"Boy, ya best be glad we're kickin' this old-school. That way it don't matter if yer a player or a liar... ya can still be a winner." Randy glanced at the gracious host with a playfully challenging smile but took no real offense by the cheap shot at Teaxs. While his heart may have sank a quarter inch he let it go by the time he was taking his next drink. Poker was still poker, it was never truly about reading what you had in your hand but about reading the man sitting across the table. After taking a mental inventory of his available funds and contemplating the potential value of various investments back home the Southerner took one last drink and was fully ready to rumble.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:22, Tue 26 June 2007.

Currency changed hands. Chips were stacked, counted, stacked again with flourish. The Banker passed each player his chips. He broke open a sealed deck of cards. He set aside the dark Joker. The crisp sound of the cards sliding together as he shuffled and cut the cards filled the room. After the deck seemed completely mixed, the Banker wordlessly slid the deck toward Chorro and offered him the Joker. Chorro slipped the card into the side of the deck to mark the final cut. The banker cut the deck and buried the joker on the bottom. Then he dealt the cards for the first hand.

“Finally.” Swel exclaimed. “I was beginning to think we were just here to watch some card tricks.” he smiled a mischievous smile as he looked over his hand.

Clyde looked at his hand, and then he made a point of looking at everybody’s stacks of chips. “Ya’ll be coming over to your daddy real soon, kids.” he said to the poker chips. “I feels lucky! I‘m gonna win tonight.” His face became expressionless, set for serious poker.

"Edmond Hoyle was an Englishman, like myself. I wish I could say that gave me an advantage." Ethan scanned the others at the table with his eyes. "I'm afraid I might be in over my head tonight. Ah well, it's only money. After seeing Margarete tending bar next door, it might be the smarter man that looses early." He smiled as he settled comfortably into his chair.

The first hand had been played and first blood had been drawn.  The players were thus settled and serious.  As a rule, serious poker players never fooled around with hors d’oeuvres during a shooting match.   But Chorro didn’t hire ‘Rousseau’ to sit on his saffron either.  The job was to march fresh supplies of munchies in a continuous flow into the game room, flowing like the river beneath the riverboat’s hull, eclectic snacks delectable enough to satisfy the talons and toothsome maws of Chorro’s problematic guests.

So like the gamers it was time for Chef Rousseau to get serious.  Moments after the opening deal, Rousseau arrived, his Madeleine and Miss Avrén in tow, each bearing trays to the game like nymphs offering food to the gods.  (Secretly, Pieran was enjoying this part of the show a little too much –two beautiful handmaidens obeying his commands with an obedient ‘Right away, sir,’ here, or a demure curtsey, there.  Oh, he knew that once the show ended they’d probably kick the snot out of him for it.  But in the meantime, he was having fun playing the rakish satyr and so, carpe diem, as they say!)

Rousseau reintroduced himself with a bright but humble flair, the perfect showman’s entrance.  The food was wheeled in on a sedan tray, a type of warming cart used in dim sum palaces, (and which was to be the conveyance for their mirror heist with the fake already on board -right under Chorro's nose).  From there the food was trayed and carried to the table.  As the trays were passed around, the players selected from a bouquet of morsels, each of which Rousseau described in proud detail, like a papa showing off his splendid children and boasting their every achievement.  There was roasted cinnamon-ginger duck with shredded mango and cilantro, rolled in thin Mandarin pancakes and sliced into manageable bites;  Sliced, seared beef Carpaccio roulades, raw inside, with mustard mint sauce, arugula, and Parmesan;  Venison sausages with cocktail picks, smothered in a rosemary-port cranberry ragout;  Phyllo baked in triangle packages stuffed with saffron-accented feta cheese, preserved lemon, onion, and cardamom;  Crostini with gorgonzola, raisins, pine nuts, red chili, garlic chives, and fried kale;  Toasted sesame nachos topped with diced lobster, gruyere, and charred tomato salsa;  ‘Oyster shooters:’ sake (or vodka) shot glasses mixed with raw oysters, minced pickled ginger, lemon juice, Tabasco, smelt roe, and garnished with lime wedges;  Feather-light shrimp crackers spooned with dollops of crab and cream cheese;  And last, a particularly diabolical rolled sushi the chef was calling a ‘Crazy Ivan:’ rice colored red by beet juice, each bite crowned with Beluga caviar, and surrounding a filling of smoked herring, onion, cucumber, and dilled crème fraîche.  “Neuf taystes fur neuf playars,” Rousseau beamed, lordly.  “Betare zan pretzels ond ‘ot pockets, no?”
This message was last edited by the player at 17:56, Tue 24 July 2007.

“Finally! I thought I would die of starvation here Chorro.” Swell flared his nostrils as he caught a familiar scent. “Tabasco! Cookie, your okay in my book.” he said to Pieran as he grabbed a couple of the oyster shots off the tray and downed them quickly.

Sleesta used a needle thin fingernail like a toothpick as he speared a couple of the Carpaccio roulades. “Ah, raw meat on a sstick. Sseasoned to perfection. Tell me, is it just as tassty with human?”

Pieran swallowed back his revulsion with calmness surprising even to him.  After all, he'd done his homework, he knew to expect remarks like that.  But still!  "Curiously," he replied, looking thoughtful, "Aye 'ave cliants 'oo swear eet goes best wiss Sherpa.  Eet eez all een ze diet, eyoo see."

Clyde plucked a piece of toasted bread that had been piled with some sort of spread from the tray. He frowned as he turned it about in his hand, studying it. “Dainty frou-frou food? Whatever happened to real food for real men? Chorro, ya’ need to quit hirin’ queens in your kitchen,” he said, with a sideways glance at Pieran.

“Well, I happen to enjoy a good crostini,” Ethan said. “Pass one of those over here.” He picked up one of the toasted breads with topping and took a bite. “Exquisite! You really should give it a try, Mr. Lafeet.”

Clyde looked at Ethan and shrugged. He popped the appetizer into his mouth, all at once, and began to chew.

Ethan took another bite. “Splendid flavor. Gorgonzola… raisins… and is that garlic chives I detect?”
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:04, Wed 25 July 2007.

Clyde suddenly spit his entire mouthful out onto the floor. “Garlic?!?! Are ya’ tryin’ to kill me??”

"Monsieur!  Oh, no no no no no.  Zair ees no garlic een any of my recipes.  Definite!  No no, eet ees a chive joost as ze gentleman 'as said.  Eet is like an oh-nee-on.  Zees deesh calls for garlic..."  Rousseau smiled the devil's own grin before finishing with cocky panache, "but aye've cheated eet by usink a 'armless chive wees joost a 'int of garlic flayvoor.  Eet is an eempression, monsieur, not ze genueen arteecle, ond pearfect, absolument."

The chef looked down at the spattered mess with loathing and disdain.  "Mees Avrén, see zat zees mess is peeked up."
This message was last edited by the player at 07:24, Thu 26 July 2007.

Raven shot Pieran an icy glare. He's the one that decided to get cute and use some fake garlic spice in food that they were serving to vamps, but she's the one that gets to clean up the regurgitated mess. She was not amused. She handed her tray of appetizers to Alex, before bending down to scoop up the debris.

Clyde stood and looked like a tiger ready to pounce on the cook. “What did you say? I don’t understand a goddamn word that comes outta your mouth!” He wrapped one hand around Pieran’s throat. “But I betcha I can make you scream like a little girl. That’s sumthin’ we can all understand.” He leaned in close enough that Pieran could feel the vampire’s lifeless breath against his face. “I don’t take kindly to attempts on my life.”

“Sit down, Lafeet!” Chorro bellowed from across the table. “Chef Rousseau was explaining that a garlic chive isn’t really garlic at all. It merely hints at the same flavor. It won’t harm you.”

Lafeet took his hand away from Pieran. “Are ya’ sure of that?”

“Quite sure.”

Lafeet retook his seat at the table. “I’m still not eatin’ anymore of ‘em.”

Count Dracor had been sitting frozen like a statue, holding a partially nibbled crostini in his hand, since the outburst had begun. “Yes, best not to take any chances,” he said as he set the snack down.

“In the future, Chef, it might be best to avoid such things when you’re serving guests with special dietary needs.” Chorro gave Piern a stern look. “Is there anything else on the menu that we should be warned about?”


Graphic is only for seating arrangement. Picture does not represent how everyone actually appears.

(“Be lowly and weak so they will ignore you.   Then attack them while they are comfortable.”)

Had he not an antiquity of conscience supporting him, Pieran’s naturally volatile temper would have made a quick beheading of LaFeet.  But by maddening fortune, and, guided by the whip of his inner dominatrix, Kitsune, Pieran took the path of least resistance, choosing to ignore LaFeet altogether.  (“This is the essence of your Art,”)   she spoke again.  (“Remain secret, do not divulge.”)

Pieran Rousseau turned to Chorro, his face an obsequious mortar of fear and gratitude.  “Oh, sank eyoo, Monsieur Shorro, sank eyoo so much!  Zat beast cood ‘ave keeled me.  I promise eyoo, sair, on mai werd as a professional, zat zair ees no danger at all to anysink aye am makeenk for zees party.”  He paused to catch his breath, wiping his face with his chef’s kerchief.  “ Eyoo know mai repeyootation and zat zees gentleman’s consairns are completely unfounded.  Aye ‘ave been eexplaining everysink zat ees een mai food so zair ees no need fur worry ond no problem.”  Suddenly he became animated and confident, again.  “Ond joost wait sair, aye am werking a dish even now as a special tribute to eyoo.  Ond eet ees safe, absolument!”

He bowed toward his host, the utmost in courtesy.

“Now zen, eef eyoo weel excuse me, aye moost tend to ze keechun.  Merci, monsieur.”

Rousseau strutted toward the kitchen, babbling as he went.  “Merci, merci!  Tres bon!  At last, a man of charactar!  Magnifique!  Formidable!”

“Okay, now that we have had our little drama for the night, can we get on with the business at hand? These cards need to be played, not each other.” Chorro glared at his guests, challenging them to continue with the petty squabbling.  Swell and Ethan avoided his glance by counting their chips repeatedly.  Everyone settled into their game face.

---

The game played on. Bets were conservative at first. Small pots were won and lost, with no clear winner leading the way. Six hands into the game, Chorro opened the next round of bets.

“I bet $200.00.”
This message was last edited by the player at 01:46, Fri 21 Sept 2007.

Randy glanced at his cards, then at the Count, Gerhard and finally Chorro. Lifting the corner of his cards again he glanced down and let the cards flip down off his thumb slowly. He tried not to look at any of the players again and simply pushed forward "I'll see yer $200... an' raise ya'nother $200." he said confidently before glancing at Will to see what his next move would be.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:38, Sun 19 Aug 2007.

Will fanned his cards before him, then closed them back into a single stack casually and set them on the table. Without a word, he counted out $400 worth of chips and tossed them into the pot.

Swell looked blatantly at Will Reaver. He shook his head in bewilderment. “Man, I don’t know how you can do that.” he said to the quiet man.

Swell’s cards were dwarfed in his huge hands. Despite the thickness of his fingers and the talon like nails, Swell nimbly checked his cards. “Looks like we are out for blood early tonight. My kind of game. See that bet and raise it $200 again!” as his chips hit the pile, he smiled at the Count.

“Your turn to step up, human. I’m gonna win this pot and I want a little something from everybody.”

Dracor shot the demon a stunned look, like a big secret was just reveled. “My ‘condition’ is just temporary. I’m just … undecided as to who I will cross over with.” he said in hushed tones.

A couple of the players hid their smiles behind their cards.

Dracor looked as his cards, then his chips. “$600 is too rich for my blood with this hand. Maybe next round. Fold.” He said as he tossed the cards back to the dealer.

Randy smiled and once again, glanced at his chips to imagine how they would look with another $200 gone, felt the left edge of his cards with a flick and then waited to see what was going to happen next.

Johnny eyed his cards for a couple of moments - it might look like he was pretending to consider calling, just to fool the others into thinking he had a weak hand. His glance moved to his chips - it looked like it was going to be a big pot, he really didn't want anybody else to grow fat on Dren's chips.

"Call." Anything could happen in the draw.

Ethan glanced at his cards. “I’ll see your $600 and raise another $600.” His face gave nothing away as he pushed his chips toward the rapidly growing pot.

Sleesta turned his head with a slow, deliberate movement.  He eyed Ethan closely; the vertically slit pupils narrowed as he tried to read him.

“You have good control of your emotionsss, for a human.  You could have made a fair demon.” he looked at his cards again. "Alasss, the full power of Hell it’ss sself can’t make thisss a winning hand. I’m out.” Sleesta tossed his hand toward the dealer.