stick'em up

For him it took the blood of sacrifice, the scourge of glory soaked in all of those he had ever known. A song to cherish the memories, a feast to indulge in all that was sweet before enduring the endless bitterness that was defeat. A Flame Chase Journey to rattle stars and echo in a battlecry that would ignite the very cosmos themselves. The prince settles in own thoughts still yet like a swirling mass of ichor tugging like a hundred hands at his tired heels. He grunts a half-hearted approval when the bartender makes their rounds and collects his empty glass, blood-soaked mane shaking to signify he would not indulge himself anymore on this night.

Instead, the weight of his arms settles against the smooth wood of the countertop before him in loose fold, fiery gaze drooping as his chin dipped low to settle on top of them.

"You're right. It isn't something we find. At the end of our journey, it finds us."

He pauses, a gruff and low laugh following after the other's last words.

"That's right. I will give a thousand deaths and a thousand more if it means seeing that world rise."

“Had   a   world   once,”   he   says   finally,   low,   like   the   words   might   break   if   spoken   too   loud.   “Dust-red   skies.   Wind   carried   the   smell   of   iron   and   burnt   sage.   Wasn’t   much   really.   Just   miners,   ranchers,   traders,   folk   tryin’   to   carve   out   a   patch   of   dirt   the   IPC   hadn’t   got   its   claws   in   yet.”   His   gaze   drifts,   not   toward   Mydei,   but   beyond   him,   past   the   world,   past   the   years.

“My   little   girl…   she   didn't   get   very   far   in   life.   She   was   barely   takin'   her   first   steps   as   I   reckon.   Well   before   it   all   came   down.”   A   breath   leaves   him,   not   quite   a   sigh,   not   quite   a   laugh.   Something   torn   between   the   two.   “Then   the   IPC   came   callin’.   Said   the   land   was   ‘reclaimed   assets.’   Said   the   people   were   ‘noncompliant.’”   His   jaw   works   tight.   “They   leveled   the   ridge   first.   Called   it   containment   protocol.   What   they   really   meant   was   cleansing.” 

this guy is either trying to lose or he's entirely unhinged. either way, the stoneheart couldn't be happier they've found an even playing field. boredom runs rampant through the bars here as the drunken and equally delusional. everybody has a poison, so they say. the gambler is in no rush, see? half of the game is gauging your opponent-if you can't see their hand then make them reveal it.

interestingly enough, its hard to gauge someone who isn't human. every little physical cue, the faintest twitch or even little tick... none of that can be thrown onto the table when a machine is involved. aventurine smiles, leans forward with a dangerous lilt of his voice, eyes hidden just beneath the sharp rim of his hat.

He   shifts,   slow   and   deliberate,   one   arm   pulling   back   as   he   reaches   into   his   coat,   not   for   a   gun,   but   something   smaller.   Thinner.   He   produces   a   deck,   its   new   but   it's   spot   had   been   once   an   old   and   well   worn   one,   corners   soft   with   use   but   still   deadly   sharp   in   his   hands.   The   cards   whisper   as   he   shuffles,   one-handed,   like   they   know   better   than   to   argue   with   the   man   holding   them.   “Surprise   you,   huh,”   he   echoes,   voice   low,   dragging   across   the   table   like   the   scrape   of   spurs   on   wood.   “Ain’t   that   a   dangerous   invitation.”

He   doesn’t   look   at   the   deck   as   he   cuts   it.   Just   watches   Aventurine   with   that   same   unflinching   desert-gaze,   like   he’s   not   playing   a   game,   but   laying   down   gravestones.   A   card   flips   face-up   on   the   table:   Queen   of   Hearts.

“Back   home,”   Boothill   drawls,   tapping   the   card   once,   “this   one   meant   trouble.   Meant   someone   was   bluffin’   with   more   than   cards.   Meant   you   had   a   choice   to   make   well-love,   or   lead.”   He   fans   the   rest   of   the   deck   in   a   perfect   arc.   “But   I   figure   you're   the   type   to   play   both.”   His   eyes   narrow   again,   this   time   not   with   suspicion,   but   something   damn   near   like   respect.   Dangerous,   dazzling   respect.

「𝔟𝔞𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔞𝔫𝔤!」- Cursed felt even worse. Even though that was most certainly partly what he was.

He was sure this guy was making fun of him - at least in part. He'd been about to drop his head into his hands when the other man -- Boothill -- spoke again: "World don't whisper 'bout nothin' it don't fear, y'know?"

Everything whimpered out into a deep sigh that came from the very bottom of Vash's lungs. He looked ahead, no longer looking at Boothill. Then he turned his head down to look at his own boots.

considering the tricks that come with the harvest's trades, he's none too surprised by the cyborg usually turned... human? phew, he's certainly one for the ipc's books. too bad the corporation has no say around here or else they may add a few more zeroes just because of a flawless jawline. anyway, the gambler graciously accepts the small treat he'd ordered-something like a sunday topped in fall themed candies before sipping at his cider with a content exhale.

“Ha!   Yer   damn   right   it’s   a   good   payout.   Guess   even   the   cosmos   likes   t’   throw   me   a   bone   now   an’   then.”   He   twirls   one   of   the   festival’s   candied   apples   in   hand   before   biting   into   it   like   it   owes   him   money,   crimson   glaze   cracking   under   his   teeth.   A   pleased   hum   follows,   taste,   real   taste,   not   just   memory.

"You're a hell of a thrillseeker, then, if you wanna die that bad, man. You could just go to a bar with one of those mechanical bull, but nooo..."

A sigh.

as multicolored shadows dance across his visage with one explosion after another, he hums in amused thought, allowing the air between them to take on a softer weight.

“Still,”   he   says   around   a   grin,   “I   can’t   say   I   mind   it.   Reputation’s   a   funny   thing.   Folk   write   stories   ‘bout   us,   make   us   bigger,   meaner,   holier,   or   darker   than   we   ever   really   were.   Maybe   tonight’s   one   of   those   rare   chances   to   be   just   a   man   enjoyin’   a   bit   of   skyfire.” 

all that glitters like the stoneheart's own precious gold is a genuine gem-cut smile as he watches that card, a precarious little thing, attempt to flutter inevitably upon those sand-kissed winds only to land like a winner at his feet. surely this isn't his first time at dealing such a hot hand. oh, the stories he's heard-most worth ten times the profit he'd land on banking profit in a new planet untouched by the ipc's schemes, and well worth the payoff with continued investment.

hands light on his own hips for a moment, those wisping winds caressing gambler's cheeks with a double-dealing tenderness that would just as soon cut through flesh the moment he dared turn away. besides, everyone knows you never turn your back to a galaxy ranger. it isn't as if this is his first time all-out wager with an opponent who could just as easily push all of his chips into one corner if he really tried. he bends over to pluck the fallen card before slipping it into the deck strapped at his side, humming all the while. a gloved hand gestures towards the nearest bar.

“First   round   on   you,   huh?”   he   drawls,   mouth   quirking   as   he   tips   his   hat   up   just   enough   to   let   his   eyes   catch   Aventurine’s   reflection   in   the   bar’s   glass   door.   “Careful   with   offers   like   that,   friend.   Some   folks   might   think   you’re   buyin’   goodwill,   but   I   ain't   about   ta   refuse.”   Inside,   the   light   is   low   and   amber,   thick   with   the   scent   of   liquor   and   grit.   Boothill   claims   a   seat   across   from   the   gambler   but   doesn’t   touch   the   glass   that’s   set   before   him,   just   studies   it,   then   studies   Aventurine   harder.

“You   talk   about   rewards   like   a   man   who’s   never   lost   one   worth   keepin’,”   he   says   after   a   moment,   tone   smooth   but   edged   like   a   honed   blade.   “But   I   reckon   you   know   the   sting   same   as   anyone.   or   more   -so   than   others   huh?   Maybe   that’s   why   you   chase   your   wins   so   hard.”

❝ that depends how good you are at remembering faces, i suppose. ❞