( ...no. Nothing of folly or trickery or notice. Only a man biding his time, perhaps slave himself to the languishing inertia that rules so much of this decaying, downtrodden citadel. He feels, all at once, ashamed. Sympathetic. Prone to making apologies that never burst free of tight-pursed lips.

The dice clink and clash in a cup too small to house them, claustrophobic. He casts a long, worn glance, as if to guess the yield. He should not: by all accounts, gambling must also be forbidden. And yet, with a nod: )

Sixteen.