🎲🦈 || Wren the Smuggler — Blackjack.

The funny thing about gambling, Wren supposes, is that it never really ends with the cards themselves, does it? No, people always convince themselves they're wagering coins, drinks, or little piles of shark teeth, right up until the moment they realize the real prize was always their pride, and judging by the miserable bastard currently sulking across the table from him, that lesson had just been learned all over again.

The poor little sod’s still staring at his hand like the cards might apologize, fingers drumming against the battered tabletop while the rest of the cottage erupts around him in exactly the sort of laughter defeat tends to attract. Cruel? Maybe. Expected? Absolutely. Nobody comes here expecting sympathy after losing. You pay your wager, have another drink, and convince yourself the next hand will be different. It rarely is, though that’s half the bloody charm of it.

Wren leans back, letting the deck glide between his fingers as he performs one of his usual tricks. A card disappears from the middle of the deck before reappearing somewhere it shouldn’t, earning a scoff from someone who stopped trying to figure out where the tricks ended and sleight of hand began.

“Starting to think that deck’s got a favorite,” someone mutters into their beer.

He only snorts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward into that infuriatingly smug grin he wears like it came stitched onto his face at birth. The deck doesn’t favor him; people simply make worse decisions than he does. And judging by the pile of coins beside his elbow, tonight had been full of them.

Across the table, the loser lets out a last, defeated groan before begrudgingly sliding the agreed payment toward him, each coin scraping against the wood sounding just a touch more painful than the last.

“Well then,” Wren says, rolling one penny across his knuckles before flicking it neatly atop the pile.

“Same time next week, yeah? Figure you’ll eventually win one if you keep donating enough.”

That earns another burst of laughter as his opponent pushes away from the table, grumbling about bad hands and worse luck. Naturally, that only means one thing— another chair opens, another drink is raised, and another poor bastard convinces himself this time might be different.

Wren doesn’t bother correcting that little fantasy. People need their illusions, don’t they? Keeps them coming back, convinced the next hand might finally turn everything around. He simply gathers the cards, letting the deck glide between his fingers as he shuffles, searching the room for the next fool willing to take the empty seat.

"Well? Who’s next—"

The words barely make it past his lips before the old cottage door interrupts him with a sudden, drawn-out creak, a sound so out of place among the laughter and card games that it immediately draws every eye in the room. The chatter fades as one person notices, then another, until the entire room’s attention shifts toward the entrance.

Curious. A new arrival wasn’t exactly part of the schedule.

And yes, Wren can admit, it isn’t like strangers walking through the door are completely unheard of— oh, no. The cottage has seen its fair share of questionable faces over the years, people wandering in with business to discuss, favors to collect, or simply some reason to stick their nose somewhere it doesn’t belong. But that's the thing... everyone who is supposed to be here is already here.

The usual crowd has already taken their places by now. The regular gamblers, the farmers, the people tied into the same little web of business and favors that keeps this place running. Everyone who is meant to be here is already accounted for, which makes the sudden arrival all the more noticeable.

That’s the thing about this place; everyone knows everyone. Maybe not enough to call each other friends, but enough to recognize faces, habits, and the kind of trouble each person brings. These aren’t random strangers sharing a room— they’re workers, smugglers, goons, and associates who know exactly who belongs and who doesn’t.

The cottage had rules, even if nobody bothered writing them down. You came because you were invited, because someone vouched for you, or because you had something worth offering. You didn’t simply walk in and expect nobody to notice.

It’s almost ridiculous, really— like throwing yourself straight into a tank full of sharks and expecting them not to notice the splash.

And yet... here they are—

Whoever this is...

“Oh?”

His brows lift in what can only be described as genuine amusement, his fingers lacing together beneath his chin as he leans forward slightly, studying the new little mouse that has wandered into the waiting jaws of the cottage.

“Stepping where we don’t belong, are we, hmm?”

His grin stretches wider, playful in the way that usually means someone is about to regret catching his attention.

“How naughty.”

Like some little rodent that had wandered far beyond the safety of its usual hiding place, the trespasser looks painfully out of place here, surrounded by faces that know exactly where they belong. Small, (at least compared to him) and visibly aware of all the attention suddenly pinned in their direction. Wren can practically see the hesitation in the way they take in their surroundings, the cautious little glances toward the tables, the people, the exits, as if trying to figure out whether they should explain themselves or simply turn around and pretend this never happened.

And really, who could blame them? It isn’t every day someone simply strolls into a cottage full of gamblers. The room isn't exactly welcoming in the traditional sense, is it? No warm greetings, no friendly introductions, no polite little invitations to pull up a chair. Just a collection of hungry little eyes lingering on them, observing, measuring, weighing them down beneath the attention.

Wren, naturally, is less suspicious than he is entertained:

“I don’t recall ever seeing you here— Are you lost?”

The question sounds innocent enough. Almost kind, even. But anyone who knows Wren knows better than to mistake politeness for sincerity. He isn’t asking because he genuinely thinks they took a wrong turn somewhere. He’s asking because he’s curious, because a mystery has just walked through the door wearing a very obvious expression of not knowing what they’ve wandered into.

And Wren has always had a habit of poking at interesting things just to see what happens.

It’s a bad habit, admittedly— the kind that gets a person into trouble when they start treating every unknown variable like a game waiting to be solved. But then again, most of his life has been built around taking risks, hasn’t it? Smuggling routes, dangerous deals, loaded dice, cards held too close to the chest. He’s never been the sort of person who sees something strange and thinks it’s better left alone.

No, usually, his first instinct is to find out exactly what it is.

The newcomer has already drawn the attention of the room, whether they wanted it or not. A few people return to their drinks, though not enough to pretend they aren’t still listening. Others stay where they are, watching with the same interest reserved for anything unusual. The games haven’t stopped, not completely, but nobody is paying quite as much attention to their own hands anymore.

Wren taps the deck against the table, drawing attention back as he gestures toward the empty chair across from him.

“Well, standing there all night isn’t going to make anyone less suspicious of you... So you might as well sit down.”

The offer hangs there, simple enough on the surface, though everyone in the room who knows Wren already understands there is always something underneath whatever he says.

“Relax, I don’t bite... Usually.”

That earns a few, awkward laughs from around the room, a couple of workers shaking their heads because they know exactly where this is going. Wren doesn’t invite people to sit because he's suddenly decided to be generous. He invites people to sit because he wants to know what they’ll do when given the opportunity.

And right now, he wants to know what this little trespasser does.

He gathers the cards into one hand, giving them another smooth shuffle before placing them neatly against the table.

“Come on, then. You’ve already walked into the cottage, might as well make the most of it.”

His fingers tap against the cards.

“Play a hand.”

The suggestion earns a few raised brows from the others nearby, though nobody seems particularly surprised. Of course Wren would respond to an unexpected arrival by turning it into a game! — That’s practically the most Wren thing he could do.

“Blackjack. Nothing complicated. Win and you get a favor from me; lose and I’ll take those shoes.”