"Well, I mean — not chance alone, it's not like I'd expect to find you at roulette," he dismisses breezily, foisting some sort of sausage-roll off on a sad-looking round-loser slouching past. "Skills, obviously, but none of the various enhancements that are so often on offer, here. Games of pure chance are a waste of effort anyway, given why you've come here so often."
The downside to having a plate that's so full, and a bottle of beer as well, is that he's running out of hands to light a cigarette. (There's no real laws in Trench, so there's no laws against smoking in public spaces, either — take that, Departments of Public Health and Safety!) Sure, he could grow an extra hand or two; could make them look like they'd always been there, like they'd always belonged there, like he'd always had four arms and it was only that two of them had been hidden for a while.
"Alfie, where are you, I need you," he mutters, beer tucked into his elbow, plate dangerously close to tipping over and spilling out its contents as he digs around in his pocket.
As soon as the snaking smoke of his omen-brother appears, he shoves the plate at it. "Hold that for me, would you? Just a moment, yeah?"
Pyrrha is treated to the sight of Alfred's discombobulated-taipan face, as he barely catches the plate against a scaly coil in midair, as Augustine triumphantly pulls his cigarette case and ancient-antique lighter out of said pocket, and proceeds to light a cigarette — and promptly offer it to her, in a vaguely-more-courteous fashion than the foisting-off-on-his-brother he'd done with the plate.
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The downside to having a plate that's so full, and a bottle of beer as well, is that he's running out of hands to light a cigarette. (There's no real laws in Trench, so there's no laws against smoking in public spaces, either — take that, Departments of Public Health and Safety!) Sure, he could grow an extra hand or two; could make them look like they'd always been there, like they'd always belonged there, like he'd always had four arms and it was only that two of them had been hidden for a while.
"Alfie, where are you, I need you," he mutters, beer tucked into his elbow, plate dangerously close to tipping over and spilling out its contents as he digs around in his pocket.
As soon as the snaking smoke of his omen-brother appears, he shoves the plate at it. "Hold that for me, would you? Just a moment, yeah?"
Pyrrha is treated to the sight of Alfred's discombobulated-taipan face, as he barely catches the plate against a scaly coil in midair, as Augustine triumphantly pulls his cigarette case and ancient-antique lighter out of said pocket, and proceeds to light a cigarette — and promptly offer it to her, in a vaguely-more-courteous fashion than the foisting-off-on-his-brother he'd done with the plate.