( The dice fall, roll, settle. Round, despite their material, worn. Like much of this city, already tumbled through countless hands. )

I carry a weapon. ( This, murmured, gaze still on the dots of cinnabar that line each smiling face of the dice, settling. He speaks it as if it is self-explanatory — perhaps, to a lesser extent, it is so. Conveniently, the dregs of the land hesitate to explore their mercenary possibilities when the prey at hand is armed well enough to become a predator.

And still, heartbeats after: )

Four. ( An omen-like number for their bitter ends. ) They saw the face before the sheath.