On the Precipice [@Sigurd]
All around the casino were a large number of haggard, desperate faces. People who were desperate for... for what? For money? For life? For something, most definitely. Each table staffed by a dealer, swarmed by the lucky and unlucky, the wily and the naive. And here was Solf J. Kimblee at one of the smaller tables on the fringe, playing an innocent little game.
Well... almost innocent.
Poker was not very difficult when one possessed both an impeccable poker face and a knack for psychologically unhinging the opposition, both of which Kimblee wielded with great aplomb. It was all about finding the right words, the right trigger phrases to make them doubt and second guess themselves, and there was no interference from the dealers. After all, part of the game was mental fortitude. The alchemist merely looked on as yet another defeated opponent slinked away from the table, but quirked an eyebrow at the new face that had just arrived.
“My my... seems like someone willing to put up a little more fight. Care for a few hands?”
