Charity/Cian; after the game.
People were clearing out now. The night's work had been worth it, in the end. Laurent seemed happy (enough), he'd gotten his golden ticket to the ball, and his winnings were respectably in six digits. Almost all of it would go to the syndicate, but fuck it, he wasn't here for fun tonight.
And when he was really serious, most people didn't stand up.
He spotted her sulking by the bar, considered just passing her by. He didn't like her - whichever fucking name she was using, he still didn't like her, with her airs and her Faram-damned mask and fuck-all knew what thoughts running through her pretty little head. Didn't trust her, either, but that was neither here nor there.
But hell, was it really a victory without a bit of rubbing it in? Her he couldn't scare away, unlike Laurent; she'd come back whether he wanted her here or not. Hard to beat the thrills - or the pots - that a Wilde game could provide. So he sauntered over, leaned against the bar next to her with his bottle of beer, still mostly full though he'd been at it for half the night. "Tough luck tonight, goldie," he commented. He wasn't going to be bothered with hr name or her alias - he never had been. "Too bad, with certain people tossing around more gil than a noble sinner buying indulgences, but hell, maybe next time." He grinned. "Or not."