94 Ashan, 724
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Kotton liked speaking aloud to himself. Especially when it came to his most unruly of thoughts. Keeping them contained within his mind tended to hurt overtime. There were so many, too many, and they seemed to all like running into each other. It was stuffy inside. The traffic was so immense that things were always in a state of disarray. Organization? He hadn't heard of it. But speaking aloud? Whilst slightly strange, it was meditative. He could hear the mumblings of his words come to life between his deafened ears. Whilst he couldn’t clearly listen every letter or syllable, the low vibrations were enough to give him a sense of comfort similar to the purr a cat made after having laid itself on your belly.
Even at a young age, Kotton could remember asking his father the weirdest of questions. Why did he have to breathe? Why was there a voice inside my head addressing everything he did? What was air and why was it necessary for him to survive?’ Sometimes his questions crossed the line of curious and into the concerned. ‘Why do my ears make a strange fuzzy noise? Is ‘gulping’ normal? Why does my chest feel weird every time I 'ucuup!' Why do my eyes sting when I haven’t shut them for a while?’
Who had created these biological laws and why did they have to be upheld? In any other dimension one might not have to breathe air, lungs or no. In another dimension one might not need to breathe at all. Someone might not have to swallow or hear anything. Even though he was mostly deaf, his ears continued to annoy him with a subtle vibration that was linked to the pulsation of his hyperactive heart. All these questions filtered into even deeper questions. His natural intrigue forced him into a life fostered by only the philosophical. He still had yet to determine whether this intelligence of his was a blessing or a curse.
For now, however, he found value in the vocalisation of his ruminations. They offered him something to turn to when his brain seemed far too muffled with misunderstandings and confusions. It was nights like these that he cherished. Whilst the endings weren’t always resolute, the journey was an essential experience that had an undetermined resolution- was he happy or sad?
Kotton flopped onto the living room couch and closed his eyes. He pleaded to his mind to be quiet whilst he fought for the restful sleep he hadn't gotten in several trials. He hoped the morning would be filled with opportunity. He tried to surrender himself to the slumber that had been teasing him for so many hours, but it still kept itself out of his reach. He was tired of his hands missing the escapees of a decent shut-eye.
He tossed around on the cushions of his living room couch and grabbed for several throw pillows. He readjusted the collar of his shirt, and spent an unnecessary amount of time scratching at an itch that was probably just all in his head. This was obviously not working.
It wasn’t that late, at least according to the nightlife that surfaced beyond their comfort from beneath the dirt, nor the nightlife that emerged after the crest of the sun that had slowly fallen behind the hills in the distance. Ergo, the young man decided it was best not to fall prey to boredom in the hopes of attaining a restless sleep that would most likely never come. Instead, he chose to rise from the couch, procure a few items and tread carefully out into the ever-retreating evening.
He had only gambled once in his life, at least when money was at stake. He certainly had risked a few important things during his growth into adulthood, so it was only natural that he feel the need to experience what it was like to truly put money up for chance and not just for a group of old men who had spent hours trying to teach him how to play a game he couldn't to this trial remember.
No, he didn’t want to spend his evening with card games or wagers of elderly molars. He wanted to learn about other games, games that required risk with the chance for major reward. And the Four In Hand, a local casino of Scalvoris, had gently materialized from the line of thought that was currently circling his brain.
The history of the Four In Hand was similar to the history of Almund. He had acquired this knowledge from his time spent asking the locale for their opinions on the current state of the city. It was once shady, and perhaps still is depending on who you ask. But it has grown from those dark roots, supposedly. His memory latched onto the last man he had asked from that specific trial, the one who had given Kotton the chills and who had made him desperate to look over his shoulder during his saunter home. There was something about the influx of academics and treasure hunters that changed Scalvoris just like it had the Four in Hands, and like any casino, there was a peculiar force that drew those easily enamoured by maths and thrills. Like a magnet, if there was such a thing.
His arrival put all judgment and worry to shame (though in hindsight, that was still to be believed). The Four in Hand looked like a very nice place. It was booming with a plethora of folks from all shades of the racial and socioeconomic spectrum. In one corner was an obviously heated card game. Someone was in the midst of winning or so it seemed by the ruckus that channeled vibrations across the floor. The bar at the back held no empty seats. Grabbing hands and open mouths shouting for orders to be fulfilled concluded the state of it. He could only imagine the stress the bartenders were under.
But to his right stood something more up his alley- a game of chance and luck with the potential for either low or high stakes: roulette. Kotton was mesmerised by the duplex spinning wheel. Round and round his eyes went as he mimicked its rotation with the motion of his neck. Once it had stopped, there were several arms that thrust themselves into the air and they did so with alarming thunder that made even a deaf man flinch. All this, and it still seemed less crowded and under excited as the bar. He made his way for it, plastering his eyes like glue onto what he would later be told was a ‘floorperson’. A floorperson was casino lingo for an employee who helps supervise the dealers and watches for any problems that may arise at any of the tables.
The young man took the first seat that was available to him. Several other individuals left as soon as he did, including a shill, who Kotton would also later understand to be an employee who goes around to empty tables pretending to be a player with the intention of getting a game started and thereby attracting other players.
Just shortly after Kotton had plunged his rear into the cushioned seat against the table, a ruffle of feathers tickled the young man’s left arm. He looked to his side and saw a flamboyant individual rocking pink coloured hair, oversized glasses and a faux fox boa draped carelessly across the back of their neck.
“Honey, did you even get any chips?”
Chips? What chips? Kotton thought. He was simply going to place some coins across the velvet countertop as evidence of his will to play. But now there was this foreign currency called chips?
The extravagant individual lowered their glasses and looked at him with a pitiful expression before quickly placing a few common chips onto the table in front of him. “You can’t play without chips, my dear.”
“O-oh, thank you,” he said, stumbling over his words all the while hoping his appreciation for the help showed.
“The name’s Miss Iona, love.”
Kotton was instantly hypnotised by this person’s use of endearing terms. He offered his name in exchange for theirs, not quite sure whether they were a he or she or some combination of the two. He swallowed and drew his attention towards the dealer.
The dealer looked at him and nodded his head in confirmation of the bet that was placed. Fight or flight kicked in, a physiological if not physiological phenomena that occurs to individuals who experienced any form of anxiety. However, the gentle touch of a comforting stranger enabled him to focus on the present. The young man looked at the colours of the wheel. The colours were black or red. Black was his favourite colour, so of course he chose black.
Once he staked his claim, he pushed a singular chip into the middle of the table. Then, he double-backed to his new companion with the hopes of advice... or anything really.
Miss Iona gave him the rundown of the game. You were to place your bet, spin the wheel and watch the ball drop, before basically watching with impatience as the ball settles into one of the many pockets of the wheel. The wheel is segmented by multiple sections that alternate between two colours- black and red.
“Whatever the result, make sure you aren’t a stiff,” Miss Iona breathed, their lips almost indecipherable.
“What’s-”
“Oh baby, you really are new to this scene. A stiff is a gambler who doesn’t tip.”
The complexities of social manners and the cues that originated from them continued to boggle the halfblood’s mind. Why should he have to tip? Simply because the man dropped a ball after he had decided to spin the wheel? Wasn’t he already being paid a wage by being here?
Kotton nodded his head instead of publicly announcing his confused inner monologue. Thank the immortals he had only bet one chip or else he wouldn't have anything to tip if he lost. However, in the stead of defeat, there was the sound of uncontained applause. The young man looked at Miss Iona and saw their enthusiasm.
“Congratulations, sweetie!”
Apparently Kotton’s bet had paid off, but only in the form of one chip. He reasoned it was better to play it safe than swing wildly at something he had been only recently introduced to. He, too, joined in on the applause, and even found himself accepting the suffocating embrace of a boa that left feathers in his opened mouth.
The rush of adrenaline swilled in his heart. He wanted more. He wanted the chance to win more. He wanted more than anything to have more fun. But more than anything, he desired for Miss Iona to stay by his side and watch him win.
“Will you-”
“That was a freebie, honey. Anything else will cost you extra.”
And there the experience died.
Even at a young age, Kotton could remember asking his father the weirdest of questions. Why did he have to breathe? Why was there a voice inside my head addressing everything he did? What was air and why was it necessary for him to survive?’ Sometimes his questions crossed the line of curious and into the concerned. ‘Why do my ears make a strange fuzzy noise? Is ‘gulping’ normal? Why does my chest feel weird every time I 'ucuup!' Why do my eyes sting when I haven’t shut them for a while?’
Who had created these biological laws and why did they have to be upheld? In any other dimension one might not have to breathe air, lungs or no. In another dimension one might not need to breathe at all. Someone might not have to swallow or hear anything. Even though he was mostly deaf, his ears continued to annoy him with a subtle vibration that was linked to the pulsation of his hyperactive heart. All these questions filtered into even deeper questions. His natural intrigue forced him into a life fostered by only the philosophical. He still had yet to determine whether this intelligence of his was a blessing or a curse.
For now, however, he found value in the vocalisation of his ruminations. They offered him something to turn to when his brain seemed far too muffled with misunderstandings and confusions. It was nights like these that he cherished. Whilst the endings weren’t always resolute, the journey was an essential experience that had an undetermined resolution- was he happy or sad?
Kotton flopped onto the living room couch and closed his eyes. He pleaded to his mind to be quiet whilst he fought for the restful sleep he hadn't gotten in several trials. He hoped the morning would be filled with opportunity. He tried to surrender himself to the slumber that had been teasing him for so many hours, but it still kept itself out of his reach. He was tired of his hands missing the escapees of a decent shut-eye.
He tossed around on the cushions of his living room couch and grabbed for several throw pillows. He readjusted the collar of his shirt, and spent an unnecessary amount of time scratching at an itch that was probably just all in his head. This was obviously not working.
It wasn’t that late, at least according to the nightlife that surfaced beyond their comfort from beneath the dirt, nor the nightlife that emerged after the crest of the sun that had slowly fallen behind the hills in the distance. Ergo, the young man decided it was best not to fall prey to boredom in the hopes of attaining a restless sleep that would most likely never come. Instead, he chose to rise from the couch, procure a few items and tread carefully out into the ever-retreating evening.
He had only gambled once in his life, at least when money was at stake. He certainly had risked a few important things during his growth into adulthood, so it was only natural that he feel the need to experience what it was like to truly put money up for chance and not just for a group of old men who had spent hours trying to teach him how to play a game he couldn't to this trial remember.
No, he didn’t want to spend his evening with card games or wagers of elderly molars. He wanted to learn about other games, games that required risk with the chance for major reward. And the Four In Hand, a local casino of Scalvoris, had gently materialized from the line of thought that was currently circling his brain.
The history of the Four In Hand was similar to the history of Almund. He had acquired this knowledge from his time spent asking the locale for their opinions on the current state of the city. It was once shady, and perhaps still is depending on who you ask. But it has grown from those dark roots, supposedly. His memory latched onto the last man he had asked from that specific trial, the one who had given Kotton the chills and who had made him desperate to look over his shoulder during his saunter home. There was something about the influx of academics and treasure hunters that changed Scalvoris just like it had the Four in Hands, and like any casino, there was a peculiar force that drew those easily enamoured by maths and thrills. Like a magnet, if there was such a thing.
His arrival put all judgment and worry to shame (though in hindsight, that was still to be believed). The Four in Hand looked like a very nice place. It was booming with a plethora of folks from all shades of the racial and socioeconomic spectrum. In one corner was an obviously heated card game. Someone was in the midst of winning or so it seemed by the ruckus that channeled vibrations across the floor. The bar at the back held no empty seats. Grabbing hands and open mouths shouting for orders to be fulfilled concluded the state of it. He could only imagine the stress the bartenders were under.
But to his right stood something more up his alley- a game of chance and luck with the potential for either low or high stakes: roulette. Kotton was mesmerised by the duplex spinning wheel. Round and round his eyes went as he mimicked its rotation with the motion of his neck. Once it had stopped, there were several arms that thrust themselves into the air and they did so with alarming thunder that made even a deaf man flinch. All this, and it still seemed less crowded and under excited as the bar. He made his way for it, plastering his eyes like glue onto what he would later be told was a ‘floorperson’. A floorperson was casino lingo for an employee who helps supervise the dealers and watches for any problems that may arise at any of the tables.
The young man took the first seat that was available to him. Several other individuals left as soon as he did, including a shill, who Kotton would also later understand to be an employee who goes around to empty tables pretending to be a player with the intention of getting a game started and thereby attracting other players.
Just shortly after Kotton had plunged his rear into the cushioned seat against the table, a ruffle of feathers tickled the young man’s left arm. He looked to his side and saw a flamboyant individual rocking pink coloured hair, oversized glasses and a faux fox boa draped carelessly across the back of their neck.
“Honey, did you even get any chips?”
Chips? What chips? Kotton thought. He was simply going to place some coins across the velvet countertop as evidence of his will to play. But now there was this foreign currency called chips?
The extravagant individual lowered their glasses and looked at him with a pitiful expression before quickly placing a few common chips onto the table in front of him. “You can’t play without chips, my dear.”
“O-oh, thank you,” he said, stumbling over his words all the while hoping his appreciation for the help showed.
“The name’s Miss Iona, love.”
Kotton was instantly hypnotised by this person’s use of endearing terms. He offered his name in exchange for theirs, not quite sure whether they were a he or she or some combination of the two. He swallowed and drew his attention towards the dealer.
The dealer looked at him and nodded his head in confirmation of the bet that was placed. Fight or flight kicked in, a physiological if not physiological phenomena that occurs to individuals who experienced any form of anxiety. However, the gentle touch of a comforting stranger enabled him to focus on the present. The young man looked at the colours of the wheel. The colours were black or red. Black was his favourite colour, so of course he chose black.
Once he staked his claim, he pushed a singular chip into the middle of the table. Then, he double-backed to his new companion with the hopes of advice... or anything really.
Miss Iona gave him the rundown of the game. You were to place your bet, spin the wheel and watch the ball drop, before basically watching with impatience as the ball settles into one of the many pockets of the wheel. The wheel is segmented by multiple sections that alternate between two colours- black and red.
“Whatever the result, make sure you aren’t a stiff,” Miss Iona breathed, their lips almost indecipherable.
“What’s-”
“Oh baby, you really are new to this scene. A stiff is a gambler who doesn’t tip.”
The complexities of social manners and the cues that originated from them continued to boggle the halfblood’s mind. Why should he have to tip? Simply because the man dropped a ball after he had decided to spin the wheel? Wasn’t he already being paid a wage by being here?
Kotton nodded his head instead of publicly announcing his confused inner monologue. Thank the immortals he had only bet one chip or else he wouldn't have anything to tip if he lost. However, in the stead of defeat, there was the sound of uncontained applause. The young man looked at Miss Iona and saw their enthusiasm.
“Congratulations, sweetie!”
Apparently Kotton’s bet had paid off, but only in the form of one chip. He reasoned it was better to play it safe than swing wildly at something he had been only recently introduced to. He, too, joined in on the applause, and even found himself accepting the suffocating embrace of a boa that left feathers in his opened mouth.
The rush of adrenaline swilled in his heart. He wanted more. He wanted the chance to win more. He wanted more than anything to have more fun. But more than anything, he desired for Miss Iona to stay by his side and watch him win.
“Will you-”
“That was a freebie, honey. Anything else will cost you extra.”
And there the experience died.