This is the tale of Bran - a rook, a trickster and vagabond.
When you hear the saying “like a fox in a henhouse,” it is fitting to imagine moments like these. While pipe smoke danced around the poorly ventilated backrooms of the Prancing Pony, tankards clinked heartily, accompanied by the dull sounds of half-drunken feet heavily scuffling through the hallways. Men spending a day’s wage drank for two – and merry women who laughed too loud and danced too close sought their way into the pockets of those easily deceived.
Between the rowdy men and painted women sat Bran, with a face that blended mischief and secrets like a sly cat weaving through the nooks and crannies of the town’s back alleys. His wavy brown hair had a mind of its own, tousled and often veiling his sharp, restless eyes. They darted across the dimly lit room, sizing up strangers with the instinct that could smell a scam from miles away, but fabricate one just as well. As though he was looking for a crack in the chaos of the crowd, he scanned for opportunity. The lad had taken place among the much rougher, more calloused hands and bristling ale-stained beards, looking almost out of place, like some runt of a fox between wolves.
They sat leaned in, grumbling and calculating around a worn round table, whose surface was scarred by many years of abuse. Traces of faint spills and smudged old playing cards marred the woodwork, and spilled coins clung to the varnish of ale like they belonged there. Bran had a way of leaning back just enough to avoid catching some watchful eyes, his gaze never lingering for too long – and his nimble fingers shuffled his cards with swift precision. His face was bereft of fear out of bravery or foolishness, likely the latter.
The game moved fast; it was a high-stakes affair for the laborers. Cursing, tensed men sat clutching their cards with great paranoia. Coins scattered across the table as each round progressed – declaring winners and losers alike. The sounds of new cards being shuffled were drowned out by the intense gossip in the surrounding crowd that had gathered to gander at the gambling. There was bluffing, and petty cheaters were dragged out by the scruff and thrown into the stables outside. Not Bran – he remained a constant but quiet presence in the room. The rook’s eyes flickered just a moment when he noticed the bigger men growing bolder with each round. It was as though their hands grew heavier, more confident as they sunk deeper into their purses. He let them talk and glare, and produced several fake expressions of worry when the men called him out. Let them believe their bluffs were fooling him – but he was not one to be conned easily.
With each turn to shuffle, the lad had been working a trick into the cards since the moment he sat down to play. He had mastered shuffling cards so seamlessly that even a hawk’s eyes would be hard-pressed to catch a sleight of hand. That wasn’t enough – Bran relied on his allies for this final trick. One of the women was in on his plan. Her lips were bright red, and her eyes heavy with makeup. As one of the sharper men leaned forward to collect his pile of coins, she caught Bran’s glance and, too, leaned in to ask the round’s winner for another beverage. Just her presence, the gentle touch on the man’s shoulder, and a warm smile made their eyes lock – just about long enough for Bran to slide the top card off the deck, palming it while dealing and simultaneously calling out the incoming drinks. The men were distracted by their fresh servings, gave a sluggish toast, and noticed not the rook’s quick hands. The woman’s laughter filled the room and pulled the men’s eyes further away. It worked like a charm.
His wariest opponent finally flicked back his eyes to Bran, whose move was already completed. The deck seemed untouched, and the card now safely under his thigh.
Bran’s smirk was barely noticeable, only ever so slightly tugging at his lips – a dimple in his freckled cheek giving him a boyish look. His eyes met the painted woman’s again, passing a silent acknowledgment between them. The finale was now on.
Starlight penetrated the sheer drapes of the backroom as the night dragged on. Men drunk on ale and their own bravado kept upping the stakes, eager not to leave empty-handed. Bran noticed their attention drifting as they grew more confident around their piles of coins. But Bran had more. He stacked coin -and- the odds in his favor. He restrained a smile as the last round began, seeing the men doubling down once more – their final chance.
When they revealed their cards in turn, the rook flicked his wrist to show a full house. A perfect win. The table fell silent, save the ceaseless voices in the room around them. The men awed and groaned unsavory remarks.
One of them, a fat-necked, foul-looking fellow who sat left of Bran leaned forward – his little brown eyes almost disappearing into his fleshy face. To Bran, they looked like two raisins pressed into an old ham. The lad chuckled at his own thoughts, and this bolstered the shared anger between the men.
“You hold on, lad…” grumbled the hog. A beefy finger tapped on the old table. “Count them.”
Bran’s stomach turned. The men now all hovered over the table with deafening silence. Their eyes bleary from drink and dark with anticipation. He could have known, but he had not accounted for failure. That was his vice, his thirst for victory – and ales. He had been drinking throughout the games as he always did. For most nights he would temper his thirst, having just enough to keep his edge sharp and hands loose. But, as they passed into the merry hours of the night, Bran too clouded his instincts. His nervous gaze flicked between the men and the table, suddenly hard-focused – his mind raced. Under the table he could feel the snout of Moss laying down on his lap; the shaggy shepherd must have felt his unease.
“Count. The. Cards. Boy,” repeated the man that reminded him of Midwinter pork, lacking the glazing. The man loomed over him, eyes fixed like a preying falcon.
Then it came to him. Glazing?
Bran flashed a toothy grin and, aided by the burn of his many drinks, gestured vaguely at those gathered. “Oh counting? Sure… no harm in counting, right? We could… count…” he spoke fretfully. The men grew impatient as the boy continued to ramble. But, in their collective anger, they were too busy plotting their revenge to notice Bran brushing his fingers against the candle on the table. Its flame danced slowly, and it had been dripping candle wax down into the reservoir beneath.
As the swine of a man pressed him, Bran nodded twice and lifted his mug of ale to down the remainder in one single gulp.
The gamblers seemed to groan in joint impatience when suddenly the boy knocked over his mug and sent the candle and all of the wax crashing and running over the table – and the scattered cards! Like a glazing indeed, it formed a slick coating that made the cards stick together like a honeyed candy.
A moment of hesitation followed, just long enough for Bran to strike a second time.
“Moss!” he shouted, and his theatrics took root. The dog, already on the move, darted between the legs of those at the table and out of the doorway. Bran slipped from the reaching arms like an eel, barging over the table. His lanky, long legs propelled him deftly through the chaos and sent him sprinting through the hallways.
He wasn’t sticking around.
Artwork done with OpenAI-images.
