Burned Dwarf Gets the Worm

[Anatole]

Anatole has returned to the bar he had found for his chat with the Onyx Sovereign, John Turner. See, he spied that the bar had a pool table and he hoped it would afford him and his fellow Lost enough privacy while they talked. It would also be well away from that window seat with that damned flickering light. The light is still there, still dying; pouting at him from across the narrow space. The other lights are still dim and low; shadows abound. The other two patrons might as well be ghosts, hunched over their beers and nursing whatever pain and misadventures occupy their time. Alcohol and old cigarette smoke taint the air.

No one in their right mind would come here. Maybe Colonel Worm might kick some life into the place.
Endymion

[Colonel Worm]

No one in their right mind? Good thing Worm does not belong to that particular club.

In fact, this establishment is precisely the kind of place that calls to the Colonel. Which is why he's walking through the door at just this moment. Wearing a white tank-top, some jeans, cowboy boots, a red military-style beret. And is that a string of pearls?

Orders a beer and a shot of wild turkey. Does the shot, sips the beer. Looks around. Ignores any unfriendly glances he might get. Supremely comfortable.

Anatole!

The Goblin breaks into a grin and snags his brew. Makes his way to the pool table where the burned dwarf has settled in.

"Fancy meeting you here," the Colonel says, trying to play it cool. Though it's obvious he's psyched about this turn of fate. "You looking for a game?"

[Anatole]

Anatole watches the Goblin's entrance with some amusement, a smug-cat face slowly taking over his features. The wizened knows, obviously, and chooses to hide behind a bottle of light beer. The pale ale is tepid, perspiring. It tastes awful.

"I go where there is darkness and mystery."

A jovial undercurrent ruins the dwarf's affected tone.

"Damn straight. I've been trying to catch up with you for some time but we seem to miss one another. Let's remedy that. This place suit you?"

Anatole places down his beer and selects a cue. His collection of shadows wrap around his vacated stool and stretch out along the floor after him...

Like ikk.

[Colonel Worm]

The Goblin happily guzzles his own swill. No complaints here.

"And I go where there's booze, battle, and a fighting chance to get laid," Worm replies with a rakish grin, tipping his beer in a salute to the other Wizened. He is not mocking the dwarf, only stating his own priorities.

"Well that's the best news I've heard all week. Let's rack and crack, bub," following Anatole toward the cues. Light on his feet, almost dancing with the twisting shadows of the Autumn's mantle. The Colonel's own raiment of summer fractalizes the air about him, both playful and threatening. An interesting counterpoint.

"This place suits me like an ace of spades. I'll rack, you crack. You like eight ball or nine ball?" Worm can play either. Upon Anatole's statement of preference, he will set up accordingly. He rolls the cue ball down to the dwarf's end of the table.

[Anatole]

The burned dwarf is watching Worm. When the goblin finishes his salute, the dwarf actually laughs. Anatole barks a laugh, loud and caustic, which cuts into the doleful silence of the bar. His eyes gleam with mirth as he scuttles to the table with a cue.

"Eight ball."

A smile spreads through Anatole's effusive curls and he catches the cue ball with his free hand. He waits for Worm to finish setting up, taking the time to take in his surroundings (clock where the two remaining customers are). A frown slithers onto his forehead for a moment, then darts away.

"Had a mind to talk with you for some time now. But every time I get cornered by someone else or some such. Or we end up running with different social circles... I guess we could be working with each other for some time given the way things are. Cab I ask a few impertinent questions? Get to know you better? Feel free to fire some at me."

And they were off! The burned dwarf sent the cue ball off on a carefully articulated line that shaved only a few balls off the pack. The cue rolled delicately to mid-table and stopped. With nothing sunk, the game went to the Goblin.

"Why the red cap?"

Anatole moved to collect his beer and took a regretful chug. From the measured tone of his question, Worm could somehow knew his fellow wizened was not talking about his current attire.

Somewhere there is a thread for running pool with dice rolls (in a scene) and I can't remember where to find it. Bummer. Will running the pool game through narrative be okay with you?

[Colonel Worm]

"Eight it is," Worm replies breezily. Nimble fingers quickly arranges the balls by number and color, tighten them, and then the rack is removed.

Worm steps back, waiting for Anatole to break with a contented smile. This is his speed, right here. The Goblin sniffs the air, noting the scent. "They let you smoke in here?" Casting his white-within-white eyes about the joint. If not, he's got his vape too. Still, nothing beats the real thing.

A pull off his beer while the Burned Dwarf gets through the preamble. "Can't help it if we're both popular, right?" Two Wizened in high demand. Will wonders never cease? "But yeah, I've been looking for the opportunity myself. We've got things in common, after all." A wink.

"Go ahead. I'm an open book. And if for some reason I don't want to answer something, I'll tell you to fuck right off."

Anatole breaks and Worm whistles his approval. "Nice spread." Circling the table, examining the lay of the land.

The Autumn lobs his first question just as Worm is bending to take his shot. He looks up, "Because it looks good. Corner pocket." Shoots. Makes it.

Realizes there's more to the question. Red cap.... Oh!

Easy. "I've been soldering as long as I can remember. I'm good at it. And it's good to do it for the right reasons." He's done it for the wrong reasons plenty enough.

Bends to take his next shot. This time he misses. "Plus I want revenge." There's a smile on his lips when he says the last bit. But it's cold. Like old Ahab, Worm has 'that that's bloody on his mind.' "How 'bout you, why aren't you in red?" Worm's heard stories of the Dwarf's capabilities. He is a paladin after all. The Colonel's not sure what all that means for the Autumn Court, but he knows a paladin is supposed to kick ass.

Gesturing to the table, "All yours."

Fine by me!

[Anatole]

Anatole is watching the game, his eyes narrowed to almost predatory slits. He emits a low whistle and bobs his head when Worm takes his first shot. Then it his turn to carefully stalk the table and examine the lay of the land.

"I came very close in the beginning."

He almost takes a shot but thinks differently about it at the last minute, changes his angle and shaves another ball from the pack. Its a cunning move and almost succeeds - the ball kisses the cushion next to a mid-table pocket, but stubbornly refuses to slide in. Anatole grunts sourly.

"For much the same reason as yourself... Revenge. Turned out my revenge is pretty complicated... And to pursue it requires a lot of knowledge. That path led to the Ash. IfI ever get my revenge, it is going to be very cold."

So why did the wizened sound like he was relishing the prospect.

[Colonel Worm]

Worm watches Anatole size up the table, sucking down beer with his usual gusto.

The next shot misses and Worm hisses through his teeth, sharing the Dwarf's disappointment. "Good shot. Close too."

He squats next to the table to check the lines, talking as he does so, "Well, you ever want to come play for the other team, you know where to find me." He stands, giving his fellow lost a shit-eating grin. "Kidding, of course."

But he waggles his brow as if to say Or am I?

Leans over, takes his shot, sinks one side pocket. But then the cue ball ricochets and gets buried in the corner. "All yours." Not seeming to mind too much.

Revenge is revenge, way Worm sees it. "It takes all kinds, friend. All kinds. I'll drink to yours if you'll drink to mine." He drains his beer.

Calls over to the bar tender, bold as brass: "Another round?!" Points to both himself and Anatole, not even bothering to ask first. Worm'll drink it should the other Wizened pass. "And two shots of Turkey? Thanks!"

Back to the conversation: "So how long you been back? And how much of that's been here?"

[Anatole]

Anatole waits but a moment, then drains his beer with Worm. Unlike the Goblin, Anatole can't fully handle the cheap ale and coughs politely at the end. Grimacing he shakes his head and lays down the empty bottle.

"Urgh! Give me Bourbon or Whiskey any day. This is piss."

He focussed his attention on the game, the line of his mouth vanishing beneath his sea of effusive curls. He checked his surroundings before responding.

"Four or five years. I think. Around two of that has been here. I didn't really fit with the first 'hold I wandered into. They were good enough to me; don't get me wrong - I've heard stories of how some Freeholds treat their Wizened. Or Elementals. Or the like. There was just nothing there for me and they didn't exactly offer anything beyond simple safety. And well... working with the Ash... You realise that safety is a relative term."

He took his penalty shot, easing his errant ball into the middle pocket. From there, he picked off one of his balls lingering with the rapidly diminishing pack.

And got the cue ball hopelessly tangled in the pack. His next shot succeeded in breaking the pack but failed sink any of his remaining balls and gifted Worm some dangerous opportunities.

"How about you? And how much of you now is a response to, well, this!"

Anatole spoke while he studied the table before he made his third (ill fated shot). He gestured around him, indicating his clothes and also his height; possibly even his very build.

[Colonel Worm]

Worm accepts the beers and the shots from an exasperated looking bar tender. Deliveries, it seems, is a step too far. Hands a shot to Anatole. "Well, I got you more piss. Shot of Wild Turkey too. That should help."

The Goblin raises his shot glass Salut. And down the hatch. Doesn't exactly wait for the Dwarf. Anatole's a big boy. He can catch up.

"I seen a few places like that. Usually little podunk pieces of shit. Needless to say, I didn't hang around." Though he might've lingered on just long enough to make some trouble. "The right spot makes all the difference," he comments, sympathetic. "Sacramento seems like the right spot to me." It's a statement of allegiance. He gives his fellow Wizened a questioning look, wondering if he feels the same way. "And safety's always relative. Corner pocket."

He sinks the shot with a sigh of approval. Straightens to stalk the table again.

"Something like ten years? Early on's kind of a blur. I showed up in Mexico City. Friendly enough place. Lots of folks wearing the Red Hat," call back. "But I was caught up in other shit too. It was a mess. And I was a mess. Eventually, got my head on straight enough to leave town. Did a lot of leaving for a while there. Until," he takes his next shot. Misses. "Here we are."

The Goblin gets what the Autumn is driving at. "You know, I can't say. Suppose I'm not that introspective. I'm sure that's some of it. I don't know. It's just me, I guess? Whatever that means after everything." Maybe, on an even deeper level, it's a provocation. A way of spitting inTheir collective eye. Here I am fuckers. Try me.