Two claps. The Widow raises her hands and the room, boisterous and filled with clatter and laughter falls to stillness. Her voice calls out, “Granddaughter! I have a task for you!”
Eyes dart nervously around, hands drop to waists.
They don’t see her coming.
Starburst takes two quick steps, and she vaults the railing. She falls completely soundlessly. She lands less so. Her heavy boots crash right through the plastic gaming table, drinks fly, tiles clatter across the stone floor. The players wisely keep their expressions to surprise or shock, and not anger. One young ork gangster almost rises, a protest on his lips.
But the fingers of her left hand trail his jawline, almost unconsciously, and his eyes roll back in his head.
She walks the room, unmindful of the staring eyes on her form. Ascends the stairs, and pushes aside the beaded curtain, curious about these strangers. These newcomers.
About what they want.
And who they are.
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