Winter falls at last. It is a quiet night in the city, and quieter still
in the tavern when Morganson enters, dusting a hint of snow off the
shoulders of his cloak. Glancing round the interior and spying the
cardplayer by the hearth, he heads over there.

The cardplayer is seated by the hearth, his feet up, apparently
listening to the minstrel. The leavings of a card came are on a small
table nearby, though neither money nor other players are evidenced.

He is not a tall man, nor, a first glance, a terribly impressive one.
Sandy blond hair falls randomly over his forehead and down his collar,
shifting restlessly with him, and bright hazel eyes watch the world with
mingled suspicion and humor, his face angular, thin and vulpine. Lean
and agile are the proper words for his form, even down to his narrow
fingers which dance restlessly about him, covered by a pair of thin
gloves. Never does he seem to still, though sometimes he can almost
achieve that fragile state through a dint of will, a finger or toe will
inevitably betray him.

He is wearing a deep brown tunic, several badly mended rips here and
there with patches along the edges. A thick leather belt is around his
hips, a heavy sword hanging from it set up for a left-handed draw. A
dagger is on his other hip, similarly worn. Heavily scarred boots with
dark pants tucked into them finish the ensemble.

He looks up, studying the man who is moving in his direction warily.

Morganson touches the brim of his hat. "Evening," he says to the man by
the hearth as he claims a chair there. "Don't mind if I join you."

The cardplayer shrugs his shoulders. "I don't own the chairs," he
replies, shortly.

Morganson pulls up a chair across the table from the cardplayer, tossing
his hat onto a chair besides. "Then I guess you won't mind if I take
this one."

The cardplayer shrugs, "Owners of the bar might have some argument," is
his instant response, a grin tugging at the hard edge of his lips.

"They might," Morganson concedes, "But merchants don't argue for long
when there's a profit to be made."

The cardplayer smirks a bit. "Planning to pay then
take? You might want to wet their tolerance with some ready cash and wet
your own throat." He lifts his glass of ale. "My name be Randal. Randal
Taggart."

Morganson's smile is a shadow of the other man's. "Morganson," he
replies, tugging dark leather gloves off.

Randal nods, "Pleasure to meet you." he leans back in his seat,
aparently nursing this drink.

Morganson studies 'Randal' a long moment with no more comment than a
faint smile. "If you say so," he replies. he nods to the cards. "Your
partner left?"

Randal nods, "With his tail between his legs," he says, with no
little satisfaction. "I'll be drinking off of him for a while."

"Must have been some game," Morganson says.

Randal just laughs. "Care to try my skill?" he asks.

"Depends on the stakes," Morganson answers.

Randal smirks, "You a betting man, ..Morganson?" There is the briefest
of pauses before his name is spoken, brown eyes glinting with muffled
amusement. The lanky man leans forward and picks up the deck of cards,
ruffling them through his hands as if he's about to preform a
complicated magic trick.

"Sometimes," Morganson replies, leaning back comfortably in his seat,
his hands steepling before him, his gaze fixed on Randal's. "If
required."

Randal flips the cards from one hand to the other. "What if not
required."

"An honest man, perhaps," Morganson says. The suggestion of a smile
returns briefly. A joke?

"As much as any here can be," Randal rejoins, swiftly, humor in his
tone.

"Of course," Morganson says.

Randal flips the cards again, a long stream of paper dancing between
two fleshy hands. "Minor stakes, perhaps," he says. "Offer the
inconsequential and move from there."

"Definitions," Morganson says. "What you and I term inconsequential may
not agree."

Randal tsks a bit, "Inconsequential is whatever we wouldn't mind
loosing, same for both of us. Be it money, land or pride."

"Not same at all, then," Morganson replies with a short laugh.

Randal arches both brows. "How would you define it?"

"I find very few things of little consequence," Morganson answers
levelly.

Randal tsks, "So serious at such a young age."

Morganson shrugs a shoulder in reply.

Randal tilts his head back. "So, what would you bet, Morganson." Oddly,
more emphasis is placed on the last syllable of the other man's name.

"You have not yet named your stakes," Morganson points out with a dark
glint in his eyes.

Randal considers that. "Say a boon, within the power of the giver to
give and subject to ...moral and career-restrictions."

Morganson considers, eyes narrowing, then he shakes his head with a
regretful chuckle. "There is nothing you possess that I desire, and
that you have the power to grant. Name another."

Randal considers again, cards flying from hand to hand with remarkable
ease. "Say a parcel of land, a slight thing I aquired when I got my
...latest job."

"I seem to have such a thing already," Morganson answers, his hands
still, fingertips pressed lightly together.

Randal shrugs, "True," he allows. "No need of a second?"

"No... 'need' for another," Morganson answers.

Randal leans forward, "How about you suggest a stake."

"If we play," Morganson muses. "It might as well be for something of
substance. This notion of inconsequentials does not sit well with us."

Randal shrugs, slightly. "What of substance, then?"

"A life," Morganson answers, his expression unchanged.

Randal sobers somewhat. "Do you think such a thing is for me to give?"

"You might have played for truth, or played for a boon without
conditions," Morganson shrugs, watching the man across from him. "The
stakes of a betting man. Instead, you offered paltries as to a
beggar."

"The latter you might like, but the former?" Randal shakes his head.
"And, well, you should know the reasons why the latter is impossible,
given my position." His voice is somewhat lower, now.

"You asked if I was a betting man, remember?" Morganson smiles, not
entirely in humor. "The question is, are you?"

The response is slow in coming. "Once, yes. Now..." Randal shakes his
head, "only sometimes." There is regret in his voice.

"But not tonight," Morganson says quietly.

Randal looks at Morganson, very, very seriously. "Tonight I look upon
what I could loose." He could be refering to the city... could.

"Why do you think that?" Morganson asks, his tone changing little. It is
not curiosity that has prompted the question.

Randal smiles a little, faintly. "Play for the Truth?" he replies,
instead.

A moment, then the smile is echoed in Morganson's expression. "If you
think you can stand it," he replies, a gentle tease.

Randal laughs, "First,"he informs his son, "you get something to drink.
Cards and alcohol can only be separated by Vialle."

Something flickers over Morganson's expression, but he turns to get a
server's attention, and the expression is lost.

Randal shuffles the cards, easily, while Morganson's attention is
elsewhere. The slapping of the cards seems to calm him.

When the server arrives, Morganson jerks a thumb at Randal's mug.
"More," he says. The server nods, leaves, returning some moments later
with another couple of mugs foaming over.

Randal says, seriously, "Five card draw is the name of the game, jacks
wild," he smirks a little, "Kings high."

Morganson nods. "Deal."

Randal deals the cards rapidly, each landing in the exact correct
position. He sets down the rest of the cards and picks up his mug, only
then looking at his cards.

Morganson takes a sip of his ale, sets the mug down before picking up
his cards and glancing at them.

They play.

09/22/98