In the presence of that disorienting noise, Devil's Touch made a mistake. When he recovered, the winds told him so. They spoke of dread; they spoke unease—a chilling fate to behold for a master.
All those years of honing his craft... rendered useless by some infuriating noise he just couldn't understand.
Still, he flipped the card. It was his duty—the fate he had resigned to, so Devil's Touch couldn't go against them. He had to obey those set rules whether vehemently against them or ecstatically for them.
A 6 of Spades.
Confidence at the table waxed on one end and waned on the other. Listening to the faint whispers of wind generated by his subtly moving threads, the light in Devil's Touch's eyes grew harsher, likely devilish.
