The Game by JMMcKny

The night air vibrates with the songs of celebration as three tarnsmen enter the tavern. Paga girls seeing the wild and bold tarnsmen enter; hurry to serve the roguish fellows. Pressing up against them, tempting and teasing them, each begging to serve them.

The tarnsmen sit within the tavern, arms around girls, hands on bowls of paga. Laughing and talking and kissing and teasing the girls in their arms. Watching a dancer in the sands as she writhes and sways under the cruel lash of a whip dance.

In the corner of the tavern, a lone figure sits. In a hooded brown robe, this man sits before a kassia board. A bottle and a goblet before him. Seeming lost in thought of the pieces before him. A game started, not yet finished. A finger extended… Resting on a tarnsman piece.

As the tarnsmen brag and tell their tales, both to each other and to the girls. A single girl approaches the lone figure, replacing the bottle, then scurrying away. The man seemingly not even noticing the girl, so wrapped up in thought is he.

Smirking, one of the tarnsmen asks a girl. "Who is the one in the corner? The one who plays the game by himself?"

The girl in his arms, nipping at his leathers replying. "I don't know Master, he has been here most of the day, sitting alone, at the game board."

With a laugh one of the tarnsmen takes a girl by the hair, waves his fellows farewell, and takes her towards the alcoves. Calling out crude suggestions, the other two watch him leave.

The evening continues as customer's come and leave. More paga is drunk, as the two tarnsmen continue their celebrations. Swapping tales of adventures and tarn strikes made.

Drunkenly one of the tarnsmen speaks of his latest strike. "It was just four hands ago…" His speech slurred from the paga. "The woman was in her families garden… I passed overhead three times before choosing the right angle."

His friend nods drunkenly as one of the girls has passed out, from being forced to drink paga, her head in his lap, and a soft snore from her lips.

"It was a bad night, I was a bit drunk. I shook out my rope… When she looked up, I snagged her." A dark glaze covered his eyes "Damn fool girl, she fought the rope. It slid up, catching her throat." He shudders with the thought. "It broke her neck, I dropped her back into the garden… It was a bad throw." He took a deep drink of paga, as if to wash away the memory of it...

In the corner, the lone man's finger knocked over the tarnsman piece. The first move he had made in ahns.

The drunken tarnsman fell over the table passed out. Various torches were extinguished as the tavern began to close. The last of the girls, not engaged by customers were herded towards their kennels.

The tarnsman who had told the story, looked over at his passed out friend, then towards the lone figure. He got up and staggered over towards the cloaked man. Approaching the table, then sitting heavily down across from him. The mans finger still upon the tarnsman piece, tilted over in resignation, his face deep within the shadows of the hood.

Laughing… "Are you drunk too? You haven't moved in ahn's, and when you do, you tilt over the tarnsman? As if in defeat? Isn't it the Ubar that is tilted over to signal defeat?"

The lone figures hands are placed upon the table, to push upwards as he stands, looking down at the drunken tarnsman. "Aye… sir, usually it is. But not this night."

Red-rimmed eyes look up towards the hooded figure as he asks. "And why not this night?"

A hand sweeps back the hood as cold dark sober eyes look down upon the tarnsman, the tarnsman eyes open wide in horror, as he sees a dagger marked on the mans forehead. A killing knife slashes out unmercifully, cutting the tarnsman's throat from ear to ear, allowing only a small gurgle as life drains away.

"This night, I am not hunting Ubars... This night I hunt a foolish tarnsman."