Finally, he arrives at an area that is enormous and vibrantly alive, with street vendors aplenty, horses and carts tearing through the masses, shouting and laughing. The smell of horse manure (and worse) fills the air.

Despite the stench, he smiles when he sees the sign for The Green Phoenix Inn. The painting of the Phoenix and the letters underneath are so worn, they are scarcely visible.

'A drink at last!' he thinks as he enters the inn.

Customers are strewn over the vast hall. The hearth fire is unlit, and the air is cool. The bartender wipes a glass while keeping an eye on a trio of men playing cards at an adjacent table, their skin grimy and their hair unkempt.

'Men from the silver mines,' he thinks.

A serving wench wearing a stained apron walks past the miners, balancing a tray with tall mugs of ale and what appears to be hunks of cheese. One of the miners swats her rump casually, but misses.

Garvan's attention is drawn to a an attractive pair of richly dressed young women. Perhaps it's the large golden bracelets that encircle one's delicate arm that piques his interest. The women lean into each other, chatting merrily. Between them is an unopened bottle of wine and a pair of empty wine glasses.

The musician's stage, which is currently devoid of musicians, is being repurposed for additional seating, with one table in the middle. A muscular soldier sits opposite from a woman with long black hair spilling over the hood of her billowing cloak at this table.

The man isn't dressed in armor, but his sheathed sword is leaning on his left leg, ready to strike. Garvan can tell he's one of the Duke's troops by the insignia on his tunic.

The woman is pretty, perhaps even beautiful, although her demeanor is solemn as she glares at the soldier, and Garvan is not sure he would want those piercing eyes scrutinizing him.

A scrawny dog scoots from table to table, hoping for scraps or a scratch.

The soldier looks over at him, a smile lingering on his face from his conversation. The muscles in Garvan's stomach contract with cold nervousness. He doesn't want to appear terrified, but he also doesn't want to draw attention to himself; after all, he is a wanted man.

What should he do? Should he

act as though he did not notice him, or should he nod at him in greeting?

Garvan shifts his sight away from him, allowing a faint smile to form on his own lips. He wishes to not bring the man's attention to himself, which means he doesn't want to appear afraid.

Garvan's smile broadens as he boldly enters the tavern, inhaling the smells of roasting meat. He takes a chance and returns the soldier's gaze. Thankfully, his attention has returned to the shrouded woman. They are having a calm conversation.

'He probably will not even remember me,' Garvan thinks.

He walks up to the table of miners. “May I join you?"

One of the miners, a blond man with gray in his beard, looks up at him. “Of course, boy! And bring your mother so she can sit on my lap as you suckle her teat!"

One of the other three chuckles, crumbs falling from his filthy beard onto the table. The third miner simply stares at his cards, his eyes half-glazed and inattentive to the situation.

This card game may necessitate an initial investment. Garvan may either buy them a round of drinks to "buy in" at the table while escalating his opponent's inebriation, or just ask to join them.

He slaps a gold coin on the table. “Young I am, and foolish too, no doubt. But Aesis, the god of luck loves a fool."

Garvan's new "Composure" skill is always active, allowing him to maintain control of the situation and communicate fluently. In him, a different type of allure is at work.

“Sit. We will take your coin," says one miner, another crumb falling from his long beard as he nods at Garvan.

“If you agree not to bawl about your losses later," adds the blond miner with a doubtful smirk.

Garvan takes his oaths, places his bets, and receives his cards. He requests a cup of mead from the neighboring serving wench.

He has the option of purchasing ale, which is less expensive, or a more expensive hard drink.

What should he do?

He decides to purchase a strong beverage for them to make sure they get drunk enough.

“A round of dragon's fire for my friends here," he shouts to the barkeep, perhaps with a bit more bravado than he intended.

The barkeep nods and taps the top of the bar with his finger. Garvan strides over and slams two coins on the table. The barkeep flashes a gaping and shattered grin. He has a large scar down his throat.

“The little lamb breathes fire!" says the blond miner, pounding his fist on the table.

“Good," slurs the glassy-eyed miner. “I had enough o' the watered-down piss they call ale around here."

"The hard stuff!" exclaims the blond miner.

“Respect for elders. A rare thing."

These three are already pretty well drunk, but the dragon's fire ought to make them quite a bit drunker.

'I may win this one,' he thinks.

[Wisdom increased by 5 points]

'Wonder what this wisdom thing is even for...'

Garvan sips his mead slowly; nevertheless, he starts to feel his thoughts begin to thicken and so he “accidentally" spills the remainder of his drink across the table.

The glassy-eyed miner is unconcerned, but the other two curse as they remove their cards from the table.

"Young and clumsy," says the blond miner whom Garvan now knows as Igor. Pointing at

Garvan's mug, he slurs, "Respect. Respect every drop."

Even if Garvan doesn't win every hand, these guys pay him handsomely enough that he buys another round. The more they drink, the bolder their wagers get and, more importantly, the simpler they become to read.

If he has a good hand, Igor taps his fingers on the table. When he has a strong hand, Tagir softly hums to himself. Lerrwaf, the bleary-eyed one—and undoubtedly the most inebriated of the three—proves to be the most difficult to decipher. He maintains a constant expression, implying that he is about to pass out.

Aside from the drinks, Garvan has been ordering bread and cheese for himself to soak up the alcohol and keep his thoughts clean. For the first time in a long time, the barkeep and serving wench appear thrilled that someone is ordering meals.

The barkeep hovers around their table more than the others, his gapped jaws observing Garvan. Evidently, they are the major spender in the room.

It occurs to him that with a little trickery, he could probably pull off a lot more. He has a high card tucked away in his sleeve. When he was in his home, he employed it for sleights of hand to relax and engage the friends; nevertheless, when the mark is so easy...

Should he cheat?

The miners are drunk, but that barkeep and the serving wench are keeping a close eye on Garvan. Big spender or not, no barkeep likes a cheat. Cheating causes fights, and no barkeep likes a fight.

He has to play straight. He continues to win at first, getting a fine pile, but then his luck turns. The glassy-eyed miner, Lerrwaff, gets on a roll and Garvan can never tell when he is bluffing or not.

Garvan snatched the brothel's address from them after spotting an opportunity and following the game's lead.

He decides that it's time to push away from the table and see what else there is to do.

Tagir says in a teasing tone, "Are ye gonna spend all that coin to the girl in that whorehouse?"

Other miners chuckle and laugh.

Garvan gets to his feet, straightens his spine, and speaks loudly for the entire inn, “Can a man not be generous?! What are a few dozen gold coins beside the infinite multiverse, anyway? Not everything is an exchange! Sometimes a gift is only a gift, like when the god Tylreus gave the goddess Alithia the gift of speaking quails on the mountain of-“

"Here, here!" shouts Fred the barkeep, cutting off the speech Garvan was just beginning to enjoy. He raises a mug from behind the bar. “Here's to generosity and quitting before your luck has leaked out!"

“Huzzah!" Garvan shouts with several others. He drains his mug and slams it down on the table. "Men, I have done what good I can here. Best I leave now before I take all your silver."

The miners jeer at him, obviously disappointed that the “pup" is walking away after taking their hard-earned coin. He assures them it was all “luck of the fool" and that he'll certainly be giving them back their coin another day.

He motions the server over and tips her well. He hopes a little kindness will bring him luck in his new city. He makes a show of dropping the silver and copper on her tray.

'Let everyone know I am generous,' he thinks.

She smiles warmly and gives a deep curtsy before walking away to resume her duties.