#gambl4r.

a soft hum, disappointed yet no less amused, seemed to echo throughout the now - empty room — save for margot and sevika; the latter having fallen heavily into the seat at the tables head, features set with her irritation at the remaining chembarons and their infuriating inability to come together for the good of zaun. from her position slouched languidly in her own seat, margot can see the way her jaw shifts with the harsh grinding of teeth and it only proves to feed her mirth.

another meeting, the same outcome. snide jabs, petty squabbling, loathing words and goading remarks spit from each attendee, all intent on having the last jab. work together, sevika insisted. they don't know how we fight, she'd claimed. we can win, she'd resolved: but none of them wanted to win. not for zaun itself: but their own gain. unless they were perched upon the throne of the city of iron and glass, it could burn — lest their assistance mistakenly aid in another taking what was rightfully margot's theirs. it was laughable, really: how she believed her words had the potential to sway them into an alliance of any degree. as long as that spot remained open they'd sooner chew off their own limbs than work together.

" it won't work. " margot's voice cuts through the silence after the scuffling of boots grew silent, her girls sent out to ensure the other nosy fools left. raising from her seat, the light pad of her boots cuts through the quiet as she strides over to sevika. her grin is a twisted mix of mischievous and sultry, and once she's stood in front of her, dismissive of her clearly irked state, a gloved hand extends to push firmly against a broad shoulder. she leaves no time for complaint before she's invading personal space and sliding into her lap once her back hits solid wood.

" the last thing they'll ever do — " margot breathes out, settling heavily onto strong thighs now situated between her own. she speaks as though she isn't one of them — as though she isn't vying for the very same seat they were. she doesn't see herself as one of them because she regards herself as better. above them. despite how she stoops to identical lows.

being a kiramman meant caitlyn was no stranger to the aristocracy of piltover and their lavish, extravagant parties held for a plethora of reasons: some monumental, most inconsequential. expected to one day become head of the house, she was dragged to each party throughout her childhood with no exceptions — save for ailments which may have proven contagious. over the years she'd grown accustomed to upholding the mirage of an avid socialite; feigning interest in hoskel's mindless complaints about almost everything or one sided conversations with heimerdinger as he attempted to 'connect' with the younger generation. shadowing her mother as she flitted from council member to council member, house head to house head, as though some lost duckling in need of constant supervision had festered a loathing for the events.

it didn't grow any less frequent as she aged. yet now, after all is said and done — her mothers death, the war — caitlyn once more finds herself surrounded by bumbling bodies intoxicated with only the finest wines and liquors one could acquire. not by choice, however. an invitation extended to the kiramman family: their presence requested at the latest congregation. tobias couldn't make it. he hadn't been the same since her mothers death, and so the responsibility fell to her. as all things now had. try as she might to pass, her attempts to help heal the undercity would be useless should her name fall to ruin — which, with all she's come to know, wouldn't be beyond the capability of piltover's elites.

socialising had been kept to a minimum, barely able to keep distaste from her gaze and venom from dripping off her sharp tongue in every conversation held with those who viewed her as a traitor for beginning to do what was right. what she should have always done. what piltover should have always done. their foul gazes and words of snide condescension fell deaf on uninterested ears, and as the night dragged on she found herself in the company of sevika. councillor sevika, should she say. part of caitlyn feels regretful for thrusting the position upon her. not under the belief she wasn't capable, but because she knew the council. knew the families who'd taken the place of their deceased. knew that they were not easy nor accepting. that sevika's position would not be taken in stride. yet, despite as much, she knew if anyone were capable of dealing with them it would be her.

well aware of the woman's penchant for silence, caitlyn knew she would provide a much needed moment of respite from the seemingly never ending swell of people who wished to converse with her over the evenings duration. who wanted to pry open the still healing wound of her mothers death to offer their condolences. words hadn't been exchanged, only lowered chins in a brief nod of greeting — caitlyn's tentative, for she is still acutely aware of the damage she'd caused: of what she'd done. yet, as they watched bodies mingle within towering gilded walls, caitlyn can't help but scoff at just how jolly everyone in sight appeared.

quite literally. the skin around one of her eyes is still turning an uncanny green and she's had a limp for the past two days. still, a girl has to unwind from an increasingly dangerous and terse criminal career somehow. the night continues on in a slow-motion blur of neon lights, sweat, unfamiliar music. it feels like she's been breathless for hours. endless dancing and gambling and general debauchery does that to a person, she supposes. kay's had a drink or two, and she's bought quite a few more for others, betting on inane things with complete strangers and inevitably losing. good old fashioned fun has been harder and harder to come by, so she indulges in it all with an unashamed greed. pause on a moment: kay exits stage right (accompanied by riotous peals of laughter) from the women's bathroom, bright eyes instantaneously landing on an unmoving force of woman. she knows, even from her first leisurely glance, that this is going to be trouble. the stranger has shoulders like a fucking wall and dark hair resting over darker eyes. duly noted.

fast forward: the bass slams from the heart of the bar to the outside, eeking out where a cinderblock keeps the back door ajar. sevika’s pressed into her, heavy and consistent as she bullies kay into the wall, burning hot against an already stiflingly humid night. their lips locked in some ego-fueled battle, picture-perfect amongst the sleeze of the undercity. the woman is troublingly handsome and every inch of her reeks of danger. she tastes of metallic split-lip blood, of cigarette smoke, some distant alcoholic concoction. kay smiles, mid-kiss, deft hand slinking from sevika’s shoulder down her torso. she could do this with more finesse, make her touch light and undetectable, but she decidedly doesn’t. instead, her hand makes its way into sevika’s pocket. jackpot. kay's head tilts back, skull pressing into the concrete of the wall behind her, and her eyes are momentarily laser-focused on the spit-slick shine on sevika’s lips. if she puts any ounce of thought into the look on the woman’s face, she’ll lose her (already tenuous) control of her suave-smuggler persona and crumble. in spite of her momentary distraction, kay's lips split into a smirk, one hand happily smushed against sevika’s stomach, the other holding up a well-loved cigarette case between her fingers. "got a light?"

one of the few perks that came alongside employment beneath the kingpin of zaun was after hours access to the last drop. leizu was partial to a drink on the odd occasion — though not when waves of crashing, squawking patrons that reeked of sweat and stale liquor filled the bar to the brim each and every night: leaving almost no room to breathe or even think. years of putting herself in unsavory social situations for occupational purposes has long since steeled her to the idea of conversing for enjoyment.

a maroon painted finger absently traces the rim of her cup, chin perched heavily on the palm of her hand with a melancholy sigh that seems to echo throughout the barren room. she relished in the tranquil lull of silence as dark eyes flicker across the marred wood of the counter. even when the door behind her creaks open and a heavy thud of boots approaches she remains static — there were very few people who'd show up this late, considering not many were permitted the luxery.

sullen features quirk into something a little more . . . fake; sour look softening, pursed lips parting to take a drawn out sip of her drink. there were appearances she had to keep up. just as she'd suspected, sevika stalks up to the bar, surly expression seemingly more prominent than usual, to slip behind it and pour herself a drink with practiced ease. her hand reaches for a bottle leizu had come to realise was almost strictly reserved for silco's right - hand. neither say anything, scarcely acknowledging one another until she catches two fingers rubbing at no doubt aching temples from her peripheral.

ciri had managed to blend in . . . somewhat well within the impoverished streets of what she'd come to know as the undercity. many referred to it by another name: zaun ( amongst some minor others ) but there was an equal mention of both titles thrown around throughout the locations she'd visited in an attempt to garner information. she wasn't as foolish as to believe she could galavant around with two swords hung over her back, not if she wanted to stay low, so she'd scaled a building a few days after her unprecedented arrival to hide them: wrapped in dirty cloth and covered in debris to avoid wandering fingers potentially finding them.

it was different to temeria. far, far different. even in other escapades travelling time and space, the witcher had never come across something quite like it. it seemed as though they lived in slums; many buildings derelict and rotting, piles of trash littering a majority streets that weren't high traffic, beggars around almost every corner. while some parts looked much better off. yet it was far more industrialised than anywhere in the continent. it was all unfamiliar; and while it didn't scare her — as not many things did — it did make her uneasy.

most of where she'd derived her information from, or lack thereof, had been from bars. the more lively equivalent of a tavern, if she were to compare. vastly different atmospheres, but the same base premise of alcohol and music. except the music was constant and pounding, sending shockwaves through her chest and making it feel as though sturdy bones were rattling in the cage of her flesh. the lights were another thing; bright, colourful and flashing, often resulting in her hiding beneath the lip of her hood to avoid them. dandelion would love it, no doubt — he'd thrive anywhere music thrummed and liquor flowed. the thought of him makes surly features sour even more, if it were possible.