Once their numbers were called, Gunnar and Rorak were motioned toward the end of the room where a pair of large female orcs were waiting for them. Each woman wore form-fitting white sailor’s pants and a striped button shirt offering just a little more orc cleavage than Gunnar cared for. Rorak, on the other hand, seemed to feel a bit differently.

They were led to a tile-floored holding area behind a red curtain, and before Gunnar knew what was going on, one of the orcs spun him around to face away and began stripping him out of his clothes.

“Whoa!” Gunnar said. “Hold on, this isn’t what I—”

“Quiet,” the orc woman said, “dropping his trousers in one fell swoop.”

“Gunnar, just let it happen,” Rorak said with a foolish giggle.

“You, quiet too,” said the other orc. “And keep eyes on wall.”

“I’d rather look at you,” Rorak said, completely naked now.

The orc looked him over bemusedly. “Whatever you’d like.”

As she spoke a massive stream of water erupted from the ceiling and smoked Rorak right in the face. He staggered back at the impact, slipped, and fell on his ass.

The orcs smirked.

Gunnar, now equally disrobed, spun around and braced himself for impact. The stream rushed over him, and he was instantly soaked. The water eased up, and just as he was about to turn around, he felt thick hands on his sides from behind.

“Whoa!”

“Be still,” the orc commanded, her hands swiftly moving up, sudsing his back and shoulders, and—

“Hey, I didn’t ask for a pat down.”

“Didn’t you read the sign out front?”

Gunnar shook his head. “The one with really fine—whoa!”

The orc spun him around and finished sudsing him up. “Always read fine print before you pay. Don’t like it? Learn lesson.”

The orcs backed away again, and Gunnar and Rorak were hit with another spray of water. When they were good and rinsed, there was another rush, this time hot blowing air. Gunnar was not sure how it worked, but this had to be some sort of enchanted wash room.

In a few mere seconds, Gunnar and Rorak were dry, and the orcs returned their clothes, all cleaned as well.

The orcs stood with arms crossed over their chests, waiting.

Gunnar and Rorak glanced at one another.

“Guess we, er, dress ourselves?”

“Are you babies?” asked Rorak’s orc.

“Hey, you basically manhandled us up until now.”

The orc leveled her eyes at the goblin. “Hurry it up!”

Gunnar chuckled as he slipped back into his clothes. The two of them were then ushered down a hall and emerged at an entrance to the central hall of the massive pub. Earlier, he’d only caught a glance, but he was even more enamored now. Numerous side shows were going on, including an acrobat pole act similar to the one at Dravingdel’s party—minus the near impalement. There was some sort of clown comedy routine, and a couple of less family-friendly pole acts. Men and women of all kinds of creatures filled the tables and bars that lined the room, eating and drinking and howling with laughter.

It was all rather strange, but Gunnar actually felt a difference after the shower. He hadn’t ever been this clean in-game, and he had been through a lot the past couple days. He half-envied all these sailors kicking back for a night of fun.

Not that it would remain fun for much longer.

“Alright,” Gunnar said, pointing across the room. “Looks like there’s plenty of gambling going on. Let’s jump in.”

“I’ve got to confess,” Rorak murmured, “I’ve never played much cards.”

“Half these guys are too drunk to play anyway. It’ll be fine.”

They plopped down on barstools at a large table with one dealer and seven players.

“Would you like to play SlapBet?” asked the dealer, a very attractive dusk elf wearing a nearly identical cheesy sailor’s outfit as the orcs who’d washed them up.

Must be some sort of uniform, Gunnar thought.

“My friend’s the big player here,” Gunnar said. “I’m just here to watch.”

The dusk elf eyed Rorak. All the players did the same, and Gunnar was worried that the prejudice against goblins might work against them.

“Five coin minimum bet,” the dealer said.

Rorak grinned. “Not a problem.” And he handed over one hundred coins to the dealer, who exchanged them for wooden playing chips each worth five coins.

Gunnar’s eyes grew wide at the amount of money. It had taken him several days to earn that much when he first arrived in the game. But Rorak merely shrugged.

The sight of his money put everyone at ease, though the dealer shot Gunnar a side eye. “You can stay so long as you’re not taking a seat from a real player.”

The table still had a couple other open seats, so Gunnar didn’t see what the big deal was.

The dusk elf began shuffling cards and dealt three facedown to each player. SlapBet seemed to be some sort of approximation of blackjack and Go Fish, though the cards contained six different suits—a trident, a sail, a blunderbuss, a sword, a crossbones, and an anchor. Players selected two of the three cards on which to place their bets and turned them over.

Rorak’s hand contained a seven of anchors and a Cthulhu-looking face card from the trident suit. Additional bets could be made, essentially hinging on the dealer’s cards not matching suits. The dealer flipped over two additional cards for Rorak. A three of swords and a six of crossbones, respectively. The dealer moved from player to player turning cards, then it came back to the goblin.

Rorak made an additional bet on each hand, and after escaping without a match once more, he ended his betting, earning fifteen coins from the hand.

Shit, Gunnar thought. What was I doing pickpocketing so much early on? This is way easier.

The slapping portion, for which the game was named, was a sort of optional side bet made with the third card. For this one, if the suits matched, you kept your money, if the suits and numbers matched, you won big.

Rorak placed a bet, and turned over his third card.

Only four of the players placed this bet, and everyone sat forward eagerly as the dealer turned a card.

It was a matching suit.

Just about the time Gunnar was wondering what happened if the SlapBet didn’t match, a bearded human sailor lost and shifted back in his seat.

Everyone at the table was grinning, including Rorak.

“Who shall be our tribute?” the dealer asked, leaning over the table. She scanned each player’s third card, including from those who hadn’t even placed a bet, and Rorak shoved his forward, matching the bearded man’s anchor suited card.

“Heheh,” Rorak said, rising from his seat.

The human braced himself, and Rorak swung a slap hard across his face.

Everyone at the table—and a couple of the neighboring tables too—roared with laughter, as the human staggered from his seat and clutched his instantly crimson cheek.

In the corner of his eye, Gunnar saw Sauvage laughing from his perch up at the bar, sipping something out of a copper mug.

The bearded man sat back down, with a loud guffaw, and the dealer gathered up the cards and began to shuffle.

So it went for several more hands.

Over the next thirty minutes, Rorak won a little, lost a little, got slapped once—by the bearded man, who was most delighted at the retribution—and slapped a couple other players around. Gunnar didn’t know if it was intentional, or just dumb luck like any other gambling, but Rorak did just well enough to stick around the table, but never significantly outclassed the other players.

Until an uncommonly morose dawn elf showed up.

The man lost several hands in a row, including two SlapBets. The first slap came from the dealer herself, and she understandably, kept the slap soft and playful, but when Rorak was chosen to hit him next, the dawn elf crossed his arms and huffed.

“Pass the gods-damned tribute,” the elf said, slamming his fist on the table.

Rorak’s eyes went wide. “I… didn’t even know I could.”

“Is this your first time out of the shithole?” the elf demanded.

“Easy there,” the bearded man said. “He don’t have to pass if he don’t want to.”

“I’m not letting a fucking Red Runner lay a hand on me.”

There were several gasps around the table. But Rorak impressively maintained his composure.

Gunnar felt bad for the goblin, but it would only help their cause when the time came.

“What did you just say?” asked the bearded man.

“Did I stutter?” said the dawn elf, raising his voice. “That goblin is not laying a—”

“I’m going to have to ask you all to settle down,” said the dealer.

Rorak raised his hands and shrugged. “Look, if it’s that big a deal, I’ll pass it along.”

“Nah,” said the bearded man. “You’re a good guy, and I en’t gonna let this asshole throw around that sort of bullshit.”

The dawn elf crossed his arms and rose from his seat.

Just then, a notification appeared.

Niall: Nighthawks, Commence Phase One!