[Writing Assignment] Guilty Pleasure
It was late, very late, on into the dark night before E'sere finally slipped away from the living cavern and down into the depths of the Weyr. A few night owls passed him, but they had no words to share, and the bronzerider ventured further down, down, until the corridors turned dimmer and dustier, and finally he found one door that was not.
Handprints marked it out, the evidence of use in this barely touched section of the Weyr's underbelly. A light flickered out from under the door, and E'sere, glancing each way down the otherwise empty hallway, finally reached to the door's handle and turned it. It opened with a faint click, the light spreading outward. Quickly, he slipped inside, latching the door back behind him.
"About time."
E'sere turned, breaking into a grin at the voice. "Donavon. Good to see you, too," he greeted the dark-haired man, smirking dryly.
"Lovely as always. Now get your ass over here so we can deal. I still have to get out to Leyron tonight," Donavon said, matching a smirk to the wingleader's as he half-stands to fill the fourth wineglass on the table.
"Poor thing," mocked Luskian, with one of his usual grins. He was already dealing, counting under his breath, "One, one, one, one, two, two, two, two," as he laid cards out for himself and Donavon, E'sere and L'ret. The wingsecond was quiet, picking up his cards and studying him with a look of intense concentration that did him little good. He was almost invariably the first to fold, the most cautious bettor--it was a wonder, E'sere often reflected, that he even played with him.
Donavon, seated to Luskian's right, tossed his bet into the pot, a thirty-second, and around the table they each followed suit. The next time around, Donavon upped the bet to the eighth they had set as their limit--well, that Luskian and L'ret had set as their limit. Donavon, with his small-scale counterfeiting operation still in place, and E'sere, with his knot and his relations, didn't worry so much about what money was thrown away. As they were also the best players, it was even less consequential to them; L'ret's poker face was laughable, and Luskian only played for the fun of it.
As the hand stretched on and others followed it, the conversation picked up in slow and idle bursts, talk of who was seeing whom now and who was seeking what promotion--all the gossip men like to attribute to their female counterparts, though they're just as happy to discuss it themselves.
They never talked business. They played until the small hours, and finally one by one drifted to bed, until only E'sere was left, shuffling the cards again and toying with his emptied glass. And finally, long after the others, he retreated himself, returning to the world with his public face set in place for another month.
Handprints marked it out, the evidence of use in this barely touched section of the Weyr's underbelly. A light flickered out from under the door, and E'sere, glancing each way down the otherwise empty hallway, finally reached to the door's handle and turned it. It opened with a faint click, the light spreading outward. Quickly, he slipped inside, latching the door back behind him.
"About time."
E'sere turned, breaking into a grin at the voice. "Donavon. Good to see you, too," he greeted the dark-haired man, smirking dryly.
"Lovely as always. Now get your ass over here so we can deal. I still have to get out to Leyron tonight," Donavon said, matching a smirk to the wingleader's as he half-stands to fill the fourth wineglass on the table.
"Poor thing," mocked Luskian, with one of his usual grins. He was already dealing, counting under his breath, "One, one, one, one, two, two, two, two," as he laid cards out for himself and Donavon, E'sere and L'ret. The wingsecond was quiet, picking up his cards and studying him with a look of intense concentration that did him little good. He was almost invariably the first to fold, the most cautious bettor--it was a wonder, E'sere often reflected, that he even played with him.
Donavon, seated to Luskian's right, tossed his bet into the pot, a thirty-second, and around the table they each followed suit. The next time around, Donavon upped the bet to the eighth they had set as their limit--well, that Luskian and L'ret had set as their limit. Donavon, with his small-scale counterfeiting operation still in place, and E'sere, with his knot and his relations, didn't worry so much about what money was thrown away. As they were also the best players, it was even less consequential to them; L'ret's poker face was laughable, and Luskian only played for the fun of it.
As the hand stretched on and others followed it, the conversation picked up in slow and idle bursts, talk of who was seeing whom now and who was seeking what promotion--all the gossip men like to attribute to their female counterparts, though they're just as happy to discuss it themselves.
They never talked business. They played until the small hours, and finally one by one drifted to bed, until only E'sere was left, shuffling the cards again and toying with his emptied glass. And finally, long after the others, he retreated himself, returning to the world with his public face set in place for another month.