2. Deal with a Darulk

Written by Ryan Kaufman, VP of Narrative, Jam City

Elmora Gambling!

Everyone in Massina is a Gambler.

It’s no secret that the Colosseum Eternal is the center of city life. The sun around which all other planets revolve. The games feed the Gamblers, the Maestros feed the Champions, and the Champions feed the Butcher. But that’s not what I’m talking about.

Take a walk down the Market Bazaar some morning, when all the parade and pageantry of our city is out doing its business. Every Karkadon, every Fenrir, every Vitra you see; they all came here from somewhere else. They trudge in the Fool’s Gate, without a coin to count, looking for some kind of opportunity. Hell, even the Grondals and Il’gras (brainless brutes that they are) hope for something better. They came here to take a chance.

Are the odds good? No, they are not. But that’s what makes us gamblers. That’s why we play The Game. We all think we can beat the odds.

Which is why I’m playing Darulk Dice with the Butcher, while everyone else in the Tavern is keeping their distance. He doesn’t often visit the Sleeping Karkadon, but when he does, he asks for Elmora. Because I’m the best.

Also because I’m the only one who will play with him. I don’t care what he looks like. Or smells like.

I roll. The dice come up: a two, a four… and a Darulk, grinning at me. Typical. I’m always rolling Darulks when I need a pineapple. The Butcher smiles.

“That means you lost,” he says. Thanks, buddy.

“Yeah, I am aware.” There’s only so much snark I can throw to this guy. He’s about ten hands high, as strong as a Grondal, and covered in the dried blood and brain chunks of fallen Champions.

He stretches out a big, meaty hand. Calloused from using his cleaver, which leans in the corner. He wants his winnings.

“Uh… I’m a little short this week. But I’ll pay double next week,” I tell him. He says nothing.

“I promise I will make good.” I flash him my most charming smile. I don’t even know if he’s into girls. Or humans. Or living beings, in general. But I take my chance because, again, I’m a gambler.

The smile pings off him uselessly. Under his mask, his breath becomes heavy. He might split my skull; he might burst out laughing.

“Next time,” he says, and rises from the table. His cleaver clatters as he lumbers out of the Tavern, and the patrons at the bar practically faint in relief.

Next time.

Luckily, Bumgorae offers to buy me a drink, and I do not refuse. There is nothing at all to celebrate, but we somehow manage to keep the party going until the old Kark himself kicks us out into the night. Capo is holding up some new Maestro named Aeywyn, who has been trying to get us to eat these tiny red mushrooms all night. (No takers thus far.) We spill out onto the street, singing.

A Kark is born to use his horn

And a Keymaster loves her keyhole

A Grondal is neat cos he smells like burnt meat

And a Darulk shoots fire from his —

I look around and my friends are scattering. Up the alley, and gone. What in the Three Hells?

A massive Darulk descends on slithery wings. I smell brimstone before I see her clearly, and the light of the Moon seems to dim. She lands with a thud that I feel in the pavers at my feet.

“You, Elmora, owe a great deal of money to someone,” she says, her voice thick with malice. Her aura is Fire, to make things worse, and little flames lick her chest. I begin to wonder if I did, in fact, take one of Aeywyn’s little fungi.

“I owe a lot of people a great deal of money,” I say, trying not to shit myself. “What’s your point?”

“An Il’gra sold me your debt,” she smiles, the jagged broken mouth in her head like a shark escaping from her skull. “I own you now.”

“Well, someone owes you a refund, lady. You think if I had coin, I’d be here, instead of out spending it?”

She keeps smiling. It’s deeply upsetting me. Her right arm is a twisted mess of tentacles and teeth. “I do not want coin. I will collect in flesh and bone. Your flesh and bone, Elmora.”

My panic gets worse as I realize what this Darulk wants. She’s not a debt collector; she’s a salvage demon. She’s not here to shake me down; she’s here to snap my neck, and take my body to the Ministry of Bone. She’ll sell my Essence and Bone to make a nice dagger for some Champion.

I don’t have much Essence, to be honest. And how I came by it was a little unorthodox. I’m certainly no Champion. But people seem to find it fascinating… or, they crave a bit of it for themselves.

“Wait,” I tell her. “Wait. If you kill me, you just get a little Essence: barely one squeeze, a shot. Look how small I am! How about something better?”

“Like what,” she prowls around me, sizing me up. I feel like a lobster in a cage.

“You want Essence? I can get you Essence. Like, a steady supply.”

“How?” She stops prowling.

“I know a Fire Alchemist with a gambling problem. He comes into the Tavern now and then. He likes to pay in Essence — pure Essence. He’s probably skimming it off the top at the Temple.”

“And?” She’s not convinced, but she’s intrigued.

“And I’ll bleed him,” I say, with a little more confidence. I’m almost starting to believe it myself. “A little here, a little there. I’ll cultivate him, bleed him. Not too much, just enough so we will always have a connection.”

The Darulk’s writhing arm winds around her chin, as she considers my offer. “You have until tomorrow night.”

Then the creature’s wings whirr in a torment, and it disappears into the indigo sky.

I throw up in the gutter.

It’s almost mid-day by the time Fedra the Fire Alchemist haunts the door of the Tavern. I’m starving, and nervous, but I do my best to keep the smell of desperation off my breath.

I invite him to sit and we talk about the comings and goings at the House of Fire, or The Cauldron, as its devotees call it. There’s a new priest who thinks he’s hot shit (literally), and a few potentiates worth watching in the upcoming Challenger tournaments.

Eventually the conversation slows and I notice a geckoid on the wall. The Alchemist sees it too, as the little lizard crawls toward the ceiling. There’s a popular pastime called Stairway to Heaven, where two geckoids are placed on the central pillar of the Tavern. The surface is a slick marble, so their ascent is by no means guaranteed — making for the perfect slow-day-at-the-Sleepy-Kark type of betting. “Care to wager?”

Fedra shrugs. “What’s on offer?”

“A tip on the Emperor’s Cup next month. I know who he’s backing.”

“Really?” Fedra can’t resist insider knowledge. “For how much?”

“Coin doesn’t interest me these days. But I am in the market for Fire Essence,” I smile. He doesn’t smile back.

“Is that why you wanted to see me?”

“Not at all,” I protest. “I missed you, Fedra. Your sparkling wit, your keen intelligence. Qualities hard to come by in this shit-hole.”

“C’mon now,” yells the old Kark from behind the bar.

“Quite,” the Alchemist smirks. “Let’s see who gets to Heaven then.”

I fetch the little yellow geckoid from the wall, and hunt for another one nearby. As I do, I drag my hand over an old plate of uneaten bacon. Underneath one of the tables, I find another geckoid, a speckled red. I return to Fedra and hold them both out: “Which one?”

He taps the yellow geckoid, and as I turn to go, Fedra stops me. “Ah, hang on, Elmora.” He changes his mind, and takes the red creature from me instead. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

With a superior air of good-natured suspicion, Fedra walks over to the pillar. After examining his creature thoroughly, he smiles with satisfaction. “Never let a gambler handle your geckoid,” he says, by way of coining an aphorism.

“Suit yourself,” I tell him. “I’ll start here.” I tap the pillar. “And you start here.” I tap the pillar again, lingering with my fingers, dabbing a tiny smear of bacon fat in front of his geckoid.

The old Kark counts us down, and we release the geckoids. The tiny creatures scramble in fright, up toward the ceiling. Fedra’s red speckle pulls out ahead. It’s clearly stronger than my yellow. Shit. Shit shit shit.

But then, the red speckle falters. It slips, sliding a good third of the way down the pole. The little yellow geckoid slithers out of sight, and Fedra curses.

“Damn you!” His red speckle flicks its tongue into the air, and then disappears into a crack in the wall.

We sit again, and I try not to smile. Fedra reaches inside his cloak, and lays three gems on the table. Inside them swirl the soup of life, unbinded and free, ready to burn bright in the chest of some future Champion. Flames skirt the edges of the gem, but they don’t burn my fingers, as I pocket them.

“Another round?”

“Not today,” Fedra sulks. “I suddenly find I must be on my way.”

“Next week, perhaps?” I say, hopefully, but Fedra shoots me a dirty look. “That tip is hot. You know I won’t let you down.”

He shrugs and turns to leave. As he passes the pillar, he looks up again in regret. “Damn it.”

Just then, the door opens, and a ray of sunlight hits the smooth marble pillar, revealing a spot of shiny oil, and a telltale smear tracing the path of the red geckoid.

I quickly wipe my hands on my tunic, but Fedra storms over. “You! You did something to it.” He grabs my wrist.

“Get the hell off me! You lost fair and square,” I shout, and wrench my hand away.

“I lost nothing. You cheated me, Elmora, and you know it!” Fedra turns to the bar. “Kark! You got a cheater in your bar! Make her show her hands.”

The old Kark snorts with annoyance, and starts lumbering toward me. And if you’ve ever been charged by eight hundred stone of angry Karkadon, you’ll know why I ran.

I meet the Darulk near the Tavern at midnight. This time she’s flanked by two nasty-looking Vitra: Air and Water, respectively. I give her my prize.

The Darulk fingers the gems greedily. She practically licks her lips. But, soon enough, her appetite grows. “I want more.”

“Of course,” I tell her. “But not in the near future. I sort of burned my source. No pun intended.”

“Make another wager,” she hisses, ignoring me. “A bigger one.”

“That’s what I’m trying to explain, lady,” I say, immediately regretting it. Her eyes blaze at me. I start again, more conciliatory. “Uh. It’s just, I got nothing to cover my bet.”

“Shh. Listen to that,” she says, putting her good hand to her ear. “I can hear the sound of the Butcher’s cleaver. Clang. Clang.” She laughs and they fly off.

After that, I don’t feel much like sleeping. I wander down the Strand to the harbor. The prison ships rock gently on the soupy sludge, and I almost envy their tranquility. Most of Massina is blissfully asleep. But hey– the Chopping Block might still be open.

I take a detour along the weir, avoiding the main road past the House of Death (no need to tempt fate, eh?) and find the little set of stairs that lead down into the latest of the late-night dive bars. The Chopping Block was so called because it stood just in view of the old execution scaffold. Blood used to trickle down the stairs into the bar as the patrons drank. I love the place.

I’m happy to see my old drinking buddy, Root. He is a Whisperer, another gambler, but cursed with a very unlucky problem. The Whisperers are renowned for their reaction times in the arena. So much so that rumors spread quickly they could see the future. As a Whisperer, Root vehemently denied this, of course, but none of the other gamblers cared to wager with him. So now, he has to maintain a steady reputation of being a perennial loser, in order to look respectable. And even then, most folks have their doubts.

But believe me, if there’s any proof Root can’t see the future, it’s the fact he’s closing down the Chopping Block every night.

Root tells me about an upcoming match as we drink. It sounds promising. A Mountain Fenrir versus a Fire Il’Gra. But the match is “anonymous” — a special sort of Big Money matchup meant to be mysterious and build anticipation for the reveal of the Maestros who were sponsoring the fighters.

Annoying, more like. I need information before I bet. There’s gambling — and then there’s just blindly throwing money around.

The point is moot, I tell him. Because I have no coin to put up. Root doesn’t need mystical powers to know that he can’t trust me. I’ve burnt him before, unfortunately. (If I get out of this predicament, I might need to do some serious soul-searching.)

As I leave, I catch sight of the Moon. It looms over the three pagodas of the Tower of Ascension. In the clear night air, I could make out the strange criss-cross lines scarring its white face. Some say they are ancient cities. A guy at the Tavern once told me some insane story about how he knew a way to travel there. Transdimensional portals, or some shit. As I recall, he too was fond of mushrooms. But I wouldn’t mind going there now. Looks peaceful.

In the morning, I summon my courage and humility in a big bag of “eat shit” and head over to the Cauldron of Fire and apologize profusely to Fedra the Alchemist. I’m literally on my knees, begging him to forgive me. I might even squeeze out a few tears. Although he is unmoved by my sob story about the angry Darulk who wants me dead, he does object to my squall breaking the silence of the Temple.

“Fine, fine, just shut up and get off my floor,” he snaps. “All is forgiven if you give me that tip.”

“I’ll give you that, and more, if you can tell me about this Fire Il’gra match. Everyone is talking about it.” I cast this bait out, like a fisherman, seeing what will come back.

“Are they,” he says with undisguised pride.

“Yes,” I say, feeling a tug on the line. I’ve caught a little fish. “Some people say that he was created here. I say that can’t be true. You’re the only one capable, and you haven’t mentioned it.”

“I am the best here,” Fedra smirks. He pours himself a goblet of wine. I notice he does not pour any for me. “Better than the Head Alchemist, and I don’t mind saying.”

“A shame the world will never know. They’ll probably just think it was his work.”

His eyes meet mine with excitement and vainglory. “It’s true. I forged his Essence. A pure mint. I’ve never seen anything so pure.”

“But for who?” Without breaking eye contact, I quietly slide his goblet over to me, and sip quietly.

“I crafted him especially for this contest. A Maestro named Myvonigan, who cashed a big donation to the Cauldron. BIG,” he emphasized, sliding the goblet back to himself. “But the money wasn’t entirely his. Rumor has it, The Emperor is inclined to knock down the Hall of the Mountain a bit. This Il’gra should do the trick.”

“And what about his opponent? The Fenrir?”

Fedra bristles at this. “How should I know? Who do I look like? Primo?”

My old friend Primo is busy, but I know if I follow him on his rounds, he’ll usually give up a good morsel or two.

“Beat it, Elmora,” my friend grumbles.

“C’mon, Primo, I just want to talk.” I give him my best and prettiest smile.

“Beat it, or I beat you,” he growls. He likes me. Deep down, he does.

I follow Primo as he checks in on each of the fighters in his school. He pries open mouths to look at broken teeth, splashes water on bloodied faces, and applies the occasional poultice to a bruise.

“A Fenrir,” I tell him. “A Mountain Fenrir.”

His wings flap in annoyance, and I back off. “Nobody like that come through here recently. I’d remember.”

His tail whips past my face. The halls are cramped, and Primo’s bulk fills most of them. “Maybe he’s an older Champion; maybe you forgot,” I suggest.

“He ain’t, and I didn’t,” barks Primo. “Leave me alone!”

“I can’t do that,” I apologize. “You know I can’t. I got a big problem. And it’s got leathery wings, and two mouths, and tentacles. And it wants to kill me, Primo.”

Primo stops and drums his fingers on the wall. “You didn’t hear this from me. But… Go ask the good Doctor.”

“Ah,” my heart sinks. “Ah, no, not him.”

“Now get the hell out of my school, Elmora.”

“Just on the off-chance, care to make a little side bet on the match?”

“OUT!” He shouts and dust falls from the roof. I make my exit. Another great visit with my old friend Primo.

The lab of Doctor Prometheus is not a place I like to talk about. Or think about. So you imagine how thrilled I was to be inside it.

Deep in the Ministry of Bone, the Doctor’s lair is a place of great unhappiness, and torment, where science and magic mix in an unholy fusion. A real bummer.

The Doctor does not emerge from behind the leaded glass, where he is doing Only-Titans-Know to a prone Karkadon.

“This place is amazing,” I fill the room with my best flattery. “A true technological marvel. You make the Alchemists look like monkeys.” Prometheus hates the Alchemists. I pat myself on the back for remembering that.

“Your employment of ingratiation is both clumsy and obvious. I know who you are, and I know what you do.” His voice echoes around the room, bouncing off the enormous vats and glass tubes. A tentacle stirs in one of them, submerged in the murky milk of creation. “Speak plain, or be gone.”

“The Fenrir,” I say. “What can you tell me about it?”

“I created it, obviously,” he says. “From the bones and Essence of two former Champions. They were fierce fighters, but both fell in the arena. Nevertheless, quality materials yield a quality creation. Anything else?”

“But who owns him? Who is the Maestro?” I ask shakily. The Doctor chills me to my quality bones.

“None of my business. Nor do I care.” He turns back to his work, and the room is filled with the shriek of the Karkadon, straining at the table restraints.

As I make my way out of the Ministry of Bone, I add up my info. The Fenrir is a Prometheus remix. Untested, and untrained by Primo. The Fire Il’gra belongs to this Maestro Myvonigan, who I’ve never heard of, and is in turn being sponsored secretly by the Emperor. Already this smells dangerous to me.

No, wait, that’s not danger I smell. It’s brimstone.

I feel the tentacle of the Darulk grasp my throat, and she pulls me down the alleyway. We bump over a few stairs and then I’m in a dark cavern. Her scent sears my nose, and she shoves me hard onto the ground.

When my eyes adjust, I can see we’re in an old wine cellar. She’s adapted it for her use. There’s a heavy chair, and a low table. Old silver wine goblets, and candelabras. Her trophies line the shelves. A scarlet jewel from the Lycan mountains, medals from the Colosseum Eternal, rings of all kinds. Past collections.

“Have you made the bet yet?” She stares hard. Her partners step into the room. The Air Vitra sneers at me.

I spot a familiar-looking cup with the Emperor etched onto it. “You were a Champion, weren’t you?”

She grabs me again. “I hear a lot of noise, but I don’t see any Essence.”

“Give me time,” I choke. “I have a line on a big score. We can make a lot of money here. Together!”

“Together?” She laughs. “I profit whether you are alive or dead.”

She releases me. The Air Vitra sniggers at me, and I stand up and come at him. “Something funny, shit-for-brains?”

I rush him, and send us both into the shelving, toppling the medals and trophies. The entire collection falls down on top of us. The Darulk roars. “Get her out of here!”

The two Vitra take turns, smacking me hard, and they thoroughly ring my bell. I can’t make sense of up or down for some time, until I gradually become aware of day-light again. And I’m staring up into the face of a large Sumonot. It starts to piss on me and I roll away.

Back on the street, again. I pick myself up and clean up as best I can. Yes, people are staring. No, I don’t care. I feel a lump in my pocket — yes, there it is. The scarlet jewel.

As I walk down the street, I see the two Vitra tailing me. It will be tough to lose them. But I don’t mind, because their presence tells me the one thing I need to know: The Darulk doesn’t realize I’ve stolen her jewel.

Otherwise, I’d already be dead.

The Massina sun boils down on my head as I trudge through the high street. A column of Key-masters floats past me, their heads practically skimming the sky, but I barely notice. I’ve got a jewel in my pocket and no idea how to spend it.

The Match is at mid-day, and there are only a few hours left to decide. If I bet on the wrong fighter, I’m out the Darulk’s jewel and any chance at getting Essence. It’s a death sentence.

How to choose? On the one hand, a hulking Il’gra, with an Alchemist-crafted Fire Essence and backed by the Emperor. On the other, a custom-shop Fenrir, tricked out by Dr. Prometheus himself.

The safe money seems to be on the Il’gra. But then there’s the Emperor to consider. Nothing is what it seems when he’s involved.

I’ve never been more paralyzed by the odds.

A shadow falls across me, and I feel instant relief from the sun. As I look up I realize I’ve wandered to the Ascension Temple. Or wandered back, I should say.

I used to live here.

I make my way quietly inside the Mother pagoda. A large golden cauldron, as big as a Karkadon, squats on the tiled floor of the empty antechamber, hungrily awaiting donations of Essence and coin. I slip into a side chamber, lined with sandalwood benches. The floor is sand, and thousands of joss sticks have been placed, gently smoking. The old smell enchants me like a spell, takes me back ten years. Before my problems. Before The Game.

As I contemplate the time gone by, I sense someone enter.

“This room is for the faithful,” she whispers.

“I’m faithful,” I say. “Sometimes.”

“Yes, that was always the problem.” She smiles, and I can’t help but smile back. Her grin was always infectious.

“Hello, Silvi.”

Silvi, the High Priestess of the Mother Pagoda, sits down next to me. Her face hasn’t changed much since I last saw her. They say the Temple Priestesses absorb some of the holy energies of the Ascended, and live unnaturally long lives as a result. I always thought it was a rumor, to enhance the mystique of the Temple. But I gave up the chance to find out, when I left the order. And her.

Silvi asks how I’ve been. And I tell her. She’s not surprised. I find that I wish she were, just slightly. Am I that predictable? That much of a mess?

She looks sad. “You always chose profit over piety. Now you’re ten years down that path. Every day it’s taking us farther apart from one another.”

“I noticed the cauldron out front. Is that for Maestros to place piety in?”

She laughs. “I am deeply fulfilled by my work.”

“How deeply?” I ask her, putting my hand on hers.

“Have you ever noticed,” she says, “you only come here when you’re in trouble? And you never ask about me?”

And do you know what? While she’s calling me out, she doesn’t even move her hand. She just leaves it there. That’s how incredibly serene Silvi is. It drives me a bit insane.

And she’s right. Which crushes my heart a little.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it. “How are you?”

“To be honest, I’m riding a very strong afterglow at the moment. I just completed a ten-day Ascension for a Champion. A Fenrir. His Mountain energy was particularly energizing.” For a second, Silvi almost looks giddy.

“A Mountain Fenrir?”

“Yes, a noble beast. You know, helping such a creature attain its third level is so rewarding. The Fenrir people have suffered tragically at the hands of the Darulk.“

“Third level? Who… who paid for this?”

She blinks at me, as if she were a bird. “Doctor Prometheus, actually. Which was strange, but I was very glad for it. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him in the Temple. Perhaps now he — “

I don’t hear the rest of her story, as I’m bolting for the door.

I rent a Karkadon-rickshaw and he speeds me through the streets to the Chopping Block. An Ascended Fenrir, created by Prometheus would dominate the battle. As sure a “sure bet” as I might ever have seen in this lifetime!

I stumble down the stairs, and beg Root to take the jewel and put it all on the Fenrir. Why is Prometheus trying to screw the Emperor? I don’t have time to worry about it. Root flies off to make the bet, and I slink back into one of the dark corners of the bar and pass out.

The Fenrir won. The Fenrir fucking won.

I’ve never been so happy. The score isn’t huge, but damn, it’s good. Really good.

The Darulk wants Essence, not coin, so I hustle down to the Ministry of Bone, and make a few stops. There’s some insurance I need to secure, before I meet my tormentor.

Then I visit the Market Bazaar, and buy more Essence than I’ve ever seen in one basket before. The package practically thrums in my arms, buzzing like a living creature.

That night, I go to meet the Darulk. I imagine she’s salivating, waiting to see what I’ve brought her. I imagine I’m her new best asset — a gambler who can deliver. A winner.

But instead, her face is twisted in a deep scowl.

I drag the basket of Essence vials over to her. “This is enough to pay you off, ain’t it?”

She barely looks inside. “And my gem?”

“Ahh,” I say. “Well, you’ll be happy to know, I used it to place our bet, which is why you’re looking at so much Essence right now. More Essence than you’ve ever seen, I’d wager — pardon the pun.”

Her expression does not change. “You’re a talented gambler, but you’re also a thief.”

“No, a thief wouldn’t return the value of the item she stole tenfold.” There’s an edge of cocky creeping into my voice that I try my best to squelch.

“I cannot stand thieves and liars,” she says. “That gem was precious to me.”

I feel the ground start to warble under my legs. My knees are panicking, and it’s spreading up my legs. The two Vitra pick their nails, unconcerned with my impending death. Impatient for it, even. “I’m sorry, I thought you’d understand, once you saw all that Essence.”

“Profit isn’t the only thing that matters in this world,” she scoffs. “I should have listened to my instincts. You’re going to the Butcher.”

“Ah.” My heart sinks. “I was afraid you were gonna say that.”

The Darulk stares me down. “After I’m done with you, the Butcher will still pay top coin for the chunks of whatever is left.”

“Yeah about that,” I tell her. “Funny thing…”

A large cleaver sings through the air, and splits the Darulk’s head into two hanging bits of meat. The Butcher lopes out and retrieves his cleaver. The Vitra screech, and panic upwards into the buildings, careening off the upper floors and sailing over the rooftops.

Undeterred, The Butcher hacks away at the Darulk’s quivering body, expertly separating legs, torso, head, in seconds.

“That was nice timing,” I gasp.

He pauses in his work, and gazes down at the body. “You’re right. She is big one.”

“I told you,” I beam. “Much bigger than me, right?”

“Yes. Good value. Quality bone. Quality Essence.”

“Good quality. Just for you, big guy.”

Underneath his mask, I sense a grin. “And I can keep?”

“Yep,” I assure him. For once, the Butcher seems happy enough. But I need to be sure.

“So…” I ask. “Does this settle my debt? Are we good?”

“Yes,” he replies. “Champion Darulk bone, Fire Essence. More than enough.”

Then he adds: “Maybe… Maybe we gamble again sometime?”

“Shit, I really hope not.”

“You go to Sleepy Kark now?”

“No,” I grimace. “I’m probably not welcome there, for a while at least.”

He shrugs. Then he bags up the Darulk, and walks off.

As I walk home, my own bag full of Essence, I can’t believe my luck. But it’s a lonely kind of luck. No one to share it with.

When I first started The Game, I met an old Gambler. The kind of lonely bastard who talks too much just to keep you at the table all night. He told me: In The Game, you can either have friends or winnings. The odds of getting both are near to impossible.

But maybe that’s why everyone in Massina keeps gambling.

Maybe next time.