So it spoke volumes that he was completely failing to read Jacques and Whirlwind and they were doing a bang up job of picking up on his tells. Jacques, for his part, was making deliberate motions, never really sitting still, completely ruining Handy's ability to interpret what was a tell and what was the gregarious pony just faffing about. He also got his hooves on a new hat. It was a black cap with the brim folded up, coming to a point at the front. A red feather pierced it, giving it a splash of colour. He fiddled with it from time to time. Whirlwind? That fucker just didn't keep still at all. It seemed, when it came to poker at least, those that knew what they were doing were well aware of their exaggerated expressions and capitalised on it, increasing their motions rather than minimising them. Handy had kept as still as he could. More often than not when he was unsure, he'd fall into a routine: rubbing his stubble, stroking the goatee, scratching his wrist, muttering under his breath. It didn't take the other two long to pick out his odd behaviour for what it was.