An air of increasing perversity and treachery loomed around Devil's Touch, fluctuating wildly with each syllable of his sentence. Most would perhaps choose to step away from the table at this time.
If they could.
The words of Devil's Touch carried a strange, almost hypnotic ambiance to them, inciting… forcing the players to want more. He preyed upon that addictive euphoria winning produced.
And the only way to draw this feeling out was to have them believe they were winning. Ironically, though, the dealer's proposal wasn't spurred by feigned losses. Kieran had begun to amass genuine winnings, warranting the call of a treacherous gambit.
A genuine decryption of the dealer's cunning trickery was ensuing.
Devil's Touch knew it and hated that he did. But he sensed a prideful, competitive fashion in how Kieran carried himself: a willing slave to challenge, a follower of thrill and triumph.
