Central Tavern was one of the only institutions left standing from the peaceful days, and it only stood because it stooped. The owner didn’t mind if Central became crammed with filthy soldiers and filthier tongues, as long as they payed.

Central Tavern had long since become a misnomer. It had been, literally speaking, East Tavern ever since the west had been burned and bombed. But in matters of rumors, drunkenness, secret meetings, and the drownings of memories, the Tavern remained Central.

Many past patrons of Central had been dead for years. More had skipped town. Some had skipped country. But a small few remained, wether they liked it or not. Mostly, not.

Shnal AqShaen was far from a Central Tavern regular. Most would call him a newcomer, but he would not. AqShaen travelled the twelve lands as infantry for the Jaeqi Empire, even during the peaceful days. He had been to many Taverns, some Central, some Peripheral in their influence of their customers. He had lived long enough to see the patterns of life. He had been to Central before.

The soldier took small, slow sips from his glass, savoring the taste, lifting his visor just enough to bring it to his mouth. The Tavern was not crowded this early in the morning, but a few lurked in their usual spots.

AqShaen gestured to the boy behind the bar, and he came bearing a fresh bottle. He was young, unusually so for a bartender, but so far, he had known his drinks. He was of the Leaf, and his bark was still smooth with youth, but Shnal could see wisdom in his nut brown eyes. The soldier nodded in thanks.

“You tend bars well, shoots. A few more strong ones, and I may just forget to come with the bag on Titheday.” He winked through his helmet, and the boy laughed like a creak in the floor, and gestured toward a corner.

“If it’s debts you’re looking for,” he rustled, “talk to Dice.”

AqShaen turned and followed the boy’s extended twig with his eyes. A small booth, dark filled with smoke, seated a single figure. It was gaunt and motionless, the only sign of life being the movements of the smoke.

The soldier turned back. “Does he sleep?”

The boy shrugged. “He’s always like that, unless in a game.”

The soldier looked at the boy, expecting more. The boy sighed, and refilled his glass.

“We call him Dice for his gambling. There’s not a soul with life as bad a gambler as him. Lost against the Demon, once.”

AqShaen leaned forward. The boy had more skills than serving cocktails.

“Dice was gambling here, decades ago, and losing like an old horse as usual. Having less than no coin to begin with, naturally the other folks start beating him down for their winnings. All of a sudden, everyone disappears, all but Dice – all but Dice, and a new fellow. Dark as death, he was, and moves toward Dice. The black fellow introduces himself as the Demon, and asks Dice to a game. The Demon tells him he can have anything he wants if he wins, but if he loses, his life would belong to Hell.”

Shnal looked back at the booth and smirked. “I assume that didn’t turn out well.”

The boy nodded slowly. “That’s not a full man in that there booth. Bones are all that the fellow in black left behind. Go look for yourself.”

AqShaen looked at the boy, looking for a sign of a joke. There was none. Shnal drained his glass and rose, his wariness in contrast to his bulk. As he neared the booth, smoke drifted into his lungs, making him cough, his eyes water. Nearly blind, Shnal found the bench seat, and fell into it, waving away the burnt tobacco from his face. As the smoke cleared, the figure came into view, gaunter and gaunter, until, to his horror, he saw two empty sockets of a skull staring back at him. Just as the Greenman said, the Devil had gambled him dry. The skeleton was dressed in old fashioned traveling clothes that hung on him like a shroud, and a quickly dying cigarette was clamped between his protruding teeth. As he inhaled, smoke descended through his jaw, onto his lap, and into his empty cranium, and then was released through his teeth, and out of the holes of his eyes and nose. Shnal’s eyes bulged, and tears welled in his eyes from the smoke. Only when the cigarette fell, burnt to a stub, from the motionless skull, did he stir. He gathered his wits and courage, and cleared his throat.

“I hear that you’re a gambling… man.”

Nothing happened at first. The smoke settled, glasses clinked, and the bones sat still. But soon, slow like some abandoned machine, the skull turned, ever so slightly, to look at the soldier. Dice’s spiderleg arm rose to his teeth, a fresh cigarette in his fingerbones, and slowly held it out to Shnal. The soldier recoiled as two playing dice rose into view in the eye sockets of the terrible wraith. Then, like a desert wind, he spoke:

“You… play?”