Reneda

Chapter 1: A bad bet, and a worse gamble

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Men's fate hinged on rigged dice. Smoke of cheap cigarettes engulfed the room while men growled in laughter — chugging down beer. The warm lights and jazzy tunes made the place seem like an ordinary gambling house, distracting visitors from the dubious forces at play. WinTheNight, the neon banner in front said, an ironic name given the all-time count of visitor wins laid at zero.

A man with a chestnut goatee stared with strained eyes at the spinning roulette wheel. He wore a sleeveless shirt despite his skinny body, and a savanna of unwashed hair rested on his arms. "Come on, even, even, even," he mumbled. Empty as they were, the words emanated a sense of hope; he could win and take home enough Gelri to live slow for the upcoming months.

Before him sat the dealer in a purple tuxedo, complimented by a top hat, a brilliant rose, and wide, pink sunglasses. WinTheNight was written on his back with overdone typography consisting of curly lines and a convoluted font. An expensive odor of mint and sweet flowers mantled him, and it blended with the surrounding, eye-watering cigarette stench.

The wheel finished spinning. Red sixteen.

Both hands on his sweaty neck, the gambler gazed at the floor. His headache suppressed by alcohol returned. "Damn, damn. I really thought it would be even. It should have been even. Why sixteen? Damn." Fingers pulling at his oil-slicked hair, he cursed his luck. Salary worth three months of mining labor vanished in a mere minute, money he could have fixed his house with. His palms reddened, eyes wettened — but he was to blame. Or so he believed.

The dealer clapped his hands with a perfect rhythm, the claps muffled by white gloves. "Two-thousand Gelri goes to the house," he said, hauling the coins to himself. "Care for another round?"

A man who overheard glanced at the table. He took a drag from his cigarette. Sixteen is uneven? he thought as his fingers played with a knife. A brief chuckle, and he shrugged it off, unknowing he would repeat the same fate. The fate of every gambler in WinTheNight.

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The night was cold and windy. A slim young man walked in, wearing a simple white blouse and cinnamon brown pants. A dispersed grey hue accented his black hair, and a sheathed sword was strapped to his back. He munched on a pickle, and his curious eyes peeked around, admiring the gamblers, dealers, and the gleaming chandelier hanging in the center.

Beside him was a shorter girl with ear-length blue hair and a mole on her cheek. She wore two guns on her belt, their barrels wide like halved lemons. Colored ribbons distinguished the guns, one orange and the other blue. "Hi," she said with a smile, and she waved at the glaring gamblers.

On their way to the bar, eyes peeked at them left and right. Not because of their weapons — swords, daggers, and guns were common even inside the casino — but because of their clothing. Most men wore simple cloth or tank tops; better attire was either worn by fools asking to be mugged, or by Atosae, troublemakers. Robbing the former was easy, but robbing the latter would often be disastrous.

"One pickle water please," the guy told the bartender.

The bartender almost laughed, staring for a second to confirm the request was serious. "Sorry sir, but we don't serve pickle water. Will regular water do?"

"Yeah, sure."

The bartender eyed the girl. "What about the lady?"

"One pickle water for me too," she replied with a content smile.

Unamused, the bartender filled two glasses with regular water. "There you go. Drinks are free for customers. Are you interested in playing a game or two?" His flat hand toured the room, highlighting the poker tables, the spinning roulette wheels, the blackjack tables covered with cards and coins, and the twelve slot machines with gambling addicts before them, their dried eyes gazing at the screen.