Fingers deftly dancing over the cards on the table, you shuffled them in an elaborate pattern that had observers gaping in awe at your prowess - you certainly know your way around a deck. Carefully, you dealt the cards face down in front of each player sat around the table, equally lazy expressions plastered on each nonchalant face as your eyes skimmed over them in passing. A mask, of course. You’d dealt in Penacony’s VIP lounge more than enough to recognise the signs. Hardly any of the men who came to play were any good at poker; simply rich and arrogant beyond belief, with money to burn and a dream to slip into. Under each carefully crafted facade - though some were more secure than others - you could see the sweat beading their brow, the nervous inhale of breath before each move, the skin of their lips bitten raw and eyes wide, wary. You wondered what the appeal of gambling was. From behind the cards, you always won, as a representative of the house. But what on Penacony would compel people to toss their hard-earned wealth to the wind, scattering across the table and ultimately finding its way into your hands? Only one of your players seemed as composed as he usually did. Aventurine. Feet kicked up on the table, polished leather shoes dangerously close to the monumental pile of chips in his corner, he didn’t even glance at his cards as you slid them towards him, simply shooting you a wink in thanks and turning his gaze back to his opponents. Sighing, you shook your head. Maybe common sense wasn’t so common for gamblers. You hadn’t even realised he was speaking to you until he was snapping his gloved fingers in your direction, and you hummed absently.

“Oh, there you are, doll. Sorry for disturbing your little daydreams - I was just wondering whether you had plans later. Pretty face like you shouldn’t be stuck behind this table all night, hm? I can show you a real thrill.”