He’d been going out more than usual recently. His luck was up, almost supernaturally good (he considered, for a brief time, whether his prophetess had anything to do with that, but the night she had clung to his arm like the mindless ingenue she wasn’t, she’d been just as happily surprised by his sudden and immense victories), and it seemed a crime of the unfortunate sort to waste it.
Then, too, there was nothing like a casino for hours of distraction, and if one could make money while getting distracted, what was not to like?
It had been cards earlier, then briefly the roulette wheel. It was dice now, and one of his opponents -- on a lucky streak of her own, it seemed -- made the game that much more exciting. If he was going to lose tonight, it would be here. He blew on his dice for luck, as though he were in battle (or perhaps more accurately, it was that he blew on them in battle as though he were at a casino table) and let them fly.
The earth moved.
He added his own, “What the bleeding fuck? to the ensuing shouts and commotion as the furniture rocked and one of the chandeliers came crashing into a nearby table, sending shards of glass everywhere.
Patrons scattered (some of them taking the opportune moment to snatch up some wayward tokens) and the ground continued to roll disconcertingly under their feet; cocktail glasses shattered, alcohol staining the green-felt tables and leaking into the cards.
Ofelia rarely cursed, but now let out one single “Shit”, a singular bomb uttered and planted in the air between them and their other two opponents, who looked similarly thrown. She shook off her hands, which were now dripping with white wine, sickly-sweet and sticky. The lights flickered. Attendants were working their way down the aisles between tables, shouting orders for everyone to remain calm.
“Well,” she said. “This seems like a fairly ill omen.”
Gamblers were a superstitious lot, avoiding their unlucky numbers and favouring their favourites, muttering entreaties to Lady Luck like others prayed to gods. Ofelia was half-laughing, trying to laugh it off, but the woman was obviously rattled, perturbed. This had never happened before. Her gaze crept inexorably towards the exit: was another hulking beast about to come tearing through the district, ripping buildings from their foundations? She could so easily remember and picture the shoulders of Famfrit, a thundering silhouette moving through the Mist.
The shaking subsided, though the panic didn’t. No further disturbance was forthcoming; Cian’s network device was blinking rapidly, dozens of messages coming in at once from his sources. The guilds had their alert systems, but he was a paranoid man; he had his own.
The truth of the matter was apparent shortly after. “Everyone calm the fuck down!” He was no bard, nor orator -- he couldn’t make them believe it, but he had a loud voice and a commanding presence; it would have to be enough. “Earthquake. Get the hell outside in an orderly fucking fashion!” Who knew what else could come crashing down? Not to mention aftershocks. Wasn’t that a thing that happened? He’d never been in an earthquake before, but as always, better safe than dead.
“Lost my Faram-damned dice toss,” he grumbled before turning to Fee. “A little help getting these hysterical cats, please?”
“Dice seem the least of our troubles now.” Ofelia spared one lingering glance for the disrupted game of craps. It was a shame; she’d have liked the opportunity to see how this ended. Indulging their competitive drive, this comfortable rhythm that had grown between them.