. I Believe That Would Make It This Unit's-- I Mean, My Deal," says the modron. It smooths the cards on the table into a perfectly straight stack, although it seemingly barely did more than wave its hand over them. It picks them up, takes the small brick of cards between both hands and bends it just so-- then it stops. "Unless You Will Insist Again That I Not Deal?"
The guardsman nods with mock solemnity, and chuckles.
"Sigh. Fine." The modron adjusts itself with its other hand. Its tungsten-coloured eyes stop on Shard, as the newcomer. It thrusts the deck of cards at her. "Will You Please Shuffle These, Madame? These Sore Losers Maintain That I Am Incapable Of Producing The Desired Randomness."
The wizard's quasit engulfs a hunk of bread from its master's demolished dinner-plate. "We say you cheat!" the demon snarls, spewing crumbs across the table.
"And I Say That To Play Well Is The Object Of Any Game. Will You Do Me The Honour, My Good Woman?"
The modron continues to hold out the cards, its arm quite motionless.
Picayune frowned. Where in da hell I be? He ain't never 'eard of Nawlins?! The effigy took a good look around the bar, his eyes ghosting over the four-legged barmaid, the posey of malformed dead rats in his hand, and Eurid. His look fell at last on Shard, with that weird crystal poking out of her head. We ain't in Kansas no mo'." Picayune returned his attention to Eurid and prepared himself for the exertion of forming words.[/section]
